[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=B22222]Vladimir Alexandrov[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/4744aee2-23ca-406b-a294-f131990520ca.jpg[/img][/center]
[hr][hr][center][color=B22222][b]Location:[/b][/color] Gretna Green, Church
[color=B22222][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English, 
[b]Mamushka[/b], [b]Chteniye Dushi[/b] [/center][hr]

	The man named Vladimir Alexandrov at birth had spent more decades upon the living world than the others in the church in that moment. It showed in small ways; lines around his eyes that he occasionally penciled black, his chestnut hair had a streak of grey every now and again, and some mornings he needed a little longer than others to really get himself started. He was not a young soldier in the war against the Soulless anymore. However, he had tuned his body through rigorous training to demand more from himself than most. He had maturity, yes. It was a weapon he grasped with pride, one of many. Not a liability. 

	More simply put, he was [u]The Great Bazhooli[/u]. 

	If one did not know what that meant, it was nothing. A flashy title for a circus performer. If one did know, truly [i]know[/i] the meaning of this, it was the world. 

	The darkest moment in many people's lives stood in front of The Great Bazhooli, casting a shadow of fear by its mere presence, the impassioned Russian gazed upon it; upon the draining shade of Death itself, and smiled. He snapped his fingers in front of himself and set one hand upon the brim of his very tall and dignified hat, the other on the lapel of his great coat. He tilted his head to the side slightly, eyes gleaming with joyous anticipation, began to move into a low stance, and uttered a single word in English: 

	[color=B22222][b][i]"Begin."[/i][/b][/color]  

	The first notes of Veta's song surged through him like the gift of pure, undiluted life itself, filling him with the essence of his people going back past the beginning of his line or his title. There was only one appropriate way to utilize the awesome power filling every inch and particle of him - [i]he must dance[/i]. The dance worthy of a Great Bazhooli in the face of cold expiration could only be, as scholars of the lore and those of the extended bloodline might attest, a [i]Mamushka[/i]. A dance commemorating life that, ironically, if practiced in its most unblemished way caused the death of those who would stand against him. One cannot have one without the other, and both were worthy of celebration. 

	The Great Bazhooli's flung his hands upward even as he spun into the first steps of the [i]Mamushka[/i], his coat and hat lending neatly (the coat damn near [i]folded[/i] properly and the hat perched atop) on the church pew next to him. He placed a hand upon the back of the next pew up and vaulted over it, spinning once in the air and landing [i]almost[/i] in a kneeling position. Though they were not there when he started the leap, the telltale glint of sharpened steel extended from either hand, taken from among the many, many blades upon his person that his coat had concealed from view. 

	The golden, soulful music carried him forward, its volume and speed seeming to increase with the rate of his heart, like they were connected in glorious harmony. He was about to enter into combat, armed with knives, against a demon. Life was amazing. The Great Bazhooli leapt, he flipped, he spun; he took to acrobatics both ground based and aerial with the vigor of a man much younger - [i]more[/i] than a man much younger. And as the steps to the dance became more complicated, he became faster and faster. More accurate of step. Fatigue seemed to leave him the more he gave himself to the music of the Grand Duchess and danced the [i]Mamushka[/i]. He embodied the physical manifestation of the union of flesh and spirit - He was agility. He was accuracy. He was stamina and speed personified. Vladimir was truly the fullest expression of The Great Bazhooli he had ever been at that moment; the most in tune with the forces that made them all who they were, back to the beginning. 

	He was [i]OVER NINE THOUSAND[/i].

	The dance was obviously a thing adapted for glorious and flashy combat, which he threw himself into wholeheartedly. Yet the object was not to kill this loathsome thing immediately, no. It was to read it, as a sculptor reads a block of stone or lump of clay, that they may see what lurked within, waiting to be revealed by taking it apart piece by piece. What he knew already, or at least suspected, was that despite the whispy, shadow-like appearance, it was capable of putting weight upon the beam enough to make it crack and groan. And it landed on the floor of the church, after affecting a leap. These were the qualities of a corporeal, tactile being. But now was time to learn more. The Great Bazhooli leapt impossibly high into an aerial cartwheel across the front of the creature, locking his eyes onto it while he was fully upside down. The fraction of a second that he was able to make mental connection with the beast was all he needed. 

	Profound surprise slammed into him. His [i]Mamushka[/i] was reinforced by the Grand Duchess, and he had an amazing inner reserve of Bazhooli-ness, otherwise he might have lost his step. Still dancing, still twirling his blades and whipping his body about like a dervish possessed, he spoke directly to the thing in front of them. It was boisterous. It was powerful. It was Great. [color=B22222]"[i][b]YOU[/b][/i] ...have a [i]Soul[/i]."[/color] The way he said it heavily implied that there was much more to say on the matter. Soul or not, if this was a thing that wished to destroy them, he would not kneel. No, Vlad would not submit. He would conquer. He would rise. His name was Vladimir Dmitrievich Alexandrov, and he had seen Evil. He had seen Horror. He had seen the Unholy Maggots which feasted in the dark recesses of the human soul. He had seen all this, but until today, [i]Vlad[/i] had [i]never[/i] seen [i]THAT[/i].