Jan 17 23:36:16 108 PA - Deli and the Undead

From Chronicles

Jan 17 23:36:16 108 PA.

YAKOV'S DELI

It's not late, and it's Wednesday. Mid-week. "Hump Day," as people sometimes call it. Probably what some people would consider a moderately late time for lunch. It also gives people further excuse to remain indoors, as it's damn cold out, and while there isn't much blowing snow, the wind is ferocious, and the snowflakes that *are* blowing, are large enough to look like angry white starfish smacking windows, walls, and Kingsdalians running around like extras in a "Godzilla" movie. At this early-afternoon hour, even Gabriel, who occasionally seems to be almost supernaturally bored about the weather, is sitting at a table at Yakov's beneath a single bright light, dining on a souffle and what appears to be some kind of non-alcoholic vanilla-based drink at his left-hand. The deli is fairly empty, for the younger, more boisterous generation tends to frequent the bars and nightclubs that cater to the type even at lunch. And Happy Burger, of course. A Russian-themed delicatessen? Somewhat of a rarity, though obviously its proprietor does well for himself. Gabriel's winter gear, the wool cap, thin gloves, and thin poncho-type white coat are laid on the table's surface near the window, out of the way. Only a thin trail of slush has followed his feet from door to table, rapidly drying as he seems to have been here for a while.

The deli is a popular location for Leonard due to its proximity, the quality of the food, and the proprietor. There is also the fact that it's the proprietor making the food. This is enough to brave the winds and try to stay upright until he reaches the door and relative safety. Traveling downwind was a hassle; getting back might not be worth the effort of trying to walk.

For the moment, Gabriel's usual cheery banter with Yakov's proprietor is quiet. The only real sounds are from the few people in the establishment sipping at hot Russian soups and the type of custard-like breads typical to that region of the world. The man himself takes no notice of people reaching doors, whether they come insider or not. He seems quite engrossed in his meal, in silence, though his left foot is tapping madly, but perhaps to a beat. A very poor beat. Almost like the beat of a man having a seizure of the foot.

Leonard takes a moment to open his cloak and coat to let some heat in and straighten his posture. He then heads for the counter in order to wait his turn to, well, order. The tapping foot catches his notice, and curiosity, but he doesn't ask of it just yet.

"Hhmm hmm hmm hmm hmm HMMMM hmmh hmm hmm hmm hmmh HMMMMM hmm hmm HMMM HMM hm hm HMM HMMMMMMM. HMM HMM HMMMMMM HMMMMMM HM HMMMMM." Ah, quite the sonata coming from Gabriel's... throat? Whatever part of human anatomy makes those noises. As the... tune... comes to a halt, so does the quite tapping of rubber-soled combat boot on the deli's surface. He then inhales a very deep breath, then lets it out in a sudden, loud huff. The older man shakes his head rather violently from side-to-side, slaps both cheeks once with either hand, then returns to his meal, seemingly far more at peace than only a minute or two earlier.

"Are you alright?" Leonard asks, as slapping doesn't equate so much with peace, in his mind. It delays his order a moment or two, before he makes a concise request for soup and sandwich. A tentative smile then turns to Gabriel. "Or is the food simply that delicious?" Rasputin has arrived.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Gabriel says sheepishly, his head rapidly rotating back and up to see who's speaking to him, in a manner one might expect to see a child glance up at having been caught drawing on a wall with crayons. He then settles again. "No, no. I'm fine. Yes, the food is good, but... I'm afraid not quite 'slap-yourself-in-the-face' good." A possible redirection of the conversation comes as a monosyllabic, "Lunch?"

Leonard nods affirmatively. "Lunch, and a needed break." Luckily, neither soup nor sandwich take long, and he glances about for a seat. "Yourself?" That is much more vague than 'Why are you hitting yourself?' and also more polite.

Deep Russian singing comes from below the cafe accompanied by the loud stomping from the stairs down the hall. Rasputin, carrying a large tub comes up from below the deli. He is singing away, loud and clear then flops down the tub and begins to pull out large fish. Trout, huge trout. He begins to clean them off to the side of the main counter. Taking great care to keep the mess away from everything else.

