Have you see the OVA or read the manga series of Hellsing? If so how far have you gotten? If not please direct your attention to YouTube, and watch OVA 1-4 at least. Warning: If you have watched the anime we require you watch the OVA, or read the manga. The anime is not canon. This is not our opinion. This is the law set down by the creator of Hellsing, Kouta Hirano.OVA 1-4 and through most of the manga
Name:Drogomir Radic
Age: 26
Gender:Male
Physical appearance: Built like a gymnast, Drogomir is tall and lean, 6'1" and 198 pounds. His body is muscular, but incredibly lean, to the point of looking slightly starved. His right arm, shoulder blade and pectoral are covered in a tattoo designed to look like plate and chain armor emerging from splitting skin. The Chechen coat of arms covers his stomach in black and white. His left shoulder is scarred by several parallel slashes, but one can still see the soviet sickle and hammer through the wreckage of skin and scar tissue.
Through all this ink, one can still see that his skin is tanned, though not overly much. His heritage is quite obvious in the lack of pigmentation in his skin. His hair is black and falls near his shoulders, though it is always kept in a low ponytail. More scars mar his fair face, one from the top of his hairline down through his left eye, trailing off near his sharply angled jawline. Another slices from his upper lip to his chin, also on the left. A dark five o'clock shadow always covers his face, doing nothing to hide the hideous scars. His eyes are grey, so pale they could almost be considered white.
Clothing of choice: Charcoal grey is Drogomir's color of choice. A ribbed wifebeater with fatigue pants are completed by black combat boots. Brown leather holsters cross his back, leaving his pistols to rest under his arms. Another brown leather belt sits around his waist, holding hatchet and knife. In the cold, he will often wear a black beanie and military style trench coat. Black cloth is wrapped around his knuckles and palms, up his wrist, and around his thumbs.
Weaponry of choice: Drogomir carries several different weapons. The first is a balanced throwing axe, cut to rotate smoothly. The head and haft are steel and the blade is coated in a carbide that slows any dulling. The haft is wrapped in black leather cord and the ax itself hangs from a thong at his hip:
He also carries a pocket knife with a 4" blade. It is a simple stainless steel blade that folds into the flat black composite handle. The blade is spring loaded, so at the push of a button, it unfolds. In his holsters under his arms, he carries two USSR manufacture MSP Silent Pistols:
Each gun carries two 7.62×38 SP-3 cartridges, inserted through the open barrels. These guns are truly silent, emitting only a quiet click when fired. Distance and accuracy over any real distance is not really the point of the weapons. They are both powder coated black steel and the rounds he carries are of the normal variety (though this may change if he were ever to discover that there are undead things that require silver to kill).
Finally, for those time when he isn't trying to go unnoticed, over his shoulder, Drogomir will carry a classic AK-47 and several box magazines, each containing 40 rounds. The butt of the gun is polished wood, though its age shows through with chips and small gashes. The sight is iron and adjustable. The cartridges fired are 7.62x39 mm M67s that have been modified to have air space in the nose, making the projectile tumble and fragment more easily.
Race: Human
Abilities:Drogomir is just an ordinary human. But, when compared to the norm of his species, he is found to be more knowledgeable (as far as random facts about history, governmental structures, economics, etc. ) and much more flexible than most. It is important to keep in mind, however, that he is not formally educated, so there are certain subjects he is vastly ignorant about. He can do mathematics through trigonometry, but calculus baffles him, and higher level physics involving electricity and magnetism make very little sense to him. His stamina is as great of that of any ironman athlete and his poise makes him seem almost robotic. His is incredibly obserative, making it seem as though he has some omniscent power; though any being with this type of power would know him for the truth. In the end, he is just a normal living, breathing, blood running through his veins human.
Organization: Unaffiliated
Personality:At first glance, it would appear that Drogomir has no personality at all. He is a very quiet man. He'd rather watch than speak, though he is by no means mute. He is incredibly observative, catching details few would ever notice. He will speak, when the situation warrants it, in a voice hardly above a whisper, lyrical like the memory of a half forgotten song. His voice may be the only real pleasant thing about him, though.
In act and presumably in thought, he is nothing if not cruel. There is no joy for him in the world, no pain. The world is not black and white for Drogomir. No, it is simply a single, unwavering shade of grey. His regard for human life is nonexistent; killing is as simple as breathing, evoked with slightly less sentiment. He feels pity for nothing, but he does not show disgust or disdain either. He is confident in his abilities, but not full of hubris.
This utter lack of any true discernible personality may cause one to believe Drogomir suffers some sort of mental disorder, possibly multiple disorders, or that he simply hides any and all emotion from view. The second is certainly not true. The first, who's to say? He may be completely mad, but no one has ever tested his sanity. He does not appear to act irrationally, but simply without any regard or empathy for any human or animal around him.
