Partisan Banned
Vuurvos
Dion
- Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Vuurvos
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 2152 (0.49 / day)
- VMs: 1
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Username history
- Partisan 12 yrs ago
Status
Recent Statuses
10 yrs ago
I'm still God.
Bio
If we are marked to die, we are enough
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires;
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart. His passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
Most Recent Posts
So much discrimination against Ruskies. :(
Thanks! All I needed to know.
I think we should be happy you came back here after all! Glad you're here to fill up the RP. :D Had a nice/good trip?
Grigoriy and his company faced the girl walking in swiftly, not taking too much time to look at her. They talked about her in Russian, so she probably wouldn't understand. They noted her order for vodka and joked that even Americans knew that Russian alcohol was better. They also noted her apparent beauty.. though they used less flattering words than ''beauty''. Something referring to a nice ass was in place here. After that short talk they returned to talking about the glorious motherland. Grigoriy, sitting on the most right side, closest to the lady of the three Russians, grabbed his vodka shot and gulped it down in one go. Nothing special, but none the less an attempt to impress his friends and perhaps the lady.
His demeanor towards the others changed a bit when he leaned in closer and spoke more hushed. “I need money, comrades. This all.. leeching off of you two. I don't like it. I wanna provide for myself, you know. Make a living. Now, I work in the docks with you, Igor,” he spoke in Russian to his one friend, the one that he worked with all day. He wore a black flatcap, with a shaved head showing underneath in the parts the cap didn't cover. A simple sweater, and linen working pants. His shoes were.. smudged with grime. Looked well enough for a dockworker. “.. but you, Pawel, you don't work. Not legally, either way. Maybe you can ask your friends for a job for me.”
He faced away for a second to check if there was any people listening in, more of a habit than anything else because they spoke Russian anyway and he strongly doubted any Russians were nearby. “I mean, nothing too big. I know you have to start small. I just want to earn a few bucks, you know? Do some work. Maybe start my own shop here. I don't know.” The man named Pawel, a short man with a balding head and round reading glasses nodded. He answered Grigoriy that he would ask, but that he couldn't give any certainty. The many Russians moving here now were enough to feed the constant need of enforcers for the bratva's. But a good word never hurt anyone.
The discussion ended with the man agreeing to put in a good word, and soon after they continued joking. But not before Grigoriy beckoned the bartender to come to them again. The man sighed again, finishing up with a customer that was also requesting something. He walked over slowly, almost as if he was trying to avoid the conversation with these Russians. “Yes? Can I help you gentlemen?” Grigoriy looked at the man with a confused look, before looking at his friends and mumbling something in Russian. The two friends started laughing and Grigoriy faced the bartender again. “Gentlemen? I work in the docks, as my friend here. The other one is jobless. We are anything but gentle men, my comrad,” he spoke to him in a thick Russian accent, before pointing at the man sitting a few seats from him, conversing with another gentleman. This man was Skip, ofcourse, but Grigoriy didn't know that. “.. but that there is a gentleman. You can tell from his hands, brat. Please inform me.. what is the term for a ''gentle woman?'' I will think it's not gentlewoman, yes?” The Russian's English made the question somewhat unclear and the bartender obviously grew impatient with the Russian. “It's a lady. In any case, what can I get you, mr. Dockworker?” Grigoriy grinned and then answered with a somewhat arrogant look on his face, “more vodka, lady.” The bartender grew annoyed but complied, ignoring this childish and unnecesarily rude comment that Grigoriy made and simply served him more vodka. Grigoriy threw two dollars onto the bar then drank the shot once again in a single go.
Then he got up, putting on his flatcap again and closing his coat. “Spasibo for the drinks, comrades. But I will head home now.” He patted Pavel on the back, put his scarf on and around his neck and walked towards the exit, burying his neck and chin as much into the scarf and coat as he could. It was fucking raining, and cold as well. “Fucking American weather, so shit.” he said to himself as he walked into the rain towards his home.