Gabriel looks past Leonard for a moment, exclaiming in Russian, with the odd twist of Kentucky drawl, "Gigant skoi'ryby!" Essentially, "That's a big fucking fish!" But then he turns more respectfully to his closest male friend in the world. "Ah, well, yes I suppose I was making a bit of a scene of myself, wasn't I? Ahem." He actually blushes a little. "You know, just kind of slap yourself around now and then to get your mind out of somewhere that you don't want it to be."

"I rarely need to slap myself," Leonard chuckles as he nears Gabriel's spot in search of his own. "Vixen is much better at slapping sense into me than I am." The singing, then slamming tub cause him to look back, just in time to see the big damn fish. "That should feed a person or three..."

Rasputin wields a huge knife with expert precision and skill. He is filleting it quickly, cleanly and with almost no waste of the meat. He looks over, his hands on auto-pilot, "Da, da. Are you likink trout Gabriel? You Leonard?" He grins a bit and looks back to his work prior to losing a finger then while focusing, "So, dhat is brinkink yous to mink shops lates tonight?"

The older man - well, usually the oldest man - looks out the window and raises his hand toward the outside, simultaneously looking at the proprietor of the establishment. "It's dark and cold, but I'd hardly call one-thirty in the afternoon late, Rasputin. Or are you perhaps showing your age more than you think you are?" Gabriel winks at the age-old joke... about age. He then comments, "I like trout. There was a stream by Hazard, with lots of trout, bass, other, smaller fish. Kept us going through the Depression." Finally, back to Leonard. "Wives do have a tendency to be able to smack sense into their men more than we stupid creatures might otherwise do ourselves, no?" His eyes move between the two men. Was Rasputin ever married?

Rasputin blinks and looks back outside. He shakes his head, "Da, da. Mink beeink sleepink odd hours. Da? Mustink be lookink more out side." He smiles and looks to you, "Da, wives can beink knockink sense in ones husband. Dhough, also good for keepink warms on cold days and nights, da?" He grins and winks at Leonard.

"Why Rasputin, I've been polite enough not to ask, but is there a little Mrs. Rasputin who keeps you company at night? We just don't see her around?" Gabriel's face suddenly falls. "Oh.. ah.." He seems to have realized a possibility of something that may not be so jovial.

Rasputin shakes his head as he works, "Net, net." He says with some jovial tone in his voice, but something else to it, "Never das, net. Almost was, but she has gone on da long trips. Net knowink when she will be backs. But mink hopeful." He looks back and nods, "You? Da?"

"The long trips? I don't know what you mean, Rasputin. Is that a... warlord thing?" Gabriel hesitates as he asks the question, still not knowing exactly how touchy a subject it may be to the man. "But a little woman perhaps coming back to see you? You seem like a fine fellow. She'll be back." He then slams his chest with an index finger, a laugh, and a broad smile. "I was married in 1934, when I was 16. Her name was Mary Catherine. We had three daughters. They died of the flu while I was deployed." It's said with sadness... but also some kind of calm, as if they will meet again. "Then Natasha and I were married in 1946. She came through the... portal, whatever... with me. Died in my arms, a few feet from safety." With that, his face is definitely sad. "Bastard bipedal lizard-thing killed her with a shot to the back. I buried her in a clearing near a small creek. That's where I live, and where I will always live until I die." A small shrug completes his answer.

Rasputin stops his work as you tell your story. He even sets down the knife and focuses on your words. He nods slowly, "Da, da. Mink sorries for your loss, dis a baddink way to be introduced to dis worlds da." He shakes his head, "Mink sorries." He bows his head a moment, then turns back to his work not really knowing much about what to say at this point.

The older man has at this point been alive long enough to know how to keep a conversation moving, even when a buzz-kill has come along - even when it's himself. Gabriel raises a spoon from his pudding-like bread and points it at the fish. In a thick drawl, he asks, "So where'd you find that thing? I live near a nice creek, but there sure aren't any fish that big. Big enough to live on, but not enough to feed a restaurant on! Catch it yourself, or do you have a guy?" He's quite happy and comfortable once again, the sad story seemly faded to the back of his mind, where many men keep their sad stories.

