Cashi
New Member
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MOOD: Amused
LOCATION: Balcony outside the Great Hall - two
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MENTIONS: xxxxxxxxxxx
- two
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- two
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TL;DR: Crisis averted--Ilya ain't gonna punch anyone (yet)
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Ilya
Ilya had never been one for bluffing. Honesty had been trained into him from birth with the unfortunate side effect of bluntness, and the only moments in his life he'd truly lied bare-faced were when curious friends and neighbours began to ask questions about his affinity for water, should they have heard rumours or witnessed anything unusual. As a child, hiding his ability had been much more challenging as it had then required from him more control than he currently possessed. Witch hunters had abounded in Russia, especially in Moscow, so really it came as a shock to no one but Ilya's mother when one day he'd been seen. Then had been the fleeing and the hiding andโฆ.everything else.
But this was all to say that Ilya had never been one to lie. Not that he couldn't--he could, and perhaps a little too well in his dearly departed mother's most modest opinion. But she had always been against falsehoods and Ilya's penchant for honesty became one of those things that one adheres to out of long-practice, not necessarily out of a decision one has made for themselves.
Poker night at the pub down a few alleys from the motorshop, when Ilya had deigned to join, had not been an easy game.
So when the Frenchman had mirrored his anticipation for a fight and squared-up, Ilya had had to take a fragment of time to ponder whether or not he was actually going to hit this lunatic. The pondering happened as his right foot slid back on the stone terrace, as his fists came up to his mouth and he angled his torso a perfect 45ยฐ from his target and dropped his knees to plant himself more firmly into his stance. The pondering also happened as the bespectacled man threw himself in front of the Frenchman with a look on his face that Ilya read as I would like to be anywhere but here, please.
The words Glasses-man spoke were mostly static in the background of Ilya's loud thinking, but his selfless action of blocking Ilya's violent intent flipped the final switch on his decision.
To be true, Ilya's anger had popped when he'd first leaned away and said "okay". At that point Ilya was pretty sure already he wasn't actually going to knock this man's lights out and send him tipping over the balcony edge.
A hum of anger and tension still clung to the edges of him like burs on a shaggy dog, but Ilya was pretty set on his course of action: a light bump on the man's chin with his first and second knuckle, with all the force one might use to pat a baby. For one of the few moments in his life, Ilya bluffed.
The other man's intervention gave him a third option, which he now took.
As the Frenchman reached for his cigarettes and apologised for Ilya's shirt--soothing a prickle in his unconscious mind--and the man with glasses began to lower his hands, Ilya let the tension slip from his shoulders and straightened slowly--then began to chuckle, softly and darkly. The chuckle turned into a deep-throated laugh and Ilya reached out with the arm he'd been winding up to throw to clap the Frenchman hard on the back. For good measure, he clapped the man in glasses as well, a grin clicking onto his face like a cartridge into a projector--though there was not much warmth in the smile, and a little too much teeth, it did reach his eyes and it was genuine amusement.
"You are not being so bad. You have the, ehhhhh, balls I am thinking. Maybe also death wish, but that's good." He declined a cigarette with a single slice of his head. "That's good." He repeated.
He turned again to the bespectacled man once more, the third body in their little violent tea party, and grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down in his strong mechanic's grip, the wolf-smile still running amuck on his face. "I am liking you. You are the selfless and this is also good." He let go and faced the both of them together, smoothing a hand absently down one side of his open jacket. "My name is Ilya. That is what you can call me. As for shirtโฆ" He glanced down at himself to where the shirt was already mostly dry, shrugged, and said with finality,
"It is just shirt."
We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars
code by valen t.
Ilya had never been one for bluffing. Honesty had been trained into him from birth with the unfortunate side effect of bluntness, and the only moments in his life he'd truly lied bare-faced were when curious friends and neighbours began to ask questions about his affinity for water, should they have heard rumours or witnessed anything unusual. As a child, hiding his ability had been much more challenging as it had required from him more control than currently possessed. Witch hunters had abounded in Russia, especially in Moscow, so really it came as a shock to no one but Ilya's mother when one day he'd been seen. Then had the fleeing and the hiding andโฆ.everything else.
But this was all to say that Ilya had never been one to lie. Not that he couldn't--he could, and perhaps a little too well in his dearly departed mother's most modest opinion. But she had always been against falsehoods and Ilya's penchant for honesty became one of those things that one adheres to out of long-practice, not necessarily out of a decision one has made for themselves.
Poker night at the pub down a few alleys from the motorshop, when Ilya had deigned to join, had not been an easy game.
So when the Frenchman had mirrored his anticipation for a fight and squared-up, Ilya had had to take a fragment of time to ponder whether or not he was actually going to hit this lunatic. The pondering happened as his right foot slid back on the stone terrace, as his fists came up to his mouth and he angled his torso a perfect 45ยฐ from his target and dropped his knees to plant himself more firmly into his stance. The pondering also happened as the bespectacled man threw himself in front of the Frenchman with a look on his face that Ilya read as I would like to be anywhere but here, please.
