Rogozhin

Rogozhin

Necromantic Biorigger
White Vory's Grave Digger and Grim Reaper
What Goes Down Must Come Up
The Fucked Up Hamburger Helper Version of Neznayka
Discord	@jit
Reddit	[1]
Metatype	Human
Street Cred	0
Notoriety	0
Public Awareness	0
CDP	8
D.O.B.	January 17, 2063
Age	23
Folder	[2]
Priority	Metatype - E Attributes - B Magic - A Skills - E Resources - B
Initiation Counter	NAN
Initiations to Date	TBA
Theme Song	TBD

Character Information

Summary

CONTENT WARNING: ANIMAL ABUSE, DEATH, AND ENSLAVEMENT
I CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH HE'S A REALLY NOT GREAT GUY
LIKE HE HAS REASONS BUT THEY'RE NOT GOOD ONES Y'KNOW?
ANYWAY THANKS FOR STOPPING IN PLEASE LOOK AT SOME OF MY NICER CHARACTERS INSTEAD LIKE BUNNY HOP OR SAINT (SORT OF)

WIP

Goals

WIP

Background

Before Vakhrov Fyodorovich's father was face down and charred black in a shallow and unmarked grave, he was a good person, or so Rogozhin is told. In those days, nobody in that remote Saskatchewan town yet knew the name Pyotr Volkovi, the man who would one day bring hell and prosperity to their frosted wastes. It was then only a waiting grave where slighted Vory went to rot in shameful reassignment, a town of fleeting ghosts with fleeting profit.

Ivan Fyodorovich, a man of principle, prided himself on such things. The White Vory, unlike their bootlicker cousins of the Red, adhere to principle. Pride and people. To that end, such methods that cater exclusively to the rich and powerful of the ruling caste are distasteful - at least to those who remember the time of Boris Kropunin and the purge of their ranks. For a new and rising White however, the old ways are inadequate. Gambling dens and smuggling rings only go so far, the Peoples' vices though they are.

So it was that he was reassigned, isolated, and forgotten in Saskatchewan along the border of Athabaska. He was nonetheless content. A meager cabin that freezes in the Winter, his son, Vakhrov, growing equally cold, and his pride were all he needed to keep warm.

So it was that this was the world that gave rise to Pyotr Volkovi's ambitious and treacherous bid toward power. With a knife in his sovetnik's back, Ivan suddenly found himself on the losing side of a swift and brutal power struggle. His son, a growing young boy entering the sunrise of his adolescence, watched with cold and desperate calculation, and Ivan, the self-assured light of his life, promised to show him how a man with principle objects.

The smuggling ring, he told Pyotr, catered exclusively to the bourgeoisie. The circus a trite and ostentatious bid toward only those with influence and allegiance to the power of the state. His methods brusque and without humanity, disgusting, abominable. These are the methods of the Red. Though they operate with ruthless efficiency, they do so without bending their knees to make kissing ass that much easier.

He is killed in his sleep.

A wind like ice cuts through young Vakhrov Fyodorovich's hair. Whatever tears he might have shed freeze and are whisked away as swiftly as they might be formed. The two enforcers share a cigarette outside the front door as his father's warm blood trickles down bed posts - they share only mildly concerned glances at his child staring lightlessly at his corpse.

Vakhrov can only wonder how he might ever have been related to such an idiot.

The two enforcers trade words in Russian - one tells the other to fetch a shovel, who insists the ground is too frozen for such a thing tonight. The body won't spoil in weather like this. They can come back in the light and warmth, the morning after, with everything they need to bag the popsicle. The other, an ork who glances sympathetically to the young boy he still assumes must be in shock, tells him that it's cruel to leave his kid like that. Killing him too, he punctuates with a vindictive flick against his forehead, is not the mercy they will deal tonight. Drive back and get a post hole digger. The kid's fending for himself now, at the very least don't let his dad watch.

Vakhrov coldly watches them leave, turns to their closet, and drags a shovel outside. By the time the two return, his father is alight in orange flame and black smoke, swallowed in a shallow ditch of a grave. An empty gasoline can lies tossed to the side.

"[I burned him,]" he tells the two as they return, eyes bound to the flame. "[Like you do at the carnival. With the creatures who misbehave.]"

He turns to them, and the only light inside is that which is reflected from his father's remains.

"[Tell Pyotr Volkovi that I will be a sharper knife than my idiot father, one that will cut and stab when it is told, if he will keep me fed and warm tonight. If I will not be discarded like him.]"

Mercifully, if spitefully, Pyotr Volovi deigns to grant him clemency, though what use for a boy but what his idle hands might grasp? If he is so fond of digging graves, they have use for him yet amongst the woods. He is instructed in the art - six feet deep, and charred to a crisp. While only some believe in superstition, all follow the folk practice of the region under pain of death. When he asks why, they tell him only that it is so the bodies do not come back.

He digs. He buries beasts of all sizes, first light to last. He reads by flickering lamplight hours into the evening, and he wakes up at dawn to do it again. He will, occasionally, gopher letters or small goods to lesser mobsters, and though his rations are cold and his accommodations harsh, he is a useful enough tool to be kept in Pyotr Volkovi's shed.

The man himself does not address him. When he is out and entertaining his high class clientele, young Vakhrov watches his daughter, a glimmering jewel amidst ruin, a fallen snowflake among dirt. She is captivating in unspeakable ways, on a spectrum he is only beginning to grasp - and she is sublime, and artistry, and sad, and it is this that lights some dark flame in his heart. He does not understand the misery of a tool kept pristine while his hands blister and bleed. A tool meant only to bury other, broken tools cannot sympathize with one so decorative and meant to spark joy. He watches her from below - he admires her, and he hates her, and he loves her, and he admonishes her, and these emotions he swallows, for none of them make him sharp. Even on those days he is permitted to watch the performance, he is banished to the woods when they are through to dig their holes and burn their dead.