Rasputin chuckles and nods, "Da, da. A few kids and a few grown ups, da." He chuckles a bit, "Mink payink dhem a bit for dhem, dhen I cuttink dhem up and sales dhem." He smiles a bit and looks back, "Givink people's some extra cash, and gettink a good product. Da?" He grins a bit, "Dhough, net every days dhat trout such as dhese are showink up. Dery rare, I will be gettink goodink price for dhem." He has almost finished with the four or five trout, "Of coursink, I can be makink fish soup and stock as dell, da." He grins, "Goodink day."

The older adventurer nods. "Da. Eto den horoshii." It's a good day. "Where'd you learn to slice like that, my little bearded friend? I feel safe calling you little, because I'm quite short compared to everyone I grew up with. Even the women!" Gabriel seems to find a good bit of humor in that last bit. "But I'm good with a knife, I can kill a man three ways from Sunday, I can throw it fifty feet and nail a spider... but I couldn't slice things that quickly, particularly without looking at what I was doing." Gabriel gives a mock glare. "Are you an assassin, hiding behind the image of a peaceful delicatessen owner?"

Rasputin chuckles softly as he finishes up, putting the remnants over in a pot and starts running water into the pot. He then washes off the fresh cuts in another sink, and starts to carefully place them into the display case, "Net, net. Dhough, mink goodink with da knife as dell, buttink just well practiced dith da cuttink of meat, polutry and fishes. Da?" Rasputin makes a very nice display of the meat, then has another write a small sign with the price on it. He comes over to talk to you closely, "Da only thinks I am knownink for sure to huntink and kill are dinos and dhampires, da." He smiles a bit, rubbing his hands off with a towel, then frowning at the dirty mess. He casts a small spell and the towel, him, and his hands are clean and white agian.

The last bit causes Gabriel's entire brow ridge to raise nearly off the top of his head. He leans forward conspiratorially, and in a perfect, albeit Kentucky-accented Russian, asks, "Vampir? You fight vampires? I've only heard of them. I've seen zombies, tried to fight zombies. But I need to know how to fight these.. undead things. Zombies, vampires," he repeats. "In my time, these were simply legends to scare children around European campfires, a good book by Brahm Stoker, and a number of fairly-poor science-fiction movies." He holds a hand out, palm up, and gestures in with his fingers. "Can you help me, Rasputin?"

Rasputin shrugs a bit and tugs his beard, "Da, da. Whatink are you wantink to be knowink? Dhampires are different than zombies nor mummies. Da?" He thinks a moment, "Or justink animated corpses?"

Gabriel shrugs. "Um. All of them? I have no idea how to fight them, except that apparently the weapons that I'm familiar with are fairly useless. Except knives and such, but I don't know why the ones that other people used worked. Incidentally, do you know anything about dragons?" The man leans his head to the side, hopeful. His meal is forgotten.

Rasputin nods slowly, "Da, da. Dis importants to knowink dhat silver, sun and magical fire. Da. Oh, and woodink can be goodink. Da?" He thinks a few moments and ponders a, "As for dragons, net goodink. Just beink ables to be doink mores damages dhen it." He chuckles.

"So I guess that limits me to wood? It's cheap. Silver must be a lot more abundant now that it was when I was around. Don't have any 'magic fire.'" Strangely phrased statement, but people would probably understand what he means. "Why the hell do wood and silver hurt vampires and zombies and mummies and whatever else lives out there?" With a quirked eyebrow, Gabriel throws an arm over his head to take in all of Kingsdale. "What about good old Stoker? Was he right about garlic and crosses? If I recall, Count Dracula had to bring his own dirt all the way from Transylvania with him, turned into bats and wolves and could call rats. But like... really, really charismatic. Chicks wanted to fuck him when all he said was, 'hello.'" The man shrugs. "Any of this real, or do I just stick to silver and wood. Which again, just means silver."

