[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=B22222]Vladimir Alexandrov[/color][/i][/b][/h1][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/6ae86d34-76ab-48bf-a41f-e16258a72749.jpg[/img][/center]
[hr][hr][center][color=B22222][b]Location:[/b][/color] Soulless Fade Between
[color=B22222][b]Skills:[/b][/color] [i]Fal'shbort[/i] (Passive), [i]Tretiy Glaz[/i] (Passive), English [/center][hr]
   
        The [i]Gologramma[/i] was not supposed to do any of this. Impossible. This thought repeated over and over in Vladimir's mind despite the other, more panache-y things that he continued to exhibit. The fact that they were in another place entirely was exciting. New. Worthy of adventuring people such as themselves. But what happened next have him considerable worry. 

[center]*****Snapping*****[/center]
        One moment, he was making introductions all around with people close to him, a lady of a familiar bloodline, and ... violin guy! The next, something inexplicable and wholly unprecedented occurred in a day full of things already inexplicable and unprecedented. It made him wonder why he went through all of that knowledge based Training if none of it was ultimately going to be of any actual use to him in the here and now, ever. Question dor the ages, but not his primary concern at the moment. 

        Without warning of any kind, another change. This time it was not location nor reality, nor sudden appearance of Lovecraftian Horror. This time the change was to everyone [i]else[/i]. Vladimir remained, but everyone, including Elizaveta whom he viewed as a daughter, was gone. Nut he was not alone. In their stead was a quartet of some of the oddest people he had laid his eyes on. [i]And he lived in a circus.[/i] One of them was a woman in pants (imagine that) who seemed a little too nonchalant about this for his liking. Others were strangely dressed but up to now quiet, and another looked like the type who associated in seedy roadside taverns, the kind where there were at least a half score dark corners to brood in before emerging to order something flammable and insist that they leave the bottle like some kopek-storefront hoodlum and/or hired murderer. He already had a gun of some sort on his hand and was drawing something sharp, which he could respect but did not particularly appreciate now, being as he was a stranger. It did not amazingly alarm him. Vladimir had range and two hands filled with sharpened steel that he was fairly certain he could hurl with accuracy. Still, not the most sociable group.

        [color=B22222]"I am Master Vladimir Dimitrievich Aledandrov,"[/color] he said with a slight bow, holding his blade-bearing hands to his sides, [color=B22222]"known to all vith familiarity of Russian Imperial Circus as [i]The Great Bazhooli[/i], Artist of Impalements."[/color] He gave the k ives in his hands a twirl and tipped his very fine hat, continuing in his thick but slightly muddled Russian accent, [color=B22222]"And I too have questions. Persons [i]very dear[/i] to Great Bazhooli have been replaced. ...by you... and this is outside influencimg realm of my very considerable abilities. [i]QVESTIONS[/i]! Am having them, too."[/color] The look of the man was less in the way of smiles and more in the manner of showmanly intensity, not quite hiding a sense of dark urgency. This situation simply would not do.