2021-02-27 - Fireside Chats with Baba Y'ga

The sunset is a burning brand in the west. The wind off the Harbor is cold. But the firepit on the public beach has a roaring bonfire going, sending up sparks into the darkening evening...and beside it is sitting Joe, long legs stretched out before him. He's bundled up his his greatcoat, though his hat is off....and in one hand is a pipe, an old-fashioned briar. The scent of its smoke is sweet and rich.

Walking along the beach in an oversize ankle length 'teddy bear' faux fur coat with a long and lacy black dress revealed beneath it as she walks, Perdita, at a glance, should be cold... though the heavy thermal undergarments beneath the dress are doing a good enough job, despite her current lack of hat. Her stilettos have been replaced by a pair of heavy duty Doc Martens, a small Pride flag embroidered on the heel, their stitching in rainbow tones. As she approaches the fire, her eyebrows go up a little, head tilting to one side slightly. "Figured I'd be the only one out here, this time of year."

He glances up from his contemplation of the embers to blink mildly at her...then he's smiling. "Hey there," he says. "How you doin'? Nah, I'm out here nearly everyday. I'm retired - and that's my boat," He nods at a little sailboat moored few spaces along the dock. White and trim, her sails nearly furled, and the name Surprise on her bow in blue. "Even though I got an apartment on land, I spend a lot of time on her, even this time of year?"

"I don't know much about boats, but I love the name... This... isn't a private beach, right? I don't mean to trespass." There's a slight head tilt in the other direction, and she smiles back. "I'm still not entirely sure what's public and what's private around here..."

"Entirely public," Joe assures her, grinning. "I think that's true for the whole Harbor, in terms of public right of way. I mean, there's parts as are physically inaccessible, but....the stuff you c'n get to, you c'n walk on." The little sailboat gets an enormously fond glance. "She's named after a fictional warship, the HMS Joyful Surprise, from a series of books about the Napoleonic wars. Made a movie out of some of 'em, called Master & Commander. In the books, she's a lucky and a happy ship....I picked it meanin' it as a good omen."

"Good to know, if I can break in, I'm free to be there." She winks at Joe, looking out to the water. "I've missed being by the water. I grew up by a river, and it seemed like half the things worth doing in my town took a boat to get there." She smiles, but she looks sad. Maybe homesick. Maybe her family didn't have a boat. Remembering she's not alone, her expression becomes more guarded. "Wasn't there a film adaption with... the guy from Gladiator?"

"Nothin' like it," the sailor says, nodding. "Only time I lived away from the sea was when I was in Russia....and that was one of the big drawbacks for me. What river'd you grow up on?" Joe wonders. "I'm from Savannah, and my family's home is on the Savannah River." He finally takes a draw on the pipe and says, "Yeah, that's the one. Movie wasn't true to any one of the books in particular, but it was a good adaptation."

"The St. Lawrence river. It was nice, but I definitely prefer the ocean. Or... well. The bay, in this case." Her dark eyes turn back to the water, almost as if searching for something. "I've never seen it, but my mamá loved a good period piece. Costumes, wild adventures... or maybe she just had a crush on the lead. Would explain why Báte didn't like it." she laughs, the sound light and airy in the night.

Joe's laugh is often almost soundless - more a wheeze and a jounce of his shoulders. This is one of those times, his eyes bright with humor. "It's worth it, I think, even if you don't love the books. And the books themselves are real good. Author's got a strange, real old-fashioned style, but they fit what he's writin' about."

He settles back on the flat stone he's sitting on, comfortably. "Where you from? I mean, you don't have to say, you don't wanna." No demurral on his part, but then he's just at the very edge of being a public figure.

"I'd..." she hesitates, then shrugs slightly, as if to say she needs to trust someone. "Originally? New York. Little town with about a thousand people in it. My father didn't want a she'chorne for a 'son', so I got out as soon as I was given the chance. I'm a self made woman... literally." she laughs. "I lived in Miami for a while, but... I was stupid and ended up with a guy who hit me. I got sick of being hit, so I hit back." her smile turns a little vicious. "That's part of why I'm here. He hired a P.I. to find me, and a friend of mine told me he was looking for me."

