20097/What Emerald Shores You Have

What Emerald Shores You Have
Date of Scene:	19 February 2025
Location:	Muir Island
Synopsis:	Old friends have a reunion!
Cast of Characters:	Piotr Rasputin, Meggan Puceanu

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Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Pickup and Delivery: Or so that's what was requested of Piotr from the powers that be between Muir and Xavier's School. The flight wasn't that long within the smaller X-Men, Forged design duo seater aircraft. Just a couple of hours at hyper sonic speed across the Atlantic. But it gave Piotr time to reflect and relax while the autopilot handled the trip. He was also able to listen to one of the banned books that he's been wanting to read, 'Of Mice and Men'. He relates to the main characters. Perhaps Lenny more than George. Mostly because of Lenny's work, his strength, and the simplicity of how he sees the world. While George strikes Piotr more like a Scott/Cyclops figure. And the setting reminds him of home, back on the farm.

The craft warned him of the approach and he pushed the pause button on the audio book. Took control of the craft and circled Muir once to line up with the island's landing pad fifty yards from the research center. He lands the craft manually and powers it down. Within two minutes the canopy opens and Piotr hoists himself up, reaches behind him, grabs the duffel in the passenger seat, and then climbs down out of the aircraft. https://prnt.sc/C25b2B7GFWDJ

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
A red-lipped woman stands in the shallows of the Celtic Sea, plunged up to her wrists in the foaming waters. An ill-omen at the best of times, according to the indigenous beliefs in the area going back millennia. Her skirt hitched up, Meggan plunges a white hunk of sodden cloth into the water again. A sleeve unfurls, waving at the passing and unexpected figures who deign to land upon the island. Hard for anyone or anything with a jot of sentience to sneak up on her, but she's focused rather concretely on getting out some suspicious stains into the fervent, wrathful embrace of the sea battering the stony shores.

Muir is green and grey thanks to evergreens, but this far north, it's quite dark and frosty. Too cold to be flouncing around in the ocean or beach combing without good rubber boots and a slicker to withstand the raging surf that gets blown by kniving winds. Sheer murder, there. The craft coming in inevitably will raise her head, her frost-white hair damp and curling, waving around her shoulders from the haphazard effort to keep it tied back. Whatever poor elastic had that duty has long since failed. Her wet hand goes to her brow, an effort to identify who or what fairly limited. It's not invisible, therefore not Diana's; not a big black hypersonic jet, so not the X-Men's most noted vehicle. No 4 on it.

"Bother," she grabs the shirt before the tide carries it off, denying a wave the chance to be mischievous. The water actually moans its protest, going a bit more limpid and flat around her. For the initial few moments, she isn't quite abandoning her washer work. Not exactly, though a box of table salt and a towel stuck on a dry-ish rock are possibly curiosities in their own right. She'll get there, closer to shore, once certain no ichor remains.

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
His feet hit the grass hard when he took the last wrung of the latter with a bit of a hop. Landing solidly, Piotr slings the bag across his back, strap diagonal over his broad chest, and he opts to head toward where he saw the woman on the beach to give a greeting. Someone he's not seen in quite some time. He reflects back to those times and smiles thinking how she always seemed happy and brightened any room.

Piotr is in his flesh form. Though he still wears his super suit of black with gold belt/sash and gold belt buckle with the black X across it. He is no stranger to the cold. Russia is colder than it is ever warm. So the biting wind doesn't seem to bother him, not just yet.

As he closes the distance between himself and Meggan, he calls out, "Meggan!" when he's within 50 yards and smiles broadly, happy to see the force of nature once again. He continues to walk toward her.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Bone-pale strands dancing on the wind lose something of their natural quality when Meggan walks up the beach. Normally a golden-blonde, she bows to the weight of the seasons, deep in the investiture of winter. Here, her eyes hold the palest traces of green and grey; in Siberia, they might be nominally blue to match the endless ice. Her skirt drips as she walks, leaving almost no path up the beach. Rocks will do that, but on the little bare sand seen anywhere, she isn't applying enough weight to flatten the grains. Any effort to hide her Tuath origins falls to the wayside here, and those sharply pointed ears and ethereal looks only add to the strangeness. But that's the charm with Piotr and his wider, found family. They tend to accept the odd very well.