His demeanor towards the others changed a bit when he leaned in closer and spoke more hushed. “I need money, comrades. This all.. leeching off of you two. I don't like it. I wanna provide for myself, you know. Make a living. Now, I work in the docks with you, Igor,” he spoke in Russian to his one friend, the one that he worked with all day. He wore a black flatcap, with a shaved head showing underneath in the parts the cap didn't cover. A simple sweater, and linen working pants. His shoes were.. smudged with grime. Looked well enough for a dockworker. “.. but you, Pawel, you don't work. Not legally, either way. Maybe you can ask your friends for a job for me.”
He faced away for a second to check if there was any people listening in, more of a habit than anything else because they spoke Russian anyway and he strongly doubted any Russians were nearby. “I mean, nothing too big. I know you have to start small. I just want to earn a few bucks, you know? Do some work. Maybe start my own shop here. I don't know.” The man named Pawel, a short man with a balding head and round reading glasses nodded. He answered Grigoriy that he would ask, but that he couldn't give any certainty. The many Russians moving here now were enough to feed the constant need of enforcers for the bratva's. But a good word never hurt anyone.
The discussion ended with the man agreeing to put in a good word, and soon after they continued joking. But not before Grigoriy beckoned the bartender to come to them again. The man sighed again, finishing up with a customer that was also requesting something. He walked over slowly, almost as if he was trying to avoid the conversation with these Russians. “Yes? Can I help you gentlemen?” Grigoriy looked at the man with a confused look, before looking at his friends and mumbling something in Russian. The two friends started laughing and Grigoriy faced the bartender again. “Gentlemen? I work in the docks, as my friend here. The other one is jobless. We are anything but gentle men, my comrad,” he spoke to him in a thick Russian accent, before pointing at the man sitting a few seats from him, conversing with another gentleman. This man was Skip, ofcourse, but Grigoriy didn't know that. “.. but that there is a gentleman. You can tell from his hands, brat. Please inform me.. what is the term for a ''gentle woman?'' I will think it's not gentlewoman, yes?” The Russian's English made the question somewhat unclear and the bartender obviously grew impatient with the Russian. “It's a lady. In any case, what can I get you, mr. Dockworker?” Grigoriy grinned and then answered with a somewhat arrogant look on his face, “more vodka, lady.” The bartender grew annoyed but complied, ignoring this childish and unnecesarily rude comment that Grigoriy made and simply served him more vodka. Grigoriy threw two dollars onto the bar then drank the shot once again in a single go.
Then he got up, putting on his flatcap again and closing his coat. “Spasibo for the drinks, comrades. But I will head home now.” He patted Pavel on the back, put his scarf on and around his neck and walked towards the exit, burying his neck and chin as much into the scarf and coat as he could. It was fucking raining, and cold as well. “Fucking American weather, so shit.” he said to himself as he walked into the rain towards his home.
Grigoriy grabbed the box of tools and walked them over to the back of the truck, putting them down on another box that was already there. On his way back he passed his friend, who was walking towards the back of the truck as well. This was how he spent his days - lifting boxes from one place to the other and earning a small bit of money while doing so. Some days he earned a dollar or two, some days he earned merely twenty cents. But Grigoriy wasn't one to complain. He knew there were people that were itching to get his job. For every employee there were five people waiting for him to get fired so they can take his place.
Besides that, many of the people in charge were unwilling to hire Russians, something Grigoriy didn't really understand. Were they not hard workers? Sure, many didn't speak the language well. But there were always a few that spoke a few words and that could translate. It boggled Grigoriys mind. Instead they hired many Italians, whom generally spoke the language better and were fine with working for even less than the Russians.
Suddenly a bell rang, signalling that the work day was over. Grigoriy put down the last box in the truck before tapping the top of the cabin and walking off of the truck. The truck drove off, the driver still smoking his cigarette as he had been doing the entire time they were loading it in with tools. “Ghaa, chyort.” he cussed at the truck driver. “He never helps, that guy.” he said to his friend, in Russian. His mate laughed and walked off towards the docks. Grigoriy took off his gloves and put them on a box before following suit. He sniffed in the air of the sea, the saltiness was something he always favored over the smog in the city. Not to say that there was no smog here, ofcourse.. it was just less noticeable.
