Nearly before she has dampened the flames, Maya knows that there is someone else out here. A man, she sees in the split second's afterglow left by the fire. A very big man.
She is less worried about his size, however, and more about--
"Goddammit, I'm sorry," she calls, and the apology sounds (and is) very sincere. "I didn't see you there." She takes a few steps, her boots crunching in the snow, and she leans on the still-warm rock, looking into the darkness. "Are you alright?"
"Da, I am fine." His answer is quick and reassuring, and faintly accented with Russian.
As is hers, which is part of the reason that first word was in Russian. (The other part is that Piotr throws Russian words into his English a lot. But he's not totally sure of how the Bar's translation spell works, sometimes.)
Maya's eyebrows lower, then rise, at the sound of the familiar accent. She smiles, faint and tight and rueful, down at the scorched rock, then out at the man.
"I'm fine," she says. Furious, but fine, but this is a stranger and she doesn't say that; she just takes a deep breath and forces Volkov (the butcher, Volkov the son of a b--) from her mind as best she can.
With faint amusement, "It has been there a very long time."
"I think it will be all right."
"And if not..." He shrugs, amiably, though he doubts she can see it in the darkness. The moon is only a sliver, though the stars are bright; he can make out her form against the snow, but indistinctly, and the afterimages from that flameburst don't help. "It is an object at Milliways. These things happen."
"I think it has probably survived worse than a tantrum," says Maya, and she hears him headed slowly in her direction. She doesn't blame him; she would approach a stranger who threw flame with caution, too.
She's tall, from what can be seen, and slender even while wrapped in a long coat.
Maya steps around the rock, and holds out her left hand, palm up. The flame that comes is slow, this time, and small, as if it has to be coaxed to life in the palm of her hand. Burning away merrily above her glove, the tongue of fire bears little resemblance to its powerful cousin that was thrown against the boulder.
It achieves the intended effect of casting some light on the situation.
Piotr Nikolaievitch is handsome, Maya thinks, tall and strong, young to her eyes, and the combination (and the build) is a familiar one.
She offers her right hand even as she holds up the light in her left, looking up at him. "Sorceress-Major Maya Antares." She enjoys the latitude that Milliways affords her, but with someone from her own world -- she gives the rank. "Maya. It's a pleasure to meet you, Piotr Nikolaievitch."
But it's there, and the light is dim and flickering, and for a moment she looks very like Illyana might have, if she'd lived long enough.
"It is good to meet you," he says with a small smile, after the first instant of startlement that's possibly more visible than he'd like, and clasps her hand.
Maya's hand all but disappears in Piotr Nikolaievitch's. "Where are you from?" she asks, reclaiming her hand at the end of the (firm, on her part) shake. She smiles in return, a little.
"No," says Maya, and her headshake is stronger, this time; more certain. "I've heard of Europe and a planet called Earth, from people at Milliways, but I'm from the--" It's still reflex, after all this time, to say 'the United Republics of the Red Star,' but she catches herself.
"--The Commonwealth of Red States," she says, and there is no pride in it. "The former URRS."
She is less worried about his size, however, and more about--
"Goddammit, I'm sorry," she calls, and the apology sounds (and is) very sincere. "I didn't see you there." She takes a few steps, her boots crunching in the snow, and she leans on the still-warm rock, looking into the darkness. "Are you alright?"
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As is hers, which is part of the reason that first word was in Russian. (The other part is that Piotr throws Russian words into his English a lot. But he's not totally sure of how the Bar's translation spell works, sometimes.)
"I should be asking you, I think."
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"I'm fine," she says. Furious, but fine, but this is a stranger and she doesn't say that; she just takes a deep breath and forces Volkov (the butcher, Volkov the son of a b--) from her mind as best she can.
"Of course, I can't say the same for the rock."
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"I think it will be all right."
"And if not..." He shrugs, amiably, though he doubts she can see it in the darkness. The moon is only a sliver, though the stars are bright; he can make out her form against the snow, but indistinctly, and the afterimages from that flameburst don't help. "It is an object at Milliways. These things happen."
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She's tall, from what can be seen, and slender even while wrapped in a long coat.
"Given its location, especially."
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"I am Piotr Nikolaievitch," he adds, when he's nearer.
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It achieves the intended effect of casting some light on the situation.
Piotr Nikolaievitch is handsome, Maya thinks, tall and strong, young to her eyes, and the combination (and the build) is a familiar one.
She offers her right hand even as she holds up the light in her left, looking up at him. "Sorceress-Major Maya Antares." She enjoys the latitude that Milliways affords her, but with someone from her own world -- she gives the rank. "Maya. It's a pleasure to meet you, Piotr Nikolaievitch."
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Not as strong as it could be.
But it's there, and the light is dim and flickering, and for a moment she looks very like Illyana might have, if she'd lived long enough.
"It is good to meet you," he says with a small smile, after the first instant of startlement that's possibly more visible than he'd like, and clasps her hand.
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No matter how long he lives anywhere else, Russia and the Ust-Ordynski Farm will always be where he's from.
"And you, Maya Antares?"
Antares is not a patronymic; he's not sure what to make of that.
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"Siberia," she says, cautiously, and the name is foreign on her tongue. "I've never heard of it. Is it a village?"
It's not one of the states held by the one-time URRS in its days of glory; that, she knows for certain.
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"No. It is a region -- very large."
"In Russia?"
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"I don't know it," she says.
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This is somewhat bewildered, but it's also absently said; clearly she's not, or not from a Russia that's anything like his.
"It is a country on Earth. In Europe."
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"--The Commonwealth of Red States," she says, and there is no pride in it. "The former URRS."
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Ruefully, "Different worlds, then. I am sorry -- I assumed they were closer."
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