The words Glasses-man spoke were mostly static in the background of Ilya's loud thinking, but his selfless action of blocking Ilya's violent intent flipped the final switch on his decision.
To be true, Ilya's anger had popped when he'd first leaned away and said "okay". At that point Ilya was pretty sure already he wasn't actually going to knock this man's lights out and send him tipping over the balcony edge.
A hum of anger and tension still clung to the edges of him like burs on a shaggy dog, but Ilya was pretty set on his course of action: a light bump on the man's chin with his first and second knuckle, with all the force one might use to pat a baby. For one of the few moments in his life, Ilya bluffed.
The other man's intervention gave him a third option, which he now took.
As the Frenchman reached for his cigarettes and apologised for Ilya's shirt--soothing a prickle in his unconscious mind--and the man with glasses began to lower his hands, Ilya let the tension slip from his shoulders and straightened slowly--then began to chuckle, softly and darkly. The chuckle turned into a deep-throated laugh and Ilya reached out with the arm he'd been winding up to throw to clap the Frenchman hard on the back. For good measure, he clapped the man in glasses as well, a grin clicking onto his face like a cartridge into a projector--though there was not much warmth in the smile, and a little too much teeth, it did reach his eyes and it was genuine amusement.
"You are not being so bad. You have the, ehhhhh, balls I am thinking. Maybe also death wish, but that's good." He declined a cigarette with a single slice of his head. "That's good." He repeated.
He turned again to Glasses-man in their little violent tea party and grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down in his strong mechanic's grip, the wolf-smile still running amuck on his face. "I am liking you. You are the selfless and this is also good." He let go and faced the both of them together, smoothing a hand absently down one side of his open jacket. "My name is Ilya. That is what you can call me. As for shirtโฆ" He glanced down at himself to where the shirt was already mostly dry, shrugged, and said with finality,
"It is just shirt."
But this was all to say that Ilya had never been one to lie. Not that he couldn't--he could, and perhaps a little too well in his dearly departed mother's most modest opinion. But she had always been against falsehoods and Ilya's penchant for honesty became one of those things that one adheres to out of long-practice, not necessarily out of a decision one has made for themselves.
Poker night at the pub down a few alleys from the motorshop, when Ilya had deigned to join, had not been an easy game.
So when the Frenchman had mirrored his anticipation for a fight and squared-up, Ilya had had to take a fragment of time to ponder whether or not he was actually going to hit this lunatic. The pondering happened as his right foot slid back on the stone terrace, as his fists came up to his mouth and he angled his torso a perfect 45ยฐ from his target and dropped his knees to plant himself more firmly into his stance. The pondering also happened as the bespectacled man threw himself in front of the Frenchman with a look on his face that Ilya read as I would like to be anywhere but here, please.
The words Glasses-man spoke were mostly static in the background of Ilya's loud thinking, but his selfless action of blocking Ilya's violent intent flipped the final switch on his decision.
To be true, Ilya's anger had popped when he'd first leaned away and said "okay". At that point Ilya was pretty sure already he wasn't actually going to knock this man's lights out and send him tipping over the balcony edge.
A hum of anger and tension still clung to the edges of him like burs on a shaggy dog, but Ilya was pretty set on his course of action: a light bump on the man's chin with his first and second knuckle, with all the force one might use to pat a baby. For one of the few moments in his life, Ilya bluffed.
The other man's intervention gave him a third option, which he now took.
As the Frenchman reached for his cigarettes and apologised for Ilya's shirt--soothing a prickle in his unconscious mind--and the man with glasses began to lower his hands, Ilya let the tension slip from his shoulders and straightened slowly--then began to chuckle, softly and darkly. The chuckle turned into a deep-throated laugh and Ilya reached out with the arm he'd been winding up to throw to clap the Frenchman hard on the back. For good measure, he clapped the man in glasses as well, a grin clicking onto his face like a cartridge into a projector--though there was not much warmth in the smile, and a little too much teeth, it did reach his eyes and it was genuine amusement.
"You are not being so bad. You have the, ehhhhh, balls I am thinking. Maybe also death wish, but that's good." He declined a cigarette with a single slice of his head. "That's good." He repeated.
He turned again to Glasses-man in their little violent tea party and grabbed his hand, pumping it up and down in his strong mechanic's grip, the wolf-smile still running amuck on his face. "I am liking you. You are the selfless and this is also good." He let go and faced the both of them together, smoothing a hand absently down one side of his open jacket. "My name is Ilya. That is what you can call me. As for shirtโฆ" He glanced down at himself to where the shirt was already mostly dry, shrugged, and said with finality,
"It is just shirt."
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