Petrova, Marina

[Guest]

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CASE FILE: Drachman Militant {Sergeant Major}

I’ve been stumbling in the dark, living in a crash world
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FULL NAME:
→ Marina Petrova

AGE:
→ Nineteen

SEX:
→ Female

BIRTH PLACE:
→ Moscow

RACE:
→ Drachman

DEPARTMENT:
→ Intelligence

DATE OF BIRTH:
→ November 1, 1991

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HEIGHT:
→ 170 cm

WEIGHT:
→ 58 kg

PICTURE:
→

Spoiler:

DESCRIPTION:
→ Marina Petrova considers herself average. Flat yellow hair comes down to her shoulders and a pair of muddy brown eyes overlooks the world. If one were to look closely, they’d see the beginnings of crow’s feet around those muddy brown eyes: the result of a little too much laughing. Her pale complexion is contributed to a lack of sunlight over the years as Marina prefers the warm interiors of buildings than the freezing temperatures outdoors, though this doesn’t change her usual attire which consists of wool black hats, jeans, and a worn out hoodie to finish it all off (of course if she’s working, she does reluctantly wear her uniform). She’s not too tall, not too short, nor too thin or too wide she claims, though her mother thinks she could do with shedding a few pounds. Marina just thinks the only thing she could do with shedding is her littlest left toe which has remained bent after an ugly encounter with a bottle of champagne.

At a young age, Marina was dictated to walk with her back straight and her head held high. After being nearly blown over by a gust of wind at age two (something she swears she can remember), Marina likes to keep her face down and keeps her shoulders somewhat slouched, and never quite knows what to do with her hands. Her mother never really let her get away with being a hunchback but Marina is content with her small victory. Her voice is light-hearted, somewhere between airy and rough, with her speech hinting at a higher education.

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PERSONALITY:
→ Quiet-loud is the best way to describe Marina Petrova. She’s quiet when intrigued and loud when excited; the middle ground between these two leaves her contemplative, but usually only a few seconds away from a laugh or smile. Unless, of course, she’s in some ridiculous situation with a gun pointed at her nose. Then she’s quite sure she’ll scream and possibly wet her pants (and then pass out because fainting is for sissies).

Marina isn’t one to scream in rage, though. Out of fright, sure, but she can’t remember a time she threw an actual tantrum. Most things slide off her back; getting angry takes too much effort and she’s a lazy person at heart. This isn’t to say that Marina doesn’t get annoyed: things like loose toys all over the floor or having to explain a simple concept for a fourth time piss her off just fine. Angry seems like too much work to her and she’s quite content with propping her legs up on a table and listening to conversations with curious eyes.

It’s a rare day if those same curious eyes are far away, excluding an air of melancholy. Those days leave Marina silent, still. Depression isn’t a pretty look for her though so whatever funk she’s in (and they do happen because even she has her off times) she usually snaps out of it by the next dawn. She’s a smiler by nature and even has the beginnings of crow’s feet around her eyes. She doesn’t particularly mind; Marina’s fine with her life, the way she has three blankets smothering her at night, how there’s this one annoying strand of hair that always hovers over her left eye. Her friends find this trait of her endearing—and probably the only thing they actually love about her, since Marina does have the annoying habit of getting distracted almost too easily. She’s like a little kid in that aspect: shiny things catch her attention and her undying curiosity causes problems. (Clearly, the lesson of ‘curiosity killed the cat’ was one she had skipped.)

Shiny objects aren’t the only things that interest her: Marina loves puzzles and patterns, a love that was fueled by her amateur mathematician of a father who encouraged her to look at every crack on the road. She likes to fashion herself as a genius code-breaker but in reality her attention to detail only gives her an added insight into those around her (besides—she can barely see through optical illusions; codes probably aren’t much better). Despite that insight which should really give her an added wariness as well, Marina enjoys meeting new people and making new friends. She doesn’t do it all that easily (most people think her to be a little too childish or carefree) but when she does, she’s rather like a dog: loyal and honest and steadfast in hard times. With her family she’s the same, but to a greater extent. Nothing is better than family in her mind, and nothing more important—though with her job description, that might change soon enough.


LOVE:
→ Turtles, walking, hats, shiny things, patterns, warmth, laughing, fairy tales, snow, red hair

HATE:
→ The color green, babies, blood, crying, her left pinky toe, gorges, smoking, alcohol

DEEPEST SECRET:
→ On one of the few vacations Marina can remember that involved both her family and a friend’s that same friend rolled down a hill, breaking her leg in three places. That hill becomes more and more like a gorge every time Marina tries to remember it—though admittedly, all she can really remember is the feeling of playfully bumping her friend’s shoulder and then watching in dawning horror as three sharp cracks raced through the air. Her friend never recalled that at all, saying that she had tripped on a loose shoelace (which is true, as the shoe in question was indeed untied), and Marina never said a word.

