SgtEasy

Men vs. Women Race to 1000

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Men vs. Women Race to 1000

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Men vs. Women Race to 1000

24.

It's still the 24th.

@HaleyTheRandom

Timezones :P

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Men vs. Women Race to 1000

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(Its the 25th December boyss)

Men vs. Women Race to 1000

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Sol City [Modern Slice of Life] . (CHAPTER ONE COMPLETED!) . ARCHIVED

Merry Christmas everyone <333

A Treasure Chest filled with CS's and... CS's!

Volaeria: A Red Rose in November

Ali Hassan-zadeh

^{"Choosing to leave the Whites was both my greatest shame and smartest idea."
Theme(s): To Be Decided - Placeholder}

_{B A S I C I N F O R M A T I O N}

---

Full Name: Ali Hassan-zadeh

Nickname: Ali the Cossack

Date of Birth: 17^th January 1869

Place of Birth: Tehran, Persia

Gender: Male

Race, Ethnicity: Half-Persian, Half-Russian

Eye Colour: Grey

Height: 5' 8"

Weight: 156lbs

_{D E T A I L E D I N F O R M A T I O N}

---

Titles: Jenaab - Title given to someone who should be respected higher than normal. Does not apply anymore due to tarnished honour.

Appearance: A military man through and through, the former Cossack certainly looks the part as a commissioned officer. Ali exhibits no fear, a noble expression on his face at all times. But one could see the slight droop in his shoulders, clear signs of aging and the downward turn of his lips. He is not the charismatic man that he used to be but still holds some of the fire from his youth. His piercing grey eyes, carefully combed hair and furrowed eyebrows are telling of his past official duties. His strides are still powerful, even steps showing a swagger only years in the military can bring. His deep, baritone voice could be heard throughout the ship with echoes as loud as thunder. He speaks with a weird mix of Russian and Arab accents that come through his Italian, them being his two native languages. Though in no position to lead, he certainly sounds like it and is as fervent as a priest when talking about weapons. He dissolves into jargon, his alien speech only familiar to those with a deep understanding of weaponry. He is a lithe man, the fierce amounts of fighting he has experienced over the years keeping his belly in check despite age. His stance is wide and feet firm, something he carried over from his Cossack years. He looks every bit of the soldier he used to be, dress uniform and all.

_{O C C U P A T I O N A L A N D F I G H T I N G A B I L I T I E S}

---

Past Occupation: "подъесаул" or "Podyesaul" in the Persian Cossack Brigade; equivalent to "Kapitan"

Current Occupation:
Second In Command

Equipment:

• Winchester Model "Russian 1895" which he carries with a strap
• Webley Revolver Mk VI, holstered on his right hip
• A gold-trimmed shashka, held on his left hip
• Oud, an Arabic lute that he keeps on hand when bored
• A tattered notebook in his backpocket
• Rusty horseshoe, does not keep on his person

Notable Talents/Abilities:

• Leadership Skills - As a former officer, the first son of Hassan felt comfortable in leadership roles and excelled in them. Leading men into the jaws of death, he often led them to victory. He can distill the quiet whispers of dissent with ease and can offer a solid foundation for any group of people. Although he was never the type to inspire, he was known for his skill in discipline and occasional compassion. He was a stern leader, calming and steadfast in the face of adversity. Often using his voice, he could shout over even the greatest of artillery. He was also known for his skill at analysing men and women for their attributes and skills. As a Podyesaul in the Persian Cossack Brigade, he was a commissioned officer who led a fair amount of men who respected him. Those who did not quickly found that respect or were detached from his lead. He was never "Captain" material but could always serve as a good second in command to someone who was more charismatic than he. After all, stern faces and intimidating shouts can only do so much in leading men.
• Firearms Expert - Albeit not the best of the best, Ali could hold his own despite the stereotypes about COs. He was fairly good at shooting targets while moving and could easily shoot a target a fair distance away when stationary. Used to iron sights, he had no problem using weapons lacking a scope to shoot targets. However, his expertise with his Russian 1895 is nothing but extraordinary. He knew the weapon inside out, the kinks and the modifications. He could shoot faster with his rifle faster than you could say "Persian empire." The Winchester was like an extension of himself and he could rain God's Wrath on whoever dared faced him.
• Impressive Animal Handling - As a cavalryman, Ali was forced to handle animals ever since he joined the military. His newest and former horse Arya, a chestnut Russian Don breed, had been his for four years and served him well during the Great War. The amount of control he has with every horse he caters to can be found astounding by those who haven't met cavalry before. It was standard to have an expert level of control of your horse, especially during a time when machine gun fire could spell the end of entire cavalry units. To be able to turn your horse away or even halt before you could be mowed down abled a rider to survive. Although the skill is quite useless onboard of an aethership, he is able to handle most animals with care, as long as they were a little domesticated. Easing a wild dog into calm was easier than wrangling a wild steed after all.