Outside, they met one of their friends. Grigoriy smiled at him and shook his hand. “Privet, brat, kak dela?”, or otherwise asking him how he was. The man answered that he was well, and that he had made arrangements for them to visit a small restaurant and entertainment place that still served alcohol. “Good, very good comrade. It's time for a drink.. I went two weeks without in this place.” They laughed and walked off, conversing and laughing, slapping backs and making fun of eachother like real pals. Poverty hadn't gotten the best of them yet.
They entered the club, loudly conversing in Russian as they entered. They didn't pay much mind to what was going on around them, the girls, the guys throwing angry and aggressive looks their way. They sat down at the bar area, not far from the Scotsman, but far enough to be unable to hear his conversation. The bartender soon came towards them, though it was obvious that he had no real interest in the Russians. He sighed loudly before asking them what they wanted. The two other Russians looked at Grigoriy who translated it for them. The men smiled at the bartender afterwards and said in unison, “Vodka.” The bartender sighed, once again. Why did he even bother to ask them what they want - the answer would always be vodka. But money was money so he went and got them three vodka's. The men thanked him in Russian, and though the bartender couldn't understand he understood the meaning of it. He nodded and walked off again after taking his money. 6 dollars for three vodka. You could almost call that a fortune. But Grigoriy nor his friends had to take care of a family - the money was there for them to spend as they pleased and they pleased themselves some vodka. Besides, Grigoriy had already sent back some money to his parents. This was not a time to feel guilty.
Besides that, many of the people in charge were unwilling to hire Russians, something Grigoriy didn't really understand. Were they not hard workers? Sure, many didn't speak the language well. But there were always a few that spoke a few words and that could translate. It boggled Grigoriys mind. Instead they hired many Italians, whom generally spoke the language better and were fine with working for even less than the Russians.
Suddenly a bell rang, signalling that the work day was over. Grigoriy put down the last box in the truck before tapping the top of the cabin and walking off of the truck. The truck drove off, the driver still smoking his cigarette as he had been doing the entire time they were loading it in with tools. “Ghaa, chyort.” he cussed at the truck driver. “He never helps, that guy.” he said to his friend, in Russian. His mate laughed and walked off towards the docks. Grigoriy took off his gloves and put them on a box before following suit. He sniffed in the air of the sea, the saltiness was something he always favored over the smog in the city. Not to say that there was no smog here, ofcourse.. it was just less noticeable.
Outside, they met one of their friends. Grigoriy smiled at him and shook his hand. “Privet, brat, kak dela?”, or otherwise asking him how he was. The man answered that he was well, and that he had made arrangements for them to visit a small restaurant and entertainment place that still served alcohol. “Good, very good comrade. It's time for a drink.. I went two weeks without in this place.” They laughed and walked off, conversing and laughing, slapping backs and making fun of eachother like real pals. Poverty hadn't gotten the best of them yet.
They entered the club, loudly conversing in Russian as they entered. They didn't pay much mind to what was going on around them, the girls, the guys throwing angry and aggressive looks their way. They sat down at the bar area, not far from the Scotsman, but far enough to be unable to hear his conversation. The bartender soon came towards them, though it was obvious that he had no real interest in the Russians. He sighed loudly before asking them what they wanted. The two other Russians looked at Grigoriy who translated it for them. The men smiled at the bartender afterwards and said in unison, “Vodka.” The bartender sighed, once again. Why did he even bother to ask them what they want - the answer would always be vodka. But money was money so he went and got them three vodka's. The men thanked him in Russian, and though the bartender couldn't understand he understood the meaning of it. He nodded and walked off again after taking his money. 6 dollars for three vodka. You could almost call that a fortune. But Grigoriy nor his friends had to take care of a family - the money was there for them to spend as they pleased and they pleased themselves some vodka. Besides, Grigoriy had already sent back some money to his parents. This was not a time to feel guilty.
Zmerr said
She wanted to know who she was working for.
Yes, I mean I wanna know that as well haha.
What about me? Only information I need, really.
Who was a lady? Lol.
Me neither, really.
Alright, expect me to get on it soonish but maybe not tonight as I should probably sleep soon.
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