Rank: None
Biography: Drogomir was born in Chechnya while the state was under Soviet control. He had very little knowledge of the outside world growing up as he was raised in a travelling circus. His mother and father were acrobats and trampeze artists; his 'friends', such as they were, were trick shooters, axe throwers, and tiger tamers. There were no other children in their troupe. They lived as gypsies and were generally regarded by society as such.
Drogomir received no formal education. His parents taught him to read, after which he educated himself through books, reading every one he could get his hands on. He was trained in the same trade as his parents, achieving an extreme amount of flexibility and eye hand coordination. Any fear of heights was driven from him as he was placed on the trampeze bars as soon as he could walk. The boy spent his spare time lingering around the other circus performers, becoming particularly infatuated with the axe thrower who could hit a stump target from a hundred feet away, and the trick shooter, who could hit a target behind him without looking and a flying apple with a shot from under his leg. Thus, his play time focused around these two crafts and he became quite proficient.
But it would be the art of ax throwing that would be the ruin of the young acrobat Drogomir. When he was 14 and the now Russian Federation was marching across the Chechen countryside, bringing war and desolation with them, a Russian general's boy came to watch these 'gypsies' and their backwards ways. There was to be a show that night, but the boy thought to mock the performers while they went about their daily routine. Drogomir was throwing axes and after several mocking slurs from the Russian boy, was driven into a blinding rage. He spun around, flinging an ax. It flew in a perfect arc, making one full rotation before thudding into the boy's chest with a sickening crunch.
As blood soaked into the frozen ground and the troupe debated what to do, the general, and several of his officers came looking for the boy. They had hardly discovered the body when the circus performers shoved Drogomir to the forefront. The betrayal was the only way to save themselves from the vicious Russians. The general grabbed Drogomir, shot his father in the head, and took his mother back to the camp, only to rape her before her son's eyes. But that wasn't enough punishment for the general. Drogomir would have to suffer longer.
He was dragged behind the army as they ascended into the Chechen mountains and began losing troops. For over a year he was abused and tortured before the Chechen resistance destroyed the force his was being held by. But what might have been his saving grace turned out to be just the opposite. The Chechen resistance took him for a turncoat informer, ignoring his protests and obviously poor physical condition.
Having been shunned and betrayed by his own people twice, Drogomir was thrown into a prison of sorts, full of rapists, killers, and other unsavory sorts. There he managed to survive eight years, withstanding several shankings and mob attacks by those who considered his crime of aiding the Russians to be greater than theirs. While in prison, he became a jack of all sorts, creating his own weapons and developing his own fighting techniques to save himself from the constant assaults. He once again began to read, absorbing what information he could.
Meanwhile, war continued to tear the country apart, and Drogomir was offered his chance to escape when a terrorist set off a bomb near the outside gate of the prison. He used the opportunity to escape this hell and moved quickly out of the conflict stricken country. He has since wandered through Europe, learning enough languages aside from his native Russian to get by. While attempting to make his way, Drogomir learned that he was extremely proficient at stealing, fighting, and killing. He quickly found work outside the law, making enough money to sustain himself through small crime boss hit jobs and the like. He became desired in this arena due to his precision and lack of interest in the reasoning behind the jobs.
Drogomir is now somewhat of a myth in the underworld and is highly persued by law forces around Europe, though they don't know his name, do not have his fingerprints and have not even the most general of descriptions of his face.
RP sample: A lead sky overhead threatened snow, but only a brish wind, cold and full of promise cut through the icy air. Breath steamed on it, little clouds of moisture forming before the eyes of the men as they huddled around the fire crackling away, hands stretched out to capture its warmth before it disappeared into the endless void.
A whirring then thunk cut through the icy air, and the eyes of the men all turned in tandem to a stump turned on its side some distance away, where a quivering axe was sunk deep into the wood. A boy, barely a teenager, trotted up to it and in comical effort, began the task of dislodging the weapon from its new home.
"Up, then down, then out! Don't just pull back, Drogo, you know better than that!" A burly man with a mustache that curled around his cheeks shouted out advice while the other two standing there chuckled quietly.
"Is that how you people fuck your women? No wonder they always look so unhappy." A boy with blonde hair and a wisp of fuzz growing on his upper lip had wandered up without the men noticing. He sneered, "And my mother could throw a kitchen knife with more accuracy."
The boy at the stump finally worked the axe loose and began walking toward the group. He stopped, however, at the newcomer's words. "Watch your words. I could split your skull in two, just like that." He snapped his fingers, then returned to the line, intent on ignoring the little prick. The men at the fire also turned away.