_{P E R S O N A L}

---

Hobbies/Pastimes:

• Cleaning, maintaining or repairing his Winchester
• Sharpening his shashka
• Taking disciplinary actions
• Overseeing the crew so that orders are carried out
• Playing his oud
• Sketching portraits of people
• Riding horses

Talents/Skills:

• Obscure musical talent - The oud is not a commonly known instrument in the West but can sound exotic in the hands of an expert player like Ali
• Linguistic - He can speak the Persian dialect of Arabic, Russian and Italian fluently while also studying English currently. Known lover of languages
• Impressively long stares - Enough said, the man is intimidating

_{P E R S O N A L I T Y}

---

The pride contained within Ali has no limits. His pride in himself and his subordinates seem to have no bounds. He has a large amount of silent praise whenever the people who work for him do something to his approval. He is someone you want to get that from, to get the confirmation that you're doing things right. He exudes confidence and if he wants something, he will use sheer willpower to get it. Though not an physically strong man by any means, he makes up for this in his steel will and stubborn beliefs. Though he does not openly disagree, his disapproval is made clear by the down turning of his moustache whenever a superior makes what he thinks is the wrong call. But his pride does not allow him to question orders and his military upbringing disciplines him into following the hierarchy. Though he is known to throw around orders like no ones business, he does so for increased efficiency in tasks. A sometimes cruel taskmaster, he expects the best from every single one for his subordinates and does not shy away from using disciplinary actions when he finds one lax. However his judgement is fair and would not scold for the sake of scolding.

The former Russian Imperial officer has a steely visage. He is immaculate and strives for maximum efficiency. His dress uniform, which he wears to this day, has the sharpest of creases and every medal shines beautifully. There is no time for mistakes for this strict man. The standards he sets for himself are the same standards he sets for those below him. The sharp clank of his boots as he approaches compels some people to look a little sharper. He has an aura that makes people attempt to rise to his expectations. He acts as if he was still in the Great War, seen constantly surveying his subordinates to see if they are doing the right things. Even as a fallen officer, his actions still mimic those of old Imperial Russians. Noble-like, proud, disciplined and a little aristocratic. An intimidating mixture of traits that make him perfect for serving with the commoners. He has no problem placing himself above his subordinates so that they may, in his words, "rise to his level".

If one were to get closer to the man, you would see an entirely different person. He is tired. Years of service has worn him down and his ageing appearance is a clear sign of his youth going away. His desertion from the ranks of his proud Brigade had obviously affected him, the loss of the Whites during the Russian Revolution eternally souring his mood. Many would hear him constantly muttering about the Bolsheviks, cursing in mixtures of Arabic and Russian to show his discontent with the outcome of the war. He is not as great as he used to be. The conflict in his eyes is deep, as if he has regretted every decision he has made since his desertion. The twitching fingers tell of his shellshocked past and sometimes, he looks every bit of the man he now is. A man clinging to the past, stubborn and refusing to move on. A man who still holds himself to ancient traditions and defunct orders from a dead man. A man who is a true homage to the once grand Imperial Russia.

_{B I O G R A P H Y}

---

Hassan Ahmed-zadeh was not a special man by any means, an aristocrat serving in the small courts of Tehran under the supreme influence of the Russian Empire. He was charismatic, charming and a bit of a lady's man (to everyone's general disapproval) but he did not make much of a name of himself. His lady however, Alexandria Erika Dagmar, cousin to the wife of then Tsar Alexander III, was a great woman indeed. Visiting Persia under the orders of the Tsar to make better peace with the neutral country and increase friendly relations after the Russo-Persian War of 1828. Facing a challenging task, Alexandria quickly took it like bees to honey. She was known for the beauty, grace and intelligence that her much more famous relative held and was perfect for the task of diplomat. Travelling with a convoy of merchants, she set off in search of Persia, leaving behind the Yellow Palace at Copenhagen, wondering if she would ever see the lands of Denmark after this. She would not return from the long journey.

Ali, as a child between a lowly Persian aristocrat and Danish/Russian royalty, had certainly grown up better than the average commoner. Alexandria had been successful in her efforts to sway the courts to Russian influence and had settled down with his father in an effort to create a better connection between the two lands. Jenaab Hassan, who had no surname like most Persians, could consider himself a lucky man although was shunned by most of his people for marrying a foreigner. But who worried about the town rumour mill when you had Imperial royalty for a wife? The couple was happy as they could be and their only child certainly grew up happy as well. He would have a higher education than most, learning from his mother about the events of the world and how to conduct oneself in court. To their shock, their child had little interest in political intrigue and games. Instead, he began to show signs of admiration for the forming Persian Cossack Brigade at ten years old.

