[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=B22222]Vladimir Alexandrov[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/8c1433c6-083d-4a24-bdfa-033741139aa8.jpg[/img][h3][color=firebrick][b][i]"[u]The Great Bazhooli[/u]"[/i][/b][/color][/h3][/center][hr][hr][center][color=B22222][b]Location:[/b][/color] La Canela Ship
[color=B22222][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English [/center][hr]

	Be it not the first impression that Vladimir wanted to make, it was the first impression that he made. A decent display of acrobatics shot to hell because of a blown finale. Such was life; such was performing. [i]Know your stage[/i]; an adage as true as the day it was spoken. His father, The Baron Alexandrov, might have told a younger version of himself that one's act is just as much talent and practice as it was site preparation. Again, such was life. He did not know the ropes and steps of the vessel that he had hoped to partake in a celebration of his own physicality upon, resulting in the sudden and regrettable experience of breaking his nose twice in the last half hour. To say that it was less than dignified was a granted token of fact. 

	But life was also best not spent in the past. Even the extremely recent past, which still stung like a son-of-a-borscht, [i]spasibo[/i] very much. Nonetheless, The Great Bazhooli strove to press forward with the conversation regardless, though with a good sense of appreciation that he wore a good bit of red in case of spotting. But moving onward, he gave a quick answer to the Captain's question concerning their place of origin. Or their most recent trip's starting place. [color=B22222]"Da! Da, ve start little journey from London Town, vith much helping from Ludvig. Our peoples are not vith traveling much into Islands of Britain. Path unknown to us. But good Master Zimme..."[/color] 

	A fresh spot of blood ambled down from his nose, forming a small spray of crimson as he attempted to pronounce Ludwig's name. It was, as mentioned earlier, a touch undignified. Vlad sighed and switched his tone to something more apologetic, at least at first. [color=B22222]"...so sorry..."[/color] This to Captain Montoya and everyone else present. Though still looking straight ahead, his voice turned to his fellow performer, with some urgency. [color=B22222]"Constantin! For [i]please[/i], am needing a vigorous [i]Krasnoye[/i]-ing! The vet redness has no place in front of Captain, da?"[/color] 

	From his peripheral vision, Vladimir noted a familiar face approaching them. It seemed that they were not the only ones to have recently come from London.