[GROZNYJ GRAD TOUR CONTINUED] Part II
May. 13th, 2007 03:03 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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groznyj_grad[RECAP:]
Nikanor Liadov:
Nika raised his head slowly, but didn't stop what he was doing.
He remained holding the cadaver bag open for an industrious Rakitin, who was cradling Molokov's severed calf like a newborn, rustling it carefully into the sack.
"Gorgeous," he replied pithily.
It wasn't unpretty. The ash and smoke had billowed, sculpted and plumed. Transforming the greenhouse into something new, a functionless sculpture.
Once it had been utility. Now it was art and form.
He wondered who he was talking to. The gravelly tone was not one he'd heard before, and he had a pretty good forensic ear and memory for voices.
"Actually, we're just removing some dead meat. Don't mind us."
Rakitin:
"Oh, hello," Ippolit said. He waved an arm, realized it was not, strictly speaking, his, and set it in the bag Liadov was holding open while the MENT shot him a look of amused tolerance.
So the shadow shaped like a man in a space suit was, in fact, a man in a space suit. Just went to show that you never could tell.
"Sorry to bother you," he chirped. "We'll be out of here in just a minute."
[[CONTINUATION ->]]
"Who is it?" Liadov asked Rakitin, mildly quiet, shaking the bag lightly to settle the arm down to the bottom, the way you would when selecting new fingerling potatoes in the Petrograd harbor.
After all, they still had two legs and assorted possibly-significant ash and timbers to gather up.
Rakitin was carefully unearthing the left leg from its sooty repose, letting excess ashes fall where they could compile them, and not lose them to the wind.
The greenhouse was now undeniably open-air, and not exactly breaking the unpredictable, occasional gusts of mountain wind.
"Bruising, or charcoal?" he asked, frowning, tilting his head for a better look.
Nikanor Liadov:
Nika raised his head slowly, but didn't stop what he was doing.
He remained holding the cadaver bag open for an industrious Rakitin, who was cradling Molokov's severed calf like a newborn, rustling it carefully into the sack.
"Gorgeous," he replied pithily.
It wasn't unpretty. The ash and smoke had billowed, sculpted and plumed. Transforming the greenhouse into something new, a functionless sculpture.
Once it had been utility. Now it was art and form.
He wondered who he was talking to. The gravelly tone was not one he'd heard before, and he had a pretty good forensic ear and memory for voices.
"Actually, we're just removing some dead meat. Don't mind us."
Rakitin:
"Oh, hello," Ippolit said. He waved an arm, realized it was not, strictly speaking, his, and set it in the bag Liadov was holding open while the MENT shot him a look of amused tolerance.
So the shadow shaped like a man in a space suit was, in fact, a man in a space suit. Just went to show that you never could tell.
"Sorry to bother you," he chirped. "We'll be out of here in just a minute."
[[CONTINUATION ->]]
"Who is it?" Liadov asked Rakitin, mildly quiet, shaking the bag lightly to settle the arm down to the bottom, the way you would when selecting new fingerling potatoes in the Petrograd harbor.
After all, they still had two legs and assorted possibly-significant ash and timbers to gather up.
Rakitin was carefully unearthing the left leg from its sooty repose, letting excess ashes fall where they could compile them, and not lose them to the wind.
The greenhouse was now undeniably open-air, and not exactly breaking the unpredictable, occasional gusts of mountain wind.
"Bruising, or charcoal?" he asked, frowning, tilting his head for a better look.
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