The wet shirt lands in a soaked pile on the rock, knocking over the salt. Enough stains the stone to be ice-free, at least until the next tide. Muttering a word, she rights the container. "Hullo hullo," is a forced effort to get her voice loud enough to be heard, its usual timbre even softer than usual. Not unkind, but not exploding with energy either. She flicks the seawater from her fingers, sending the beads in an arc. While he may be unbothered by the damp and clammy air, she is perpetually wrapped in warmth, balmy nearly. "And what favourable currents carry you to these fair shores? I must wonder if you've gone astray somewhere and turned left instead of right."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Closing on her and pausing within a couple of yards, Piotr's face expresses the thrill of seeing one who has been a stranger for so long. When her words strike his ears, he takes a second to translate her accent and the nature of her query and supposition. Piotr chuckles and shakes his head in response. His own heavily accented English comes across in his baritone voice, "Nyet. I make no wrong turn at Albuquerque. Not unless autopilot broken. I bring vodka and electronics from States for Moira. Vodka is gift. Electronics are for device she has. Tell me, Meggan, you are well?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
He doesn't present a threat to either washing in the sea for whatever peculiar Otherworldly reasons she has, or any other distinguished at a distance. On the contrary, Piotr is something like a glass of lemonade on a bracingly hot day or a cup of strong tea on a damp, chilly one. His intentions usually ring like sterling silver, pure and clean. The darkness that cavorts around Meggan in winter's nadir settles closer to her, harbouring less outward distrust, calming. Emotional resonance packs a punch, when one speaks its wordless language. "How warm Mexico would be," she acknowledges that he chose his course, though 'wisely' might be a step too far. Accurately? Yes. The spread of her fingertips spans the line of her hip, and she impresses her palm to the skirt tucked into a shirt not fit for the cold. Then again, she's barefoot and lacking a coat in Scotland. It's *cold*. "I am sure she will receive both those well. Hasn't been the hopping centre of activity the past bit, least since I surfaced." Her pale gaze flicks away to the building, then back. "I am. Well enough all considered. Always a threat to the end of the world or something arising, hardly time for a spot of tea or a long ramble. As one must. And you? Not only ferryin' these things over the Pond, I take it."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr's right thumb is hooked in the strap of the slung bag in the upper right aspect of his chest. His 6'6" height peers quizzically down at the heavy words of the blonde with the pointed ears. His brow knits and he shakes his head, "Nyet, dear Meggan. You are not catalyst for end of world. That is another whose name is Phoenix."

It's no secret that Piotr sees the Phoenix (entity) as being the greatest threat to the entire galaxy. He's voiced his opinion many times about its presence within the form of Jean and /others/. He's not directly against Jean in any way. It's the part where she cannot control the amount of power for any given period before she becomes volatile and the world is in danger.

Piotr gives a shrug and says, "I keep busy with painting, teaching, fighting for Xavier's dream. Family. There is little else, no? Today, yes. I ferry this here, and something back. Was available, so I was voluntold." He grins. Seemingly impressed with the proper usage of that particular word.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
The fiery bird hasn't made its presence known fully in the last little while, so consider that a plus for all who enjoy living and breathing. Or maybe just living; breathing is optional and an unfair criteria to determine whether one ought to fear the source of life out there. Jean is lovely, after all. Piotr's consternation on that front earns a faint lift of her mouth, but it's as a glacier or the rings of Saturn, cool, edged, remote. Spring will melt away those faceted planes, the jagged sides. But she is what she is, tidally locked to her seasonal aspect.

"Not causing it, no." The fractured whisper doesn't get to a laugh, but acknowledges the fact. "When some world-eating lad floating in space looks at us like a cheese toastie, and his belly's cracking for a snack, I've concerns. Especially as we're related." Her feet barely touch the earth when she walks, leaving no trace, her habitual floating all the more evident.

"Ah, yes, painting. Wish I'd more than a speck of talent that way. What are you painting of late?" This avenue is a great deal safer than talking about the relic of the last universe munching on planets, like you do. "Ah, I ken all about the voluntolding. Keeps the family happy."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr hears and considers her words to be true. He's seen the number of would-be world conquerors come and go. He doesn't see himself as one to stand up to them. He's more inclined on his mutant brothers and sisters than something that the Justice League can handle.

Piotr states, "Latest painting, Alison in all her Dazzle." He grins and elaborates, "She has teased me in recent past. So I paint her in teasing tone."

He then looks at the research station and says, "But you must excuse me, Meggan. So good to see you. But I must deliver for Moira. Is important for her research." And he nods and will dismiss himself.