When Ali was of age, with the royal blood of his mother to back him up, he was drafted to serve along full blooded Russian officers in the new Persian Cossack Brigade. Created to be an elite cavalry unit in the deserts due to the lack of any disciplined armies in the area, the Persian Cossacks were originally not Persian at all. Much of the rank and file were descendants of the ethnically purged Circassian, Caucasian muhajirs who had migrated to Iran. And the officers were all Russian sons of important aristocrats, sent there to make a name for themselves in the mystical deserts. The Brigade underwent many changes as a fighting force, constantly changing officer and cossack numbers. At one point, Ali had been the only officer in the Brigade with only 150 men under his service. The arrival of Colonel Kosagoskij had saved the fighting force however and under his leadership, the muhajirs were treated as equals and the Brigade became an effective fighting force that backed up the Shah.

It had always been separate from the regular Persian army. The Brigade was more under the influence of the Russian Legate and instead took suggestions from Persian generals rather than actual orders. It was always under the command of a Russian General Staff and its officers would always have Russian blood. It was essentially a tool for the Russians to use to gather support with the Shah. They helped Muhammad Ali Shah to the throne after the death of his father Mozzafar. They conducted actions to help overthrow the government and in gratitude, Muhammad Ali Shah granted Colonel Liakhov governorship over Tehran itself with Ali by his side. World War 1 was the time in which the Brigade reached its highest numbers and fought its bloodiest battles against the Ottomans. The cavalrymen of the Persian Cossack Brigade led a series of charges against Ottoman forces planning to invade Persia, fighting with regular Persian troops and even British troops in the deserts. Fighting was always ruthless and although it was not as bloody as the fronts to the north and west, it was always up close. Many infantry fell to cavalry in the desert dunes, perhaps the only times when cavalry could succeed in a modern conflict.

This was cut short however. At the onset of the Russian Civil War, many Russian officers including Ali and Colonel Liakhov went to fight for the Whites. They found themselves on the losing side. The brutality of the Civil War knew no bounds and the Bolsheviks showed how cavalry would face true, superior technologies. Most of the men that Ali had come to respect, people he had been fighting with for years or even decades past, simply ceased to exist. They slowly dwindled as the Whites were pushed out of Petrograd and many had to flee the red tide that was a sweeping the country. Lost and broken, the former Persian Cossack rode day and night to flee from the terrifying Red guns. He became a deserter, one of the many soldiers to fail in their duty to protect their homeland. Their ideals. He was a failure in the eyes of his fallen comrades. He fled to Italy, hearing of an opportunity to flee from his sins in the work of a simple miner. A job where his talents and past could be forgotten, where the labour could drown his shame.

If only things could be that simple.

A Treasure Chest filled with CS's and... CS's!

An Unseasonable Chill

Clay

| Boxing | Disappointing himself | Oranges | Fire |

---

Physical Description:
Standing at 6 ft 5 in and 221 lbs wet, Clay is a natural heavyweight. He cuts an imposing figure, intimidating in a way that cannot be easily described. Thick eyebrows and piercing brown eyes are poised to intimidate but he keeps an easy look on his face, easy smiles all around. His skin a dark chocolate, calloused in many places but clean of wrinkles. Small, immaculate silver studs adorn his ear with a dull golden stud in the helix of his right ear. A clenched jawline with stubble leads to broad shoulders and an athletic figure. His hands are meaty and large, feeling like rocks coming to break your neck . His stride is light with a bounce in the step, the bearing of confidence and easy going attitude. Clay, from the get-go, was never set to be a normal person. He always contained boundless energy when he was younger, always growing larger than the other kids. He only got bigger and bigger, long arms with unfair musculature. He was a born boxer and was naturally inclined towards athleticism.

Age:
19

Relationship with Hildon:
Hildon is the town he grew up in as a boy, before his parents decided to move to New York City for better opportunities outside a small town. He doesn't remember much from his childhood here but does like coming here after training camps as a place to wind down. Something about a place far away from NYC, one he was born and raised in, calms him. Locals often don't know he came from here unless they knew his parents or grandparents. He enjoys the peace the place provides but finds it too quiet if he stays too long.

Occupation:
An aspiring pro, now Amateur Boxer but currently does security on the side to make ends meet.