Rasputin chuckles, "Dhampires, is more silver and da wood. Zombies and mummies are different, da." He grins a bit, "Crosses are workink Dhampires too." He thinks a few moments about the others, "Dhampires someink can be turnink into wolves and bats, da. And mist." He tugs his beard, "Mummies and da Zombies are different, da." He repeats that bit, "Musttink usink fire and cuttink off heads, dery importants."

"So what, I have to pay someone to forge a solid silver machete and begin slicing at necks?" Gabriel is brief.

Rasputin nods slowly, "Da, and da flame thrower." He grins a bit, "Dhough, a silver link machete would beink a good solutions to be startink with. Would be givink you somethink to be workink with, in case of attackink."

'Flamethrower doesn't seem like magic to me, although I'm sure that you could run around Africa and Australia and impress the shit out of the natives. Plus," he holds his hands out, "I don't know how to use one enough to not be afraid of detonating the gel-pack on my back. Not a good day."

Rasputin chuckles softly, "Da, da. Dhough non-magical fires would be workink as well, da. Just net as well." He smiles a bit, "Oh!" Rasputin exclaims and smiles, "Waters gun, da. Workink well for Dhampire. But net for anythink else, da. Runnink water, dis net goodink for Dhampires."

"Squirt guns?" Gabriel looks at Rasputin as if he's gone mad. Glancing down at his rapidly-cooling meal, he sets his silverware on the table. "Don't know if I could wade into battle with a straight face like that."

Rasputin chuckles softly and tugs his beard, "Da, da. Dis a goodink weapon in a pinch. Promises, I would net be leadink you a foul, da." He looks to your meal, "Somethink wrong with da food? Dis OK, da?" He looks at the sou chef, "Did net makink it goodink?" He looks back to you seeminly more upset by the chance the food is bad, than the topic at hand.

The Kentuckian shakes his head side-to-side. "No, no, no, it's great, Rasputin. Your chef did a wonderful job. I've just allowed it to cool off a little too much. But I should really be finished with it right now away. Don't want to get chubby like so many of this city's citizens." Gabriel flicks his hairline with a thumb and forefinger as if that somehow adds a bit of emphasis to whatever point it is that he's making. Then, "When I leave, if I can get it boxed up, it'll be great to take back to camp. Cook it up over an open flame and a small iron skillet. Mmm. Very tasty, and easier than checking snares!" After gazing at his food, then Rasputin, then waving in an attempt to make it clear that the sou chef was in no culinary foul, he returns to the proprietor. "How exactly is it that you know so much about these things? Vampires and the undead, I mean."

Rasputin chuckles softly, "Goodink, good. Mink always worries when I'm net hereink cookink." He looks back, as if the sou chef knows someone is watching him, he turns around and looks. Then seeink Rasputin's back, he gets that 'oh crap look' and goes back to work, now working even more quickly. Rasputin says, "Da, we can be packink it up, net problems. Just sayink when, da." He pauses and tugs his beard, "Mink peoples had morink to beink worries about dhan Warlords at homes. We havink to worries about creatures and makers of death."

"'Creatures and makers of death' doesn't sound like a good thing to pile on top of self-proclaimed Warlords." He glances down at his pants - the white pants with broad pockets and little else. "I guess you didn't use a lot of technology to fight them, no? Hand-to-hand combat? Magic?" Gabriel is truly intrigued.

Rasputin shrugs, "Net, we usink both technology and magical, mink village was a goodink mix da." He thinks a few moments, "Manies preferink lasers and plasma too fireballs and lightink." He grins a bit, "Net manies usink hand-to-hands, one net wants to be gettink into dat closink of ranges, da. Hand-to-hand, bad."

"So... how do you fit into it, my friend? You look older than me, which is impressive - but who can tell these days? What did you do? Sharpshooter? Casting magic? Squirt guns?" Gabriel leans toward the dwarf. "By the way, I've been meaning to comment on this for a long time - nice beard. I'm a rather hairless man, myself. I guess it's lucky, because shaving is never a terrible priority. Kind of strange for someone of my ethnic heritage, though." With that, he looks around the delicatessen. "Did these folks come with you from Russia?"