Pyotr Volkovi, innovator, one day seeks to create more unique and impossible acts to draw his clientele. He schemes to smuggle CAST and STIRRUP systems, and to source reputable veterinarians and cyberware surgeons to install them into his more exotic beasts. The minds of beasts can only comprehend so much by traditional means, and only so quickly - for the fastest, most dramatic results, a human mind must be present behind bestial eyes.

It is a disgusting and abhorrent thing, and none so quickly volunteer to be its steward as Vakhrov Fyodorovich, now fifteen summers old.

He takes his implant, and finds his vision dimmed, as though a nerve has been pinched, and he does not quite yet know why. Volkovi's jewel dims like a sun behind clouds, and those clouds that gather above his mass graves become the fuzzy greys of overcast drizzles. He does not mind, whatever that means. He is more valuable now, and will not be discarded so easily.

He learns to rig, and jumps into these creatures, and sees from behind their eyes. Each performance Zhizhn Volkovi attends, she is regarded sharply, distantly, by those beasts leaping through hoops, walking on tightrope, and flipping into handstands. Their eyes are cold and intelligent, moreso than trained beasts' usually are. Whether she knows the truth or not, Vakhrov Fyodorovich cannot help but regard her with mirthless jealousy.

[When he is not performing, he is again digging graves. He is forcing animals whose bodies he experiences as his own into cages, bleeding and hungry, and burying eyes he had himself seen through when they fall. You take care of tools when they are useful and discard them when they break, after all.]

[He spends a lot of time there at the graves. He imagines himself in their corpses, still seeing behind their eyes. And with time, he eventually sees horrible and rotting spirits laying claim to that cloyingly spoiled meat, those in large piles he cannot incinerate in time. He is barely afraid, and commiserates with the phantoms. He tells them he too has seen the world from behind those eyes, and in this, they are bonded on pleasant terms.]

[Nonetheless, this too, he believes, can be a tool. He does not question the why, but merely the how. He studies such things in the rays of fleeting light before he is interred in his lukewarm cubby.]

[Zhizn Volkovi is a princess, doesn't much like her - she is a tool in the way a Stradivarius violin is an instrument, coddled and caged and ideally unscuffed. When she escapes, he sees an opportunity to move beyond his station. With time, he will graduate from being a tool entirely, if he can use the ones he has well enough.]

Narrative Significant Qualities

Positive

• Everything is a Tool - (Spectral Warden / Restricted Gear [CAST]) - When you are born into the lesser caste of a brutal syndicate, you very swiftly learn the value of your life, and especially the lives of those around you. All creatures, Man, Beast, and Spirit alike, are tools to be honed and used in the climb toward freedom. The only way to not be used is to use in turn.

Run History

Name	GM	Metaplot	Threat	Date of Run
Crashing Footfalls	sleevey		High	7 November 2085
Broken Vow	Asmodeus	Hail to the Pumpking	Medium	12 October 2085
Purity At Any Cost	Asmodeus	Hail to the Pumpking	Medium	5 October 2085
Midnight Disappearance	LHOG	The Midnight Hands	High	24 September 2085

Affiliations

Contacts

Note the difficulty on Vlad to actually get, may have to request runs

Contact	Connection	Loyalty	Archetype	Profession	Aspects	Chips
PLACEHOLDERS AND POTENTIAL CONTACTS	Contact Not Found. Please create contact using Template:Contact.	1	You may also see User:Free Sprite for bot instructions.			Even
Akilina Mikhailov	4	1	Fixer	Chrome Enthusiast Fixer	Eccentric Equipment Enthusiast, Cyber-Fashionista, Kovert Ops, The Drug Trade, Tattoo Artist	Even
Vlad	4	1	Fixer	Former Sovetnik	Hard To Reach, Sweet Tooth, Old Fashioned, Underworld Contacts, Friends Across The Pond, Hardened Criminal	Even

Relationships with NPCs

• PLACEHOLDER: WIP

Organizations and Reputation

Allies

Faction	Reputation	Related Run(s)
White Vory	0	TBD

Enemies

Faction	Reputation	Related Run(s)
Red Vory	0	TBD

Street Cred

• N/A

Notoriety

• N/A

In Character Information

Matrix Search Table

Threshold	Result
1	WIP
3	WIP
6	WIP

Shadow Community Table

Threshold	Result
1	WIP
3	WIP
5	WIP

Assensing Table

Saint's essence is somewhat thin and does not extend far beyond her body, though reads as searing hot near her skin. The light around her twists and warps with the heat of her aura, and the audible crack of flames roars within her.

Threshold	Result
1	WIP
2	WIP
3	WIP
4	WIP
5	WIP

SINs

FAKE NAME (Fake Rating 4, UCAS)

• Fake License (Rating 4)

Appearance

Matrix Persona

WIP

Tokens

Character Plot Hooks

Here are characteristics of the character that GMs may take advantage of to add complications to runs, or to otherwise use when in use. If you want to use them in unrelated to runs, please ask first.

Aspect	Information	Related Run(s)
TBD	WIP	WIP

Note

I am completely fine with long term consequences for my characters, as long as it doesn't feel unannounced or forced. Long term changes to a character make more opportunities for interesting roleplay, and so don't be afraid to give them out if they are deserved.