But the young blonde didn't stop. "I could split your mother, just like that. She'd scream like the whore all your women are and beg me to spill my seed on her face so she could lick it up like a bitch dog." A smile formed under the fuzz of his upper lip, but quickly turned to a frown.
Drogomir turned and in a blur, the axe was slicing through the air, one majestic turn before thunking solidly into the sneering blonde's forehead. The boy stood there a moment with a confused expression on his face, then fell to the ground in a limp mass. The man with the curly mustache gaped at Drogomir, then down at the boy with an axe through his brain. "We'll all die for that, foolish boy."
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The little girl was pressed into a corner, quivering and weeping quietly. In her hands was clutched a rag doll, stained with dirt and tears. Drogomir stood up from where he was crouched, wrenching his axe loose from the bone and gore it was buried in up to the haft. He slowly strode across the room toward the cowering little body, his boots echoing dully off the wooden floor. The girl tried to push herself through the wall, her little feet scrabbled against the floor.
Drogomir smiled softly, then squatted down before the child. Resting the axe across one knee, he reaches out and brushes a lock of hair away from her tear-stained face. "Shhhh, do not cry, little one." His voice is quiet, like half a whisper. He lifts his hand away to remove a daisy from behind his ear, then places it in her hand. She looks at it inquisitively, then up to him, her utter terror quelled, at least for the moment.
"Beautiful, no?" She nodded slowly. "Do you ever pick flowers for your mother?" She nodded again. Drogomir pointed over at the dining table, where a vase full of wilting flowers sat. "No matter how pretty they are, they always wilt and your mother has to throw them out, yes?"
The little girl finally found her voice. "Sometimes she hangs them from the ceiling."
Drogomir arched an eyebrow, stretching the pale scar tight across his face. "Ah yes. But they grow no more, do they? They are dead, aren't they?" The little girl nodded yet again, then looked back down at the single flower in her hand. "Everything dies, child. And your mother and father are no exception. I have plucked them from dirt. They fade from existence." He rocked back on his heels. "Do you know why I plucked them?"
The little girl looked back up into his pale eyes. "No."
He smiled again, turning the axe on his leg until its blade, covered in blood and gore and hair, glinted in the dim light. "Because I was told someone wanted
you dead."
"Me?"
"Oh yes, you. But it is very difficult to kill child when parents are near. They desire to protect their offspring."
The little girl's eyes widened and went to the axe. "They died...for me?"
Drogomir made a tsking sound in the back of his throat. "No no, child. They died
because of you. If not for you, they would still be alive and eating dinner at table."
Realization began to dawn in the little girl's eyes, then horror. "But I... I didn't mean... Did I do something bad?"
He smiled once again. "No. Your simple existence is reason for their deaths. You made them love you, so they died." She dropped the flower, lower lip quivering then wrapped both hands tight around her doll. Tears began to roll down her face in fat drops. Drogomir moved a bloody finger to her lips in a silencing gesture. "Shh, now you pay for your sin." It was swift; the axe slashed through the air and the little girl's tears fell no futher.
Still bent over, Drogomir wiped his gory axe on her dress, then straightened. He pulled a cloth from a pocket and finished cleaning his weapon, then strapped it to his leg. Unhooking a sack from his belt, he bent down, lifted the girl's head by the hair and deposited it in the bag. He tied it shut, then picked up the little rag doll before standing. He tied the bag back around his belt, the nwove his way through the pools of blood and to the door, hand in hand with the little rag doll.
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"Get him!" The shout rang out across the small yard. Drogomir came up in a situp just in time to see the majority of the prisoners in the yard barreling his way.
Chyort voz'mi, he thought to himself, jumping to his feet. Everything in his body urged him to run away, but there was nowhere to run in the confined yard. With the half second left to him, Drogomir steeled himself, spreading his feet.
Then they were on him. He spun away from one set of hands, slammed a fist into something soft and fleshy, and made solid connection with a kneecap using his foot. A hand tightened around one of his wrists, but he yanked it away, growling like a caged animal. Then another grasped his shirt. He kicked and punched and the shirt tore away, leaving him free for a moment. He lunged forward, but was pulled back sharply by the hair. A sudden hot pain blossomed in his chest. He looked down to find a sharped scrap of metal sticking out of his right pectoral.
He snarled in rage, doubling his efforts to escape the mass. But hands closed around both his wrists and this time he was unable to pull away. Something connected with his shin and his legs went out from under him. His back hit the ground with a thud, knocking the air from him. Another shiv shortly followed, connecting with his gut. Hands now held both his arms and his legs and someone was kicking mercilessly at his side. Suddenly a boot came from out of the crowd and hurtled toward his face and Drogomir thought no more.
Subject: Drogomir Radic (Complete) 
