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Server time (UTC): 2022-12-06 04:49

Konstantin Malinsky
Character information
  1. Alias
  2. Date of birth
    1998-01-29 (24 years old)
  3. Place of birth
  4. Nationality
  5. Ethnicity
  6. Languages
    Russian, Ukranian, English


  1. Height
    182 cm
  2. Weight
    79 kg


My name is Kostya. Konstantin Malinsky. I was originally born in Kharkov, in eastern Ukraine, though I’m a Russian by both upbringing and education. My father was a steel worker, and my mother a nurse at the local hospital.  It wasn't a rich living, and I learned very early on that the first rule of life was that there was no such thing as a free meal. If you wanted something in this world, you had to earn it, buy it, or take it - and not necessarily in that order. When I but a wee child, my father would show me photos from postcards and books of western Europe and America. He always spoke with such longing, and such wonder, at the vast New York skyscrapers and California beaches. He instilled that longing in me, too, even after he passed from lung cancer.

While my father gave me a yearning for the unknown, my mother drilled into me the means to explore it. My grades in primary and secondary school were of paramount importance. She demanded nothing less than perfection from me. While I hated it at the time, looking back, I have to thank her. Because her determination towards my success, and my working towards that success, I was accepted to Kharkov Technical University at age eighteen. But as a second-year student, my life was shattered by the Euromaidan revolution and the resulting civil war. Brothers killed brothers as Ukraine tried to enforce its authority on Crimea, Donestk, Luhansk, and Mariupol; they turned the peaceful eastern Ukraine into a warzone of ethnic strife and anarchy. I can never forgive them for what they did to my home. To my mother...

My education was cut short as the war raged in my homeland. I joined a volunteer battalion in Mariupol where we fought against the neo-nationalist Azov battalion. At first, I was excited to defend my country and my family, but my first taste of battle changed that, forever. The stench of blood and gunpowder, the screams of the wounded, and the taste of death in the air will remain with me until the day I die. War is hell on earth, and killing – well, it’s a chore. I’m not sure if any of the idealistic me that went to university all those years ago is still around, somewhere, lurking inside. I hope so. I tell myself that war hasn’t defined me, but by the same token, it haunts me like a spectre and seems to follow me wherever I go. Even the most remote, far-off parts of Norway, where I thought I could leave it all behind, war found me.

A war of the living and the dead.



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Loving the look of this 

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