3598/One Foot in The Human World

One Foot in The Human World
Date of Scene:	28 September 2020
Location:	Yuri's Borscht Hut
Synopsis:	C'mon, get happy!
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Piotr Rasputin

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Borscht is a sign of Slavic heritage and unity, a calling for autumn on the horizon. Autumn that would already be biting in around Lake Baikal as soon as the raging wildfires stop, anyway, but that part of the far eastern hinge of Russia is so deeply impacted by the changing climate, maybe they will eat borscht and grow lilies into October. Impossible to imagine!

Still, here is Illyana, lurking in the doorway, peering inside to make sure that nothing's gone astraly or somehow trouble awaits on the horizon.

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr is excited for borscht night. Especially since he is not cooking. He is in a jovial mode as he approaches the door and sees his sister, "Illyana!" He says as he waves. "I am glad you are here, did you order, yet?" The elder sibling does not smile, but he at least is in a good mood.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Mmm, borscht. The almost meaty-fullness of the scent floats through the air. It spools around in violaceous gleams that touch on the atmosphere, thick and rich, beckoning someone in. Black bread sits in small loaves on every table, begging someone to help themselves to one. Or several.

"Order?" blinks the tired blonde, looking up from the menu of eighteen kinds of familiar bread. Her eyes are pale, utterly too much like ice, hovering on the thin edge of dangerous imbalance. Mouth thin, she looks up, wayyyy up, to her brother's face. "Nyet, not until you came. Not wise when you can drink a tureen or two yourself."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr breathes deeply to get the full scent of the food of home and takes a seat. "I understand," he nods and gets comfortable. "I think I already have an order in mind." Piotr stretches his neck, sadly the chair is not exactly designed for someone of his frame.

"Also fair," Piotr laughs. He then looks to his sister after laying down the menu, "How have you been?" he inquires politely, and tries to bring some warmth to the conversation.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Borscht pools in the hollows of the kitchen, densely painted trails of appetizing spice and scent. Waiting for Piotr to find his path through the 'hut,' though it's unkind to call it strictly a humble building in a corner. Not so much.

Finding her way through the dining room, she sets up with a chair leaving her back to the wall. Helpful, this, considering the general array of paranoia that sometimes follows. Often, in her case. Her brother laughs; she vibrates in anticipation of trouble. Still, fingering one of the paper menus, she looks over the options with Cyrillic more familiar than English print, and settles back a little. "I'm at war," she explains, "but in better company. Too long since I went to the school. What happens there?"

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr navigates people like a bull through a muddy field. Though he does look to his sister and is concerned, picking up on a few things and raises a brow, his tone shifting to worry, "Oh? What's wrong? How can I help?" As always, he is about as sincere as can be, but her shift helps, "Things have been busy, Jean is the new headmistress now that the professor moved on, and new students like to try my patience, but most are actually good." He ponders a moment and then says, "I am glad you are here, Illyana."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Bread... borscht... There is what she wants, tapping her finger on the line. "What do you want in your pierogies?" It might be a dangerous inquiry to make of Piotr, but that cat is out of the bag, the horse from the barn, and Yuri possibly out to buy another bag of potatoes just because.

Illyana waits until the server comes by with earthy tea in a dinged metal pot. Pouring this out without fear of the temperature may be a shared quality of bent, twisted origins, but she nonetheless fills his cup before her own. "A good man, with a noble spirit, has no place in Hell. The things I do to maintain my position, mm?" A lift of the cup to her lips steals that away. "But I do not go alone."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
"Beef," Piotr notes, "For the first ones," he chuckles. He then listens as the tea is served and nods to Illy as she fills his. "You know that if you ever need or want my assistance I will drop everything, da?" He gives the closest thing to a smile that he can socially afford, trying to be reassuring. "Might I ask who you will be traveling with, I presume Jimmy?" Piotr asks, relying on his intuition, and her request for the sword should the impossible occur still fresh in his head."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Two beef, one of potatoes, chives, and cheese," agrees the icy queen of Limbo. She isn't melting under that tea, but the niceties demonstrate a skillful awareness of her preferred meals. Something chockful of energy will help a great deal with that. Though too slim in ways; the past months have whittled her down a good deal. "How do the children tire you? What are you teaching?"

Selecting a knife, she makes short work of buttering the bread. "Da. James, Tabitha. She is fierce, and he is almost unstoppable. Better than Logan."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr listens and nods as the order is given to the server. Piotr is aware that his sister has made a solid order, "Good food from the homeland will certainly help, da?" He asks kindly and says, "They do not pay attention at times, and learning new languages can be hard for them." He nods, "I still teach art and Russian, but the art students are mostly good, they normally choose it."

Piotr listens as he takes some black bread for himself, "Excellent group, both are good people. Though I do pity your enemies, whoever they are. You will crush them like bugs." He punctuates it by crushing the piece of bread before eating it.

