Derren Krenshaw — Roleplayer Guild

The last customer had left nearly an hour ago.

The tables and bartop had all been cleaned, the lights were out, the earnings tallied and payments made. There was nothing left for the staff to do but lock the doors and leave, yet only two so far had gone outside. Both men -one tall and tanned, the other shorter and pale- they paced about the club's lot casually, eyes flicking to examine each shadow and gap between cars. Starting from opposite sides, they slowly circled, hands in pockets, waiting for something to happen.

"Semyon?"

The shorter of the two paused, dour features turning to the back door of the club. It cracked open, a young woman's face peering out, several more figures shifting behind her. Semyon took a moment to catch her eye, then turned, gaze shifting to the other in the lot. As if waiting for that moment, the taller man shrugged, shaking his head as he moved purposefully to the Chrome Harley chained nearby.

"It's clear ladies." Semyon's voice carried cold and dry, a winter's breeze met with a smile from the woman at the door. Quickly, she and the others filed out to their own cars, some still wiping makeup from their faces, others wincing at sore muscles or rolled ankles as they walked. They all made it, though, and he stood clear as they left one by one, waiting till the end to start his morning stroll home.

"Still walking then, Semyon?" An engine's rumbling purr followed the man's words as the bike pulled up beside him. "I thought Kevin was supposed to have his car already?"

"He couldn't get the money together until last night, so he's getting it back today." The young man nodded with Semyon's words, fumbling absently with the buckles of his helmet.

"Well, have a nice walk then."

"Drive safe."

The bike roared out and away, leaving Semyon alone on the outskirts of Boston. Waiting another moment to take in the pre-dawn sky, he finally set off himself, wandering beside the road. He moved aimlessly, turning whenever an intersection happened to appear. Left here, right there, slowly moving into the city proper, until he paused outside Franklin Park.

An aging man with wild hair accosted him there, begging money for food or clothes or good karma. He offered his sage advice in return as Semyon passed him a ten, and they found themselves talking for the better part of an hour, as the sky slowly lightened. They nodded or spoke out in turn, finally acknowledging that, while they were both certainly wiser than most folk running around these days, the aging man was by far the more pious. That was alright, however, for even he could see Semyon had potential, and before long even he might be able to achieve the same heights of enlightenment.

The flattery earned the aging man another few dollars, and then Semyon set out once more, moving with purpose now that the sun was rising. The city was fully awake by the time he reached his home, cars and people roaring in the background of his modest apartment. He moved straight to his desk upon entering, booted feet stepping surprisingly softly upon the thin carpet. A heavy book and scattered maps lay out in wait as he sat down, exactly where they had been hours before, waiting for their reader to get back to work.

Which was about the time a tapping was heard upon the window.

Semyon let it tap for a moment, then two, finally turning to take in the sight of a metallic orb hovering outside the glass. Eyeing it for a moment, he turned back to the desk, circling a pair of locations on one of the maps as it continued to tap, before getting up to let the letter in.

"Atticus..." Pallid lips mumbled the worlds as grey eyes scanned the letter's contents. They scanned it again, then a third time, one gloved hand running absently across the top of his bald head, before he let the letter drop.

"...Max first." Strides took him quickly to a heavy safe in the apartments bedroom, one hand drawing and dialing quickly upon the keypad of a basic flip-phone.

"Max? Yes I know the time..." The safe opened with a few swift twirls of gloved fingers, Semyor's voice unchanging as he picked up a camouflaged duffel bag and began to stuff it with supplies. "I wouldn't call now if it wasn't important. Remember when I told you about my mother...?"

A pair of heavy, plastic-wrapped books went in first, their covers barely visible through the wrapping, titles scrawled in illegible text.

"...It does. I'm heading out now. Hopefully I'll make it in time to say my goodbyes..."

A Stechkin APS was pulled out, loaded, and slipped straight into the formerly-empty holster at his left side. A pair of extended clips and a silencer found their homes in pouches inside the right of his coat shortly after.