A little rasping noise of sympathy at that. "Small towns can be hell for that, if you're anything a hair outta line from the normal cishet benchmarks." He pauses for a moment, tapping the pipe out on the edge of the stone, where the ember hisses out on the damp sand. "'d....that's a term from a fantasy novel, isn't it?" Joe says. "I don't 'member which one, but..."

His grin is wry. "Hard thing to go through," he says. "Remakin' yourself into a truer form. Well, you got about as far as you can and still remain in the lower 48....and this place has a way of swallowing up those who need it as a refuge. Not in a bad way, despite all our warnings. Ravn's right about it forcing us to have each others' backs."

There's a slightly undignified laugh from the young woman. Another moment of hesitation before she gives up another little nugget of information. "Kalderash. My Báte is *Rrom. I grew up speaking three different languages. Believe me, it got confusing. Outside the house, we spoke only English. Inside the house, we spoke English around guests, Spanish to Mamá and her family, and Kalderash my father. It's... probably like half of why they divorced." She shivers, getting a little closer to the fire, before she moves to sit on another rock. "I'm usually better at keeping that under wraps." she gives him a look, half playful, half accusatory.

It has Joe giving her another of those thoughtful lookings-over, as he fishes out a little pouch of tobacco from his coat pocket, sets about reloading the pipe. "I shouldn't be surprised there're Rom in America, but....gotta admit, it did surprise me a bit." A glance down as it, as he works, fingers deft from long practice. "What language do you think in?" he wonders. "'r do you switch? I still think in Russian a lot more'n I expected to. More so if I just been readin' that language." A little quirk of his brows, amused. Apparently he has a face for confidences.

"We're all over the world... most of us never say anything because of the negative stereotypes. I tend not to mention it most of the time because I get a hard enough time as it is." she gestures vaguely at herself, "Being Ambiguously Brown is fun enough without the added... other stuff. Ever get 'randomly' selected for a pre-flight check? I do. Every time." at the question of what she thinks in, "Mostly? Profanity." Perdita quips, before pausing to actually think about it, "Mostly in English, these days, because it's the language I use the most. But... when I used to talk to my siblings, I'd think in whatever language we were talking in? Like... no translation needed." her tone is a little wistful, now. "It's... been a few years. The Rroma word for 'gay' literally translates to 'eater of shit' so... that tells you the sort of prejudice I grew up with at times."

He settles the mouthpiece of the pipe carefully, with a click against his teeth. Then he's lighting it with a lighter clearly intended for the purpose. "Yeah," he says, softly. "I read a book a while ago about a gay man who grew up Roma. He was the descendant of a long line of famed boxers and fist-fighters, so o' course they expected him to continue on that tradition. You c'n imagine how well that went."

He gets it drawing to his satisfaction, sighs smokily. "Haven't learned to think in Spanish, yet," he says. "Gettin' there. That's kind of my benchmark for real fluency. Bein' able to carry on that internal conversation."

"I imagine about as well as muro dades finding me with the quarterback going for a touchdown in my bed." she laughs, the sound less reserved than normal, shaking her head, "You'd have thought he caught me murdering someone." the amused tone fails, though, "You'll get there. I think it helps if you actively work at thinking that way, instead of trying to translate your thoughts, you know?"

A voice drifts towards the two by the bonfire, wavering and old. The language is Slavic of some sort, rising and falling in the manner of a song being sung. A melancholy version of a children's nursery rhyme, perhaps truer to its original form.

"Jesteśmy jagódki, czarne jagódki
Mieszkamy w lesie zielonym
Oczka mamy czarne, buźki granatowe
A sukienki są zielone i seledynowe..."