"So, it is late for your birthday, but I would like to know what you would like for gift," Piotr asks, "I have one in mind, but I figured I would ask first."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Food. It's going to end up piled in heaps, a small row of pierogy peaks and borscht lakes separated by villages of black bread. Kraut fields wait to be plowed by a fork. This is dinner, as the Russian heart knows it. Humble, simple, and imperfect all the same.

"It always helps," says the young woman. Her teeth are sharp in lending their enunciation. "Having someone that reminds them to adhere to the lessons, rather than letting their minds wander. Focus is lost on this generation." As if she isn't /of/ this generation, forcibly aged, but young all the same.

No questions are answered about her enemies, but the slight inclination of her head serves as enough. They're already screaming her name and whispering it in Limbo, the pillars shaking.

"My birthday?" A handwave of the bread follows that sentiment. "A date, da? Less important even. Do not trouble yourself for the lost." Still, those dark eyes narrow thoughtfully at him. "What is it that you think? A canvas?"

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr launches into the pierogi mountain before him, and is the definition of content. He nods to his sister and when Piotr is able to speak with an empty mouth, he says, "Da, but it is what I was taught to deal with. They will learn, or they will fail, but it will not be because I did not try. Our language is difficult for many of them, so I will be patient."

When the topic shifts to gifts, Piotr says, "Obviously you will be getting painting, but there was another gift I had in mind, and did not wish to spring on you without your permission." He pulls out his phone and after pressing a couple of buttons slides it over, on the screen is a kitten, and on the next couple are different ones, "I wanted to know if you wished for a kitten of your own, like Boris."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Food, the eternal need and want. With it sings a certain necessity, a thrilling bond between land and man, city and country, even if separated by the immense distances that span the oceans and years. Illyana eats with a perfunctory grace suggestive of little actual appreciation for the food. She's methodical and almost hasty, consumption a matter less of gusto and more about packing away depleted calories. Could she be any different from Piotr? Maybe demonic tastebuds need a lot of spice.

Come to think, spice is needed everywhere, period.

"Jean, does she support you in this? Or leave you to do what you like best?" Queries made between bites of bread, bits of tea. It's all relative in the end.

She inclines her head and glances at him, anyway, when Piotr shows her the phone. What is this? Her brows lift slightly. "Boris must be the size of an ocelot now, da? Maybe closer to a lion ranging around?" She flicks her fingers over the screen, very careful to measure out how many she marches along before getting into trouble. Here a cat, there a cat, everywhere a cat, cat. Mrat. Back to the tuxedo. Ahead to a charming snow-cloud thing, Himalayan something. "Fur is too long," she murmurs. Back to the tuxy. Forward two to the dangerously bright-eyed, sleek meowzer. Past that to a giant. "I think this, this is actually a wolfhound with pointy ears."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
"Jean has been very supportive, though I was mainly leaning on lesson plans from last year," Piotr notes, though the talk of Jean makes his cheeks redden a little, though it dissipates quickly enough. "School has kept us busy, along with our other duties," the joy of having teaching as your secondary job.

The talk of cats keeps the tone happy, though, "Da, Boris has grown to be rather large, almost too large for my suite, so I take him on walks in his harness. He believes he is king of all that he sees, tsar and autocat of all Xavier's." He says with a nod, though is ucrious to hear Illyana's commentary on the kittens, "Though yes, I think that might be a tiger, currently uncertain." He nearly cracks a grin.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Listening to this, there's no rush on her part to interject. Illyana spears another pierogy, slicing it in half before she takes a bite of it. Mmm, food. Nothing to be spared here.

"You are happy, still?" A simple question around which Piotr's world rotates ought not to be taken for granted. That would be totally unwise. Better still to eye up that cat and point to the suspiciously charming one. "This one. You can see to it, da?"

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr takes a moment to eat some while his sister speaks, and he barely has to think before he says, "Da, I am happy. I hope you are doing all right?" He noticed the more gaunt frame, "I just want you to be happy as well." Piotr eats another pierogi as Illyana mentions the cat in question, "That I can do. You shall have said kitten as soon as it is feasible. Do you have name in mind?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"I am not become the gateway yet, have I?" The dark sense of sarcasm is infinitely terrible, surely, though traces evoke shadows and speculative smirks. Nothing to be gleaned from watching her, she shakes her head. "No name yet. I must ask what it thinks of itself. That cat will have its own opinions. We are reminded identity is not a rigid set of facts yet."

Piotr Rasputin has posed:
Piotr nods, electing to assume the best, "Fair enough, though I will swing by tomorrow with some of Boris' smaller things, along with your new overlord." He chuckles and noms another pierogi. At least there is some mirth to be had, "Hopefully it will be a well-behaved one that does not tear up your projects when they are part finished," sadly that cannot be said of Boris. "Though I am sure you will enjoy it!"