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HISTORY:
→ Marina Petrova was born to a gentle father whose face reminds her of the crinkles in newspaper and a thin-lipped mother. She has one younger brother, now entering his terrible twos, along with a paternal grandfather living with her parents. Her father’s family is Drachman to the bone (though Marina herself suspects some distant Amestrian blood, given their blond hair), and her mother is one-half Xingese, and also the one who gave Marina her brown eyes.

She had a structured childhood. Her mother was the tyrant of the house, but perhaps tyrant is too cruel a word. Marina’s mother likes everything in its place with that place neatly labeled. She likes planning and order and already has a detailed outline of where her youngest son will go in life. It hadn’t been any different with Marina: she was taught how to walk, how to speak, and while she was never taught how to act she did go through several hours of etiquette lessons by the end of each week. Marina’s father (who is the one who gave Marina her rather placid build) never spoke out, preferring to retreat behind his newspaper until Marina really thought the crinkles had slipped off the paper and onto his face.

It was never bad—strict, maybe, but never bad. Marina took her victories where she could get them and still walks with a slight slouch to this day and has a habit of never knowing what to do with her hands. Going to a private school of her mother’s choosing at age six hadn’t been horrible either; she made some of the best friends there, a few who are still with her today, and loved the math and history lessons. (Art she failed. Miserably.) But her absolute favorite times in her childhood consisted of her coming home one day to find her grandparents (back when her grandmother was still around) babysitting her while her parents took an impromptu mini-vacation. Her grandparents, being a little too immersed in their pipes than rules, allowed her to come and go as she pleased. Late night wanderings were second nature to the girl and the small wood by their house became an extension of her backyard. In fact, Marina was almost sad the day she graduated school at seventeen: it marked the arrival of her younger brother and the end of her parents’ sudden vacations. It also marked the end of her grandmother’s long life and the addition of her grandfather into their home.

Maybe it was the loss of her grandmother (who was the one who advocated heavily—whenever she picked her head out of her drug-induced haze, that is—against her mother’s hobby of creating her children’s lives) or the screaming infant in the middle of the night that made Marina grab a job at a local bookstore. Her six months there were well-spent, in her opinion: her boss, a heavyset man with a defining scar across his forehead, told her constant stories of his military days once the mid-afternoon rush was over.

He told her stories of his great exploits (most of which she’s sure he concocted in his mind), his horrendous training (which was made slightly bearable by the gorgeous instructor), and once how he had gotten baked in a giant pizza (this, Marina knows for sure, was invented). He spent the most time, however, on his best friend that he made days after joining. Of course that friend was now off somewhere (she never learned where but she could guess from the look on her boss’s face) and soon after her boss had ‘retired’, but he still claimed it to be the best time of his life.

Marina wasn’t one to do things impulsively—midnight trips excluded—and gave the idea thought while telling aging customers where the new history books were. She didn’t have any grand illusions about becoming a hero; she just wanted something that was her own, something her mother didn’t plan for her… And at any rate, her boss had gotten his one scar before he’d ever enlisted so it couldn’t possibly be that bad.

With that somewhat encouraging thought in mind, Marina talked it over with her quiet father. He didn’t mind one way or the other (the intelligence department was just that and as long as she wasn’t going in as some common grunt, he was a-okay) but it was her mother who threw a hissy fit. She raged on and on for minutes about how she was letting her family down, how her education hadn’t been good enough for her to secure an amazing job, how she was setting a bad example for her year old brother. Eventually the tantrum stopped and Marina, hovering behind a chair, looked warily at her mother. Her face had lost its usual pallor and was a brilliant shade of magenta. The woman took one look at her daughter, and then turned on her heel and stopped out the door. (Or clanked out, since she was wearing heels.)

After a few moments, Marina’s father poked his head up from behind his newspaper and declared that that had been a yes. Marina shrugged and enlisted a few months before her nineteenth birthday. (She’s still waiting on the whole ‘it was the best time of my life’ thing to pop up.)

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TRIVIA:
→ She sometimes wishes her name were Madina
→ She really wishes she could shed her left pinky toe

→ Fluent in Drachman and Amestrian

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ALIAS:
→ Bali

OTHER CHARACTERS:
→ This be my first

CREATOR'S COMMENTS:
→ Nope, just looking forward to rp'ing with you all ^^ (and also, major thanks to Sal who drew Marina)

CUSTOM RANK:
→ Ducking Turtle

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[Guest]

Oh, you're the friend that Sal mentioned, huh? Beautiful app, just beautiful ^_^

APPROVED

[Guest]

Since you've already shown an interest in the Drachman Military, I'll roll ye a rank.

[Guest]

The member 'Hild' has done the following action : Rank Roll

'Lieutenant Roll' : 10

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