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tampered2010-01-02 09:32 pm
spiritofsorrow.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2010-01-02 09:32 pm
Log; Ongoing; Open
When; 01/01/2010~
Rating; PG, maybe PG-13 for language or whatever. Nothing horrible though.
Characters; The Sorrow [![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spiritofsorrow], Penny [notflynn ], and Major Raikov [hidesinrestroom ]
Summary; New Year's Day is a huge Russian holiday! So Sorrow is trying to make some food and have some visitors -- a little bit unusual for him, but nonetheless he enjoys his heritage and his friends.
Log;
Sorrow ducked when the fire extinguisher went off, but only for a moment. The stove seemed to have seen its share of scorch marks in its lifetime, and most of his food had turned out fine under Penny's careful supervision. Glancing her way, he offered a smile, and then looked out the window to see the sun approach the horizon and fire his alabaster skin shades of gold.
He had never learned to cook back home in Stalingrad, and on New Year's Day, he usually ended up at the far end of the rail in Vladivostok, visiting his extended family and eating his babushka's food. A thin old woman with brilliant blue eyes, she made -- and ate -- far more food than it seemed she could, and Pyotr Korolev's family had as much food as they needed for the train ride back. The blond professor always saved a few sweets from the tree for his son Zorin, the skinny little boy who got his brains from his father, his warm demeanor from his mother, and his unnaturally white skin from who knew where. Zorin had asked for the recipe later, and the result on the baking pan looked quite the good approximate.
Shutting the oven, he placed the tray on the counter to cool. Raikov should be extracting himself from...well, wherever he was, fairly soon. Hopefully some of the other Russian citizens here would appear, if only because he wanted to meet others from his homeland in person. It was good, today, to feel a sense of belonging still. He had been sent all over the world for so many missions, but in the end, he still remembered home. The tree in the corner, a Christmas tree redecorated with traditional Russian sweets, warmed his heart.
It was a good feeling. He brightened as he remembered something he had stashed in his cloak -- two bottles of vodka. One of them, he left on the cloak; the other, he placed on the counter. Raikov would probably want something. In truth, he did, too. The City was stressful, and though he wasn't inclined to drown his exhaustion in liquor, every so often it was nice to loosen up.
"Raikov will be here sooner or later, but that does not mean we can't start without him." He brought out two glasses and opened the first bottle, pouring off some of the vodka into one glass. Holding it up in front of his face, he gave it a nostalgic smile. "And this is how we drink in Russia -- neat, or straight, as you would say."
He set it down on the counter for a moment. "Do you want any?"
(ooc: Open to anyone who wants to come -- you don't have to be Russian! Sorrow likes to see his friends.)
Rating; PG, maybe PG-13 for language or whatever. Nothing horrible though.
Characters; The Sorrow [
spiritofsorrow], Penny [notflynn ], and Major Raikov [hidesinrestroom ]Summary; New Year's Day is a huge Russian holiday! So Sorrow is trying to make some food and have some visitors -- a little bit unusual for him, but nonetheless he enjoys his heritage and his friends.
Log;
Sorrow ducked when the fire extinguisher went off, but only for a moment. The stove seemed to have seen its share of scorch marks in its lifetime, and most of his food had turned out fine under Penny's careful supervision. Glancing her way, he offered a smile, and then looked out the window to see the sun approach the horizon and fire his alabaster skin shades of gold.
He had never learned to cook back home in Stalingrad, and on New Year's Day, he usually ended up at the far end of the rail in Vladivostok, visiting his extended family and eating his babushka's food. A thin old woman with brilliant blue eyes, she made -- and ate -- far more food than it seemed she could, and Pyotr Korolev's family had as much food as they needed for the train ride back. The blond professor always saved a few sweets from the tree for his son Zorin, the skinny little boy who got his brains from his father, his warm demeanor from his mother, and his unnaturally white skin from who knew where. Zorin had asked for the recipe later, and the result on the baking pan looked quite the good approximate.
Shutting the oven, he placed the tray on the counter to cool. Raikov should be extracting himself from...well, wherever he was, fairly soon. Hopefully some of the other Russian citizens here would appear, if only because he wanted to meet others from his homeland in person. It was good, today, to feel a sense of belonging still. He had been sent all over the world for so many missions, but in the end, he still remembered home. The tree in the corner, a Christmas tree redecorated with traditional Russian sweets, warmed his heart.
It was a good feeling. He brightened as he remembered something he had stashed in his cloak -- two bottles of vodka. One of them, he left on the cloak; the other, he placed on the counter. Raikov would probably want something. In truth, he did, too. The City was stressful, and though he wasn't inclined to drown his exhaustion in liquor, every so often it was nice to loosen up.
"Raikov will be here sooner or later, but that does not mean we can't start without him." He brought out two glasses and opened the first bottle, pouring off some of the vodka into one glass. Holding it up in front of his face, he gave it a nostalgic smile. "And this is how we drink in Russia -- neat, or straight, as you would say."
He set it down on the counter for a moment. "Do you want any?"
(ooc: Open to anyone who wants to come -- you don't have to be Russian! Sorrow likes to see his friends.)
no subject
Fond of the sweater? ... Not exactly. He simply thought Billy looked amusing in it. Raikov swirled the remaining vodka in his glass as he replied to Penny's question. "I do own other clothes. You just never seem to catch me in them."
no subject
Other clothes? Perhaps it was his sweater that kept her from commenting on him as well. Raikov wore a relatively nice officer's uniform, something prim compared to the black and white camouflage that was more appropriate in the field. It wasn't very formal battledress, but such was how he died, and such was what he wore. Aside from the cloak, he had never bothered with any other clothing until the City. Even wearing same-era Russian clothes didn't feel quite right, as if he were in a second skin.
He took a long swig from the glass. "Perhaps Raikov should wear your hat more often, and it would soften the military look."
Was he being silly? That wasn't so much like him. He shook his head, fell silent, and resorted to listening. It felt a little strange; he wasn't much of a joker.
no subject
He wondered a moment later why he'd brought that up. He didn't talk about the Evil League of Evil, mostly because it made him think of Bad Horse, and thinking about Bad Horse made him nervous. He shook himself and had a little more vodka.
no subject
She distracted herself by locating the hat with the ear flaps Sorrow had given her and plopping it on Raikov's head. "Now that softens the military look." Heh. Fur, soft.
Penny made a mental note to slow down on the booze intake.
no subject