Rasputin shrugs and answers the last question first, "Net, net. Dwell some did, manies net did." He looks around and smiles as customers come and go, "Manies I hires are from little Russia, but net all. Da?" He looks back to you and shrugs, "Mink a little of each, da. Magics and shooter both. Dhough, net gettink a squirt guns, yet." He grins a bit, "Dhough I am always makink sure I am havink a wooden knife, silver knife, and silver bullets." He smiles, "Justink howink I dwas raised, da. Many thinks dhat goink bump in da night..." He trails off and smiles, "And day."

The man from Kentucky smiles at the story and information. Then Gabriel bluntly asks: "How old are you, and are you human?"

Rasputin chuckles, "Net goodink mink a woman, da? Or I would beink insulted, da?" He chuckles a bit, "Mink net humans, mink Dwarf. Da? And mink am youngink for mink peoples, da."

"Oh, no, never ask any woman their age once they've been married off." Seems to be an odd distinction of propriety. Gabriel smiles at the expected, non-human answer. "Mind if I ask what a dwarf is? In my time, dwarfs were, well... usually unhealthy freaks that society felt sorry for. Most of them didn't live very long. But you seem to be doing rather well for yourself. Your people arrive in Russia with this, ah... 'Apocalypse' thing?" The man's lips curl into an ironic smile. "No one has really been able to explain that to me, either, and I haven't the time to go to the Library."

Rasputin nods slowly, "Da, da. Mink peoples camink through from another world, with manies Elves." He grins, "Mink ears are less pointy, da." He tugs his beard, "Dwarves are net shortink humans, dwe are well, da, Dwarves. Long beards, short in stature, yet strong." He chuckles, "Dwarves." He smiles, "Mink people lived for a long times in Russia, do we consider ourselves Russian, net from our original homeink lands. Buttink, dat dis another story da. As for dark days, mink self know little about whattink happeneds. I know dhere was a war, buttink net muchink more. Humands fightink humans, and dhen tearink in spacink and times. Now dis what dit dis."

The man purses his lips in personal complaint. "Yeah, I heard Oppenheimer, Einstein, Teller, all those guys rambling on about space and time, and frankly all it meant to me was waiting for good Sci-Fis to come out on the Silver Screen." There's a subtle shaking of his wrist coming from his obviously military-style, probably covert-operations watch. Not a buzz, but a shaking, something that makes no noise. He sighs. "Hahhh. Well, my friend, looks like it's time to get this meal of mine wrapped up." He gazes out the window and begins to pull his snow gear back on. Very light snow gear. Man must be tough, or acclimated, or something. "At least the streets should be clear of traffic, right?" Gabriel's statement ends on a humorous uptick tone.

Rasputin nods slowly, "Da, da." He waves down a waitress who quickly packs things up for you, "Da, da. You beink safink out in da woods, da?" He grins a bit, "Never knowink dhat goink bumpink in da night." He tugs his beard and then just lets you redress.

Gabriel stands, and as he does so, sketches a very sloppy salute to Rasputin, the kind that a military man offers to a civilian who has absolutely no sway over him whatsoever. After taking his wrapped food between his left arm and torso, he smiles, settles his small white woolen cap on his head of graying hair, and extends his hand to the dwarf. "Thank you again, sir, for the food and company. It's still afternoon - at least according to my watch - but when I get to camp, I'll be sure to watch for the things that go bump in the night." He then offers a strong wink. "I've set up so many traps, trip-wires, and pitfalls that something would have to teleport in to attack me unawares. Which, I suppose, some things can do, right?"

Rasputin shrugs and nods, "Da, da. Dis true enough. Be safink anyway, da?" He smiles and waves a bit and dhen goes back to the counter and beings to help out with the other work needink to be done.

With his extended hand just rather hanging out there, Gabriel attempts to turn it into more of a wave, then exits the deli, trudging with a smile out into the snow. He calls behind him, "Do svidaniya, Rasputin," just before the door closes, shutting out the winter.