Useful Supplies:

• 2000 Toyota 4Runner with offroad tires: With his grandparents too old to drive around, they've gifted it to Clay for his to use when visiting as they never really left the cabin nowadays. He's used it a few times now, back and forth between Hildon and New York City having gotten his license at the age of 17. It is left unused in a garage otherwise, as who in their right mind would drive a car in NYC?
• Solar head lamp: Running before dawn often times leaves athletes in an unwelcoming dark. The solution? Why a head lamp of course! Flashlights don't make sense when you're super-setting between jogging and sprinting uphill on a long dark road.
• Several hoodies and puffy jackets: Morning runs are unforgivably chilly so Clay has some winter-esque gear packed. But this was July, surely there'd be no reason to have some serious winter clothing, right?

Backstory:
Contrary to popular belief, the modern boxer does not have to be born and raised in tough dog-eat-dog environments like the movies tell you. But Clay did not have the easiest childhood.

Clay was born to the son of a Nigerian businessman and his African American wife, conceived in New York City. His paternal grandfather disapproved of the relationship between his father Ahmad and his mother Arya and as the elder of the house, told the pair to either get rid of Clay or get out of his house. Still madly in love, they fled to Arya's hometown of Hildon to begin anew, Ahmad taking his wife's last name and adopting the nickname John to fit in. Ahmad was forced to work odd jobs around the farms around town while Arya was the breadwinner as a nurse, returning from her travels with husband and child in tow. The newborn Clay often stayed to accompany his mother while she worked in the market, selling the citrus only for most of the money to go back to the providers.

Most of Clay's early years spent in the isolated cabin of his maternal grandparents who, unlike his "dick of a grandfather", welcomed his family with open arms. Even as a comparatively "poor family", he could not recall any times in which food or water was difficult to find. They were not a broken family either, his parents loved each other and the family was together quite frequently. If he could recall, he would remember smiles and happy faces. They prayed together and slept near each other. His father was a humble man who did not speak much and earned little but was easy on the smile. His mother had always been his favourite however.

Arya frequently told stories of New York City to her child as he grew up, having moved there young and had met his father there while studying. She told him of the abundance of lights in the city skyline, the fast moving cars, the money that flowed easy for hard workers. She lovingly recalled meeting his father, something that made baby Clay's face contort in childlike disgust. She also bitterly told him about her move to his paternal grandfather's place upon Ahmad's insistence, ending up in the situation they were in. But she had always ended the stories with a kiss and a youthful smile, popping an orange piece in his mouth. It was where he got his near-addiction to oranges as a child that carries on to this day to a lesser extent.

The family eventually moved back into the Big Apple when Clay's paternal grandfather died, leaving an unexpectedly rich inheritance and an apartment for his father. An apology perhaps? One did not look a gift horse in the mouth. He then spent much of the next part of his life growing and growing. Ahmad, an avid fan of boxing, was keen to throw his son into the ring with whatever spare money he could scrounge up. He claimed that he could tell his son will be a future champion, gripping his arms with excitement and lifting him in the air. This would be a golden age of the young boy's life as his family's life began improving. His father found purpose as a fireman, using naturally gifted brawn he claimed to have used to "woo his mother off her feet" while she continued as a nurse. Ahmad was happier during those times, genuinely enjoying helping people rather than working the odd jobs. Clay's time was well spent in the gym and school, his grades stayed positive and life was good.

The end of summer came round in the second year optimistic 21^st century and Clay returned home from the boxing gym. He was a large ten year old and was paired by his coach to the bigger kids. Training with them always left a smile on his face. That smile slipped at the sight of his crying mother, kneeling at the floor of their home, head burrowed in her hands. It disappeared when he saw the towers burning in the distance and heard the sirens he had missed on his way home.

The loss of Clay's father was hard. He died a hero, doing something he loved to do. This would leave an impact on the growing boy, just old enough to understand loss but too young to properly process it. To his mother's dismay, his grades would drop but his training would only intensify. He found brotherhood and father figures aplenty within his gym, a lifetime membership awarded to the son of a fallen hero. His mother would only grow to approve of her son's sudden focus and drive. Better that than fall into the despair that had grown in their hearts. Though she flinched during his first amateur fight, and every fight since, she would stay to berate his cutman and coach, to "teach her boy how to win better." Inspired by this growing encouragement and his late father's wishes, Clay only grew stronger within his teens. Forgoing the traditional goals of tertiary education and office jobs, focusing on doing something he loved to do. As his father had done.

Now, after a particularly rigorous training camp done and an upcoming international professional debut, Clay readies himself for this chance to prove himself. Taking leave from his security job, he travels to Hildon as a chance to calm his nerves.

Current Mood in One Gif

Trying to figure out where it all went wrong like

Give the avatar above you a Porn Name!

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