About Yelisaveta AlekseevnaStat Sheet:
WS: 31 BS: 47 (2 Adv) S: 32 T: 30 Ag: 42 (1 Adv) I: 32 Per: 38 Wil: 33 (1 Adv) Fel: 46 (1 Adv) Wounds: 12
Skills:
[bigger]Talents and Traits Talents
Traits
Advancement:
1. Dreg: BS Advance (100) BS Advance (250) Wil Advance (250) 2. Outcast:
Gear:
Devotion to the God-Emperor. Ruthless Ambition. =============================================================== The Kruger-Aksakov Dynasty:
Life isn't easy on Fenksworld. Not even on Nova Castillia, the iron gauntlet over the two lesser hives, where life is brutal, short and filled with back-breaking work from start to end. The story of Yelisaveta begins with her birth, but rarely is a scion's story unconnected to her dynasty's origins, which would be explored. Her great-grandfather, the famous and infamous Grigory Aksakov, the Volgite Adder, began his life in a small shack somewhere in Volg as the first free man of his family, exiled in Volg for crimes forgotten long ago. The man didn't waste his various natural talents, and by his late fifties, a fifth of Volg's drug, smuggling and human trafficking ran through his gang, and another fifth ran with his permission. Having an organised ring so big attracted the attention of the higher ups in Nova Castillia. After seventeen unsuccessful assassination attempts and three unsuccessful Arbites assaults, the discussion on whether the eighteenth to involve an Imperial Assassin was abruptly ended with a brilliant idea and a brilliant smile from the governor. I'd rather have him inside and pissing outside than outside, pissing inside. An ancient document, listing the noble lineage of the Aksakov line found its way into the lavish office in Volg, ink still wet. The document was accompanied by another, smaller and less formal letter, politely informing the mob boss that the carrot is present in the envelope, and the stick is somewhere in an Officio Assassinorum temple, not yet aware that it's a stick yet. And would he, kindly, sort out the affairs in the Kruger dynasty. The Kruger-Aksakov dynasty soon gathered power in the legitimate business, investing heavily in less-than-scrupulous traders, merchants and loans. Known for his hard bargaining methods, Grigory retired after bringing the dynasty in the black, something not seen as possible by the Administratum.
Age 10:
Eli saw the chance to sneak by the maid, and she took it. Running into the empty hallway, she snuck into the broom closet, and started choosing her destination. The kitchen was pretty busy at this time, and the mean one was on shift. The guardhouse wasn't an option any more, especially since she accidentally mentioned she played cards with the guards. Speaking of which, she hadn't seen any of those guards since... She sighed, before taking a peak outside to see if the coast's clear, and decided she hadn't snuck in her grandfather's office soon. Maybe play with the lizard, or do some drawings with the fancy pen. Making her way quietly, she had to duck behind a vase, when she saw two guards escorting a man towards the office. Now she absolutely had to see what's going on there. The trio entered the office, slamming the door shut. She quietly made her way there, just about to lay an ear to the door, as she heard voices from the other side, echoing through the marble hallway. "Now, Lev, is an opportunity for you to see how you solve situations with lacklustre loyalty." Her grandfather's voice. And Lev was there too, her biggest brother.
As the two entered the room, she closed her eyes, listening for any movement. As she heard nothing, she moved inside, putting a cheek to the thick mahogany door. "---and you thought that it's easy, didn't you, Artyomushka. Just work the numbers, pocket some thrones." Her grandfather was angry. He always tried to sound, you know, smart and use big words, unless he's angry, then he sounds like the guards. Even the accent. "I'm sorry, Nikolai Grigorievich... I'll return it all...", the voice of the man rose. He's scared. A creaking was heard from behind the door. Grandfather was opening his drawer. "I understand, Artem. You've been working as a foreman for, what, six years now? The books show the results as almost adequate. A bit under the norms, but that's to be expected." He paused.
A loud bang was heard, and a loud gasp followed. "Take the rug and its contents to the incinerator. Send his last wage to his wife. And you, Lev, I want you to go to your room, and think about what I just did, and why I did it. Don't ask me anything. Tomorrow, I'll come and get you for lunch, and we can talk about the hows and the whys." Eli took her cheek away from the door, and wiped away a tear. She started running long before her brother left the office.
Age 19:
Eli was rushing home. The darkness had long ago fallen on the spires, and it was even darker down here. She shouldered her hefty bag, a Chorda Premeditation, worked darkstalker hide, matte electrum finishing and vox-locks. She'd learned quite long ago that the nicest things are usually the most expensive ones. She tucked away a strand of hair, and took the usual shortcut, half a kilometer to get to the service elevator. The chain fence was unlocked since her last time she'd went on a small trip to the middle levels. A shuffle from behind a dumpster was the first sign something's gone wrong. Some дурак's wearing work boots. Two burly men, dressed in tatters, slowly creapt out from the side alley, followed by another one, surprisingly quieter behind her. "Good evening there, miss.", the fatter one in front said, revealing a terribly gaudy and expensive golden smile. The other one flashed a knife, but decided to stay silent. "Give us that purse, and we'd play nice and soft, девочка." She took a step backwards, expectedly running into the third one, feeling two heavy hands on her shoulders. No weapons drawn. A complete мудак. She let out a scared sigh, a half-assed attempt by normal standards, and slowly raised the purse in her hands, tossing it in a muddy puddle. I'll be very, very cross in roughly ten seconds.