"...Thanks for your concern, Max, really. I had already told Mr. Ruth this might happen, and he okayed it. So just let him know what I said, and that you'll be filling in until I get back..."

A box of loose rounds was added to the contents of the duffel bag. A plastic case followed suit, packed with gauze and bandages, gloves, antiseptic and surgical scissors.

"...Don't worry Max. He knows you and I know you. You'll be fine... yeah, thank you again. Stay safe."

A neatly-folded towel squeezed itself into the last remaining space in the bag, and Semyon stood up once more. The safe closed with a casual flick, and he was striding out of the apartment and back to the street, a new number dialing on the phone.

"доброе утро, <-Good Morning- Romanoff...>" Feet moved with purpose once more, his form neatly weaving through the growing crowds on the sidewalks as he made his way. "<I'm being called to Ireland, tell Michael that the research with have to wait ... Yes, can you get me a gate to the Island? ... Ardgroom, the stone circle. By 7pm ... Yes, Atticus sent the message ... That's why I'm coming now, how close can you get? ... Two hour walk? That's fine ... Yes, sooner is better. I will be there soon ... Stay safe. >"

That call done, Semyon slipped the phone back into his coat, and sped up the pace. As a higher-up in the Company, Atticus knew of the research projects Semyon was currently assisting in, didn't he? The meeting had to be urgent then.

He could not afford to arrive late.

It seemed that he had, in fact, arrived early.

Semyon's gaze moved slowly across the evening landscape around him. Rolling hills dotted in brush and tall grass, idyllic as any other picture you could find on Ireland.

Yet a certain few thoughts kept spoiling the view, like what shrub would be the most likely position to launch an ambush.

Bag dangling precariously from his shoulder, the wight continued to leisurely glance about as he approached, until finally he drew upon the circle itself. Atticus was there, but so far no one else, so he offered the incubus the requisite nod and salute all employers were due.

"Good evening, Atticus Mac Cléirich. Have you been doing well?"

(( <text set up like this is being spoken in Russian, so I don't have to tortue anyone who knows the language with google-translator's attempts> ))

Name: Semyon Makarov

Gender: Male

Age: 307 (actual) / 30s-40s (apparent)

Classification: Greater Undead/Wight

Powers/Traits/Skillset: Centuries of combat experience: military, revolutionary, and mercenary. Semyon is also fluent in English and Russian, and boasts extensive knowledge of Russian history, mythology, and occult practices.

Appearance: Standing just under six feet, Semyon's skin is pale, almost grey, stretched tightly across his skull. His head is shaved clean, grey eyes and pale lips almost always bearing a downcast expression. He dresses in crisp shirts buttoned to the chin and covered in a heavy jacket. Tailored pants fall down to cover black combat boots, while dark gloves ensure that no flesh but that of his head can be seen.

Under that clothing, his body is a tapestry of decay. Flesh clings to bones, distends under gravity's pull, or has been eaten away by various insects. While it no longer rots, the years have still taken it's toll on Semyon's form.

Background: Born in a settlement somewhere in the grasslands of Siberia, a combination of sickness and famine led his townsfolk to call upon occult rituals in an attempt to 'survive'. Semyon embraced undeath at that point, spending almost two and a half centuries living in and fighting for his homeland. Shortly after the end of the second world war, however, he left Russia.

The next few decades were spent travelling through England and the United States, seemingly on a whim. Working off-and-on as a gun for hire during this journey, Semyon eventually crossed paths with Bain&Hoyle, becoming intrigued by those who desired more than his martial skills.

In comparison to other long-lived beings of the veiled world, Semyon is a somewhat recent addition to Bain&Hoyle, with barely a two decades of service to the company. He serves alternatively as researcher and bodyguard, helping those interested in locating relics long lost within the Motherland, as well as safeguarding expeditions or persons of interest.

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