An old woman with a tall staff of equally old, white driftwood slowly enters the firelight, footsteps crunching in the sand. She's bundled up against the coat in a roughly-made shearling coat and fingertip-less gloves, and a simple scarf of dusty rose pashmina is wrapped over her white and gray, braided hair. She looks far too ancient to be out on a night like this, her skin wizened with extreme age, yet her gray-blue eyes are bright and sharp.

He can't help but snort at that, softly. "That also sounds like that was way up there on the list of things not meant to go well." He's wreathed in a cloud of aromatic smoke, now. "Yeah, I've found the brain tends to kind of back into it...."

The sound of that song has him lowering his pipe, slowly....and then standing up. Not like he intends to go anywhere, but more as a sign of respect. "Matushka," he says, quietly. "Come sit by the fire." He gestures to the stone he was sitting on, the one nearest the flames, deferentially.

The young woman's expression softens, as if pulled back to another time. The melody is familiar, but the words are all wrong, close to words she's familiar with, but... not accessible to her. She also rises, a little slower, smiling, "Hello, ma'am." she glances at Joe, as if to see if he knows the woman, or if they should be concerned for her.

The old woman coughs a laugh at Joe. "Why thank you, Commander. You are too kind, to let an old woman warm her bones by your fire." She moves to the seat Joe has vacated, followed by a clanging sound; a moment later, a strange, dusky gray-black goat trots along after her, a rough-hammered, bronze bell at its neck. It has twice as many horns as it should, and its caprinae eyes are ruby red. On its forehead is a gleaming, dark red rune.

The woman settles, rests her staff along her lap, looks at Perdita. "Ah, what have we here. Greetings, Senorita Leontes. I wasn't sure I'd come across you here." She arches an eyebrow. "And why have you not come to my table to have your cards read? Too busy settling in, is it?"

"Respect for my elder was a virtue drummed into me in my youth," he says, quietly. "I don't have another pipe, but I do have cigarettes, if you care to have one?" Clearly he knows her....and his posture is much less easy, if still deliberately calm.

For all his sangfroid, he does startle a little when the goat appears. Peering at it past the fire, drawing himself up to his full height. "And Black Phillip, too," he says, bemused. No move to seat himself on another stone, not yet.

"Santa Sarah e Kali..." the young woman whispers, barely audible, as first the the old woman knows her name... well... one of her names... and then she spots the goat. One hand absently touches her throat, the small unicorn pendant dangling there, brushing her fingers over the back of it. There's a breath from the girl, wary seeming. "I... did not know to come and see you, Drabarni. Yertisar ma." Perdita's free hand absently shifts between what looks like two ASL signs.

The goat baaaahs at Joe. The sound it makes is not a normal bleat; there's an edge to it, a ringing, grating, metallic undertone of warning. The old woman laughs, papery and rough, shakes her head. "Now now, no need to call him names. As if I'd truck with any man giving me orders, making me sign my name into his book." She spits into the fire, reaches out to stroke the goat's ears, which seems to settle it some. "This is Vjernost. Youngest of my bucks."

She considers Perdita, eyes narrowed. "Did you not?" She sounds mildly put out, gives Joe a look to go with that tone. "Commander, is word of my presence so poorly shared?" She sighs. "I suppose I need to do more."

Another of those soundless jolts of laughter, though there's definite unease in the blue eyes. "Fair enough," he concedes, and then he bows his head to the goat. "Beg pardon, Vjernost - didn't mean to cast aspersions." He flickers a look at the old woman. "Yeah, I don't see you needin' to make a deal with anyone, to get what you got."

He turns a hand, an apologetic gesture. "We been tryin'a....ease her in when it comes to the Harbor. I didn't figure she'd need to be sent to you directly, ma'am. Figured you'd let it be known when you wanted to see her, in your own time."

Perdita's brow furrow ever so slightly, more from confusion than anything. "Please, forgive the oversight. I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, though, ma'am..." She smiles, hesitantly, those perfect white teeth bright in the firelight. The goat gets a second look, and her right hand hasn't yet left the unicorn pendant. "I'd be happy to come to you for a reading, if you don't want to trouble yourself tonight, of course."