Two clicks were heard as the pistols jumped in her hands, and a silenced pistol went off into the man behind's crotch area. The man let out a non-silenced scream of pain, which in turn got silenced as well as the second pistol went off into his skull, the contents not doing any good for the cleanliness of the alleyway. She fired another two shots at the man gripping the darkstalker skin like an absolute savage, and as he dropped, turned them towards the talker. "I remember saying please, сволоч.", she said, cold fury pulsing in her voice. "Pick up my Chorda." "Uh, the what?"
She took a deep breath, placed the bag on another dumpster, and slowly, methodically reloaded and sprung the guns back inside her sleeves. She managed to do it on the third try.
Age 28:
Yelisaveta Alekseevna was rushing through the corridors. I wonder what Grandfather's got in mind. I should've visited the old негодяй more often... This desk job's driving me insane..., she thought. Any chance to leave the stupid office was welcomed. She understood the importance of having a family member present on new people's inductions into the higher ranks, and better than most, but it was completely dull. And most kept staring. Should've gotten Sasha to do it. If she can show up sober. She stopped outside the door, pulling out a small case from her bag. And he mentioned meeting someone important. A man. She quickly checked her make-up, and decided it adequate. She gave a quick glance at her jewelry and clothes, frowning at a wrinkle on her shirt. I wonder if it's the maid, or me. Whatever. She tapped the door twice, giving a last glance at her liner in the mirror and putting away the set. She opened the door, walking into the familiar office. The rug's been changed, again, she noted, as she turned her gaze at the table. Two men were sitting on the table, and an armed woman standing behind the unfamiliar one, holding a storm bolter? casually. The man himself was wearing a fine tailored, but not too gaudy suit, and had appeared to be just receiving a glass of liquor, coming from a fine crystal philter. He's in for a treat. She smiled, and made her way towards the table, ignoring the bodyguard as etiquette dictated. "That's my granddaughter, the one I was telling you about.", Grandfather said to the man, pouring a generous helping of Volg Gutrot. The bodyguard frowned at the smell. They toasted silently, then the man took a sip. The apparent lack of a reaction surprised Yelisaveta. "...I see.", the man replied, clearing his throat. "Please, take a seat.", he gestured at the empty chair. Yelisaveta sat, politely placing her hands in her lap. "Remember, Eli, I used to talk about place in the world, and drive.", the old man said, smiling. "I had strongly recommended that you take a bigger part in our affairs, but your father's been quite against it. And while we have our disagreements, he's in charge now, and with a reason. I'd have suggested this sooner, but it's just today that this opportunity arose. And I remember you being quick to act, especially back then." He smiled. "I apologise. It's rare you get time with your family, as I'm sure that you'd agree. Anyway, as I was saying. This man is a representative of an old... acquaintance of our family." The man nodded, braving himself to take another sip, making the woman frown once more. "Right then. My name's not terribly important, but the name of my superior is. Brannor Smythe.", he allowed himself a smile. "Or, if we have to get really specific about it, Inquisitor Brannor Smythe." Ебена мать..., Yelisaveta thought. She swallowed. The man continued. "We've exchanged some information with your grandfather in the past. And kept some other information quiet, too. The Inquisitor's looking for acolytes, men and women of exceptional caliber, and you came highly recommended. What's most unusual, however, is that you actually have a choice in the matter whether to join, or not." Her grandfather nodded. "You see, Eli, sorry, Yelisaveta, what I decided was to give you an opportunity. You'd never become the heir of the house. You'd be doing a menial, clerical job, until your brother or father decides that he needs to cement the relationship with another house. It's not a terrible life, all things considered." He paused, taking a long sip and lighting up a cigar. The woman's frown intensified. "The other thing would be to work, and work, and work. The only limit to what you can achieve would be you, your failings and your talents. One day, you might even join His Holy Inquisition as an Inquisitor. But there's no way back, once you join."
She remained quiet, staring at the window. Inside, she was weighting options, thinking of other options and plotting courses. She turned her eyes at the man, smiling. "Very well. When do we leave and what do I bring?"
Appearance:
Yelisaveta is tall and wiry, though certaintly not without feminine shapes. It is obvious to anyone that she takes great care of her personal appearance. She's visibly in her late-twenties, a fact accented by her preference for heavy make-up and jewelry. In formal and non-confrontational surroundings she prefers form-fitting dresses of finest make, preferably of Scintillan or Malfian fashion, fur and silk collars and high shoes, which in combination of her height makes her exude an aura of vicious competence and superiority. While in such surroundings she's not in possession of a characteristic big bag, she's still managing to hide an item or two. Her hair, usually dark brown, is often put in a fancy coiffure, and her dark blue eyes aren't afraid to stare anyone down. When expecting physical confrontation, she's wearing a fine attire, superficially resembling the stereotypical Volgite ganger: A long, knee-length coat, tight trousers and tall boots, accompanied by massive pistols. She still wears her heavy battle paint, however, and is incredibly irritable when situations don't allow her to put some effort in her appearance. Personality:
A true member of the Fenskworld nouveau-nobility, Yelisaveta is charming and courteous, with hints of predatory superiority. While she often enjoys blathering about the topics of fashion and politics, she's almost never losing a grasp on what her conversant is saying and meaning. In the events of under-handedness and treachery, however, her Volgite roots shine through, as she explodes in a harpy-like monster, shouting out ear-blistering phrases in a barely understood dialect, and isn't afraid to slap (in formal surroundings) or kneecap (usually not in formal surroundings) the offending party. While confident in her abilities and superiority in some matters, she's seen pride coming before a fall all too often and attempts to swallow it, with various success.
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