i fear you won't [ignatius]

@"Thoth"

The evening rolled around, uneventful and rather drab even if nothing that day had indicated otherwise. He'd gone out briefly in the morning but otherwise, the day was spent in the comfortable below-freezing temperatures of his bar and the small apartment he had upstairs.

The bar area had been restocked with what had been drained last night, but the glasses had yet to be finished. The tap behind the counter spilled a steady but thin stream and every once in a while, Pasha would dip a finger in before drawing a long strand of ice out almost like a string. A small twirl turned it into a neat little shot glass which he'd then inspect, put aside and start anew.

It was a very simple life here, and island living seemed to push the idea of going slowly even further. He didn't like it much, but it would be a long, long time before he returned to Russia. For the time being, they had made it obvious that he was unwanted there. A pity, considering all he'd done for them during the wars.

There was the vaguest creak of rusty metal when the front door opened. He didn't pay it much immediate attention, only nodding slightly towards the door as he put the next glass on the table.

@"Thoth"

The exterior was run down and depressing looking, and the owner of the bar seemed equally as unfriendly as the exterior. There was little in the way of greeting when he heard the door creak open, instead placing the newly formed glass down on the icy counter.

"Да, dobro pozhalovat' v Zimniy Den." His thick accent was suited for his native language, but definitely a little more difficult when it came to English. Only then did he glance up... and paused. The man who came in wasn't strange looking by the island's standard, but he was tall to say the least.

Very tall. Taller than Pasha was.

The rusty iron door swung shut behind him, leaving the two in the bar encased in ice. As the man approached, he really began to see those few inches of height difference, and it was the first time in his life aside from his childhood that he had to actually look up at someone. It was an odd feeling, indeed.

His lips pressed into a tight line, the scar creating a crack down the side of his face much like a bit of ice itself. "Да." He didn't sound amused. Not at all. "What is your business here?" Like a statement, not a question. The man wasn't a regular, and he looked like he was here because he wanted something and that something wasn't a handle of vodka.

@"Thoth"

No reasonable person could work in here without several layers and a parka, which was part of the reason he didn't hire in the first place. He was sufficient enough employment for the small bar, and he got away with wearing nothing but suit pants, a white collared shirt and a tie. His old uniform wasn't a good idea, partially because it was much too forward and another part being completely out of context. He still kept it neatly hung up in his room, though.

He didn't know why that information would be any of this guy's business, however. He didn't even know the man's name, though he figured he was somewhat distinctive enough to recognize in the future. Pasha picked up one of his perfectly formed ice classes, placing it on the counter in front of him before grabbing one of the many, many bottles of vodka and pouring himself some. Definitely more than a shot.

"Both." Well, sort of. He'd been on the island for a few months already, and the business had been running since a month after he arrived. He took a sip of the vodka much like he was drinking water. "And who might you be?"

@"Thoth"

Vodka was very much like water to the Russian, and considering he couldn't die from alcohol poisoning and his kidneys and liver regenerated at a fast enough pace to never really be damaged by it, he sure treated it as such. He downed the rest of the small glass and poured himself another. He'd need a drink for this one, probably.

His intuition was good after a hundred odd years. The man, Ignatius or whatever, probably wanted to sell him some sort of loan. He'd had those types come by before and though Pasha had come a very, very long way since the days of the Soviet Union, when he was hailed as a hero and extremely wealthy, he still had a bit of money stowed away.

He shook the man's hand anyways, practiced and just as firm. He'd had to give out plenty during his heyday. "Pasha Mikhaylichenko-Molotov."

He didn't say anything more.

@"Thoth"

Obviously not here for a drink. That was glaringly plain, and Pasha just nodded quietly at the statement. Of course, of course. He was probably here to try and sell him something like one of his loans, which was distasteful in his eyes to say the least. He'd gotten by fairly well without them; he made enough money to live by, though it was nowhere near the lavishness he was rained with back during the days of the Soviet union. He wouldn't have been able to open odd little ice businesses without his powers cutting down on the electricity, either.

He was doing fine. He always insisted that he was, and when he wasn't, he'd make it so that he was fine.

Pasha wasn't one for beating around the bush and winded ramblings, either. He eyed the man with the same expression he always held, one of thinly veiled contempt. "How comforting." He wasn't too concerned about competition. Very few could keep a bar made of solid ice open without draining a quarter of the city's power and running an electrical bill worth a first newborn son.

"Fair enough." He picked up a glass and a dishcloth, polishing the ice to a nice, even shine that was borderline completely transparent. "Few people come here. If you've seen the outside, you may understand why." The exterior of the bar didn't look like it would be a place to drink at all, more like a place to be murdered.

"Russia." Just in case it wasn't clear, which it apparently was. No matter, he'd make sure anyways.