Vjernost grunts, stamps a foot. He dips his head to one of the rocks and nibbles at it thoughtfully.

The old woman makes a low sound in the back of her throat. "Mmmm. A likely story," she says, eyes half-lidded. "I see you, Commander, Temptation. I see you wiggling your way out of things." She shakes a finger at Joe. "One day it won't be enough. You should consider what you'll do then."

Her attention swivels to Peridta again. "Disadvantage? Ah, you must mean my name." She flips a hand, dismissive. "It's of no consequence. Knowing it won't gain you an advantage of any meaning. But you can ask the Count, he knows me. Or," she tips a head at Joe, "the Commander's wolf, he has a Violinist. They know me, all of them."

She arches an eyebrow, though, at being troubled tonight. "Tonight, hm? Let's just see..." She reaches a hand into one of her pockets, fishes around. She pulls out a tattered journal, shakes her head and drops it back in. Next is a white rat, which peers around blearily until she sets him back in her pocket. Then a fine writing quill. "Well now where--ah." Finally, she pulls out a pack of cards. The back is a simple geometric diamond pattern of alternating colors, the sort of pattern one might expect on a circus tent. She begins to shuffle. "Fortunately, I had one with me."

"She has a lotta names. First one I knew her by is Baba Yaga," And he gives it the Russian pronunciation, with the stresses on the second syllables. Her comment for him has him inclining his head again....and there's the faintest ghost of a grin on his lips. Impish - it takes years from his face, conjures up the image of the boy he must've been. It broadens into something fond at the mention of the wolf and the violinist. "D'you mean I succumb to the temptation, ma'am? Or that I am the temptation?" Is he flirting with her? It seems likely.

"B-baba Y'ga? As in the Baba Y'ga?" The young woman looks very much like she might like to bolt, now. Her father is from The Old Country. He terrified her with stories of the witch of the woods who kidnaps disobedient children, especially little children that looked like her. She doesn't flee, however. For one thing, she's pretty sure the goat would headbutt her if she did, just... because it's a goat. For another, she's quite sure this might be the ACTUAL Baba Yaga, and doesn't want to piss her off. "It's an honor." she manages, diplomatically. For once, though, she's not faking being pleased, because she's fairly sure this woman can see through all her subterfuge, anyway.

"Oh, you remember your card quite well, Commander, I don't think I need to tell you which it is." And to flirt with Baba Yaga--if that's really who this is--Joe must indeed be used to living life on the edge. Will she be pleased, and spirit him away in her house on chicken feet forever? Displeased, and turn him into a toad to sit at the pond eating bugs? Amused, and give him his heart's desire, which will proceed to rip him apart inside and out? Who can say.

She shrugs as Joe suggests a possible name for her. "I hope you haven't let your father poison your mind against me with all that patriarchal nonsense they love to spew. The Old Country is a wretched place for a woman who won't truck with a man's nonsense." Another spit for the fire. "Now, Senorita Leontes, there is a fee. It's not silver with which you'll cross my palm. It must be something of significance to you. Not great significance; nothing you can't bear to be without. But a token of you, a small item of yours. Perhaps a scarf you have on you, or a lock of your hair." Her lips twitch in a surpressed smile. "A bit of your Art, maybe?"

But he has his heart's desire, and it tears him with its burning fangs on a regular basis.....and he's always delighted in the devouring. "I do remember it, ma'am," he agrees, gently. Though there's a glint of faintly malicious amusement at the sight of Perdita's usually flawless composure cracking.

He watches the interplay with curiosity, finally settling back down on another of the ring of flat stones around the fire.

"There's very little in this world I can't do without Deya Dey." Perdita smiles, a real smile, and it... is very different from what normally crosses her face. Rummaging in her pocket, she pulls out a pair of... opera glasses? held in a black drawstring bag. "I've had these for years, they've seen sights across the country, but they've yet to show me anything worth keeping. Maybe you'll have better luck with them, Deya Dey." she steps toward the old woman, holding them out toward her. They're well made, shiny golden, without any other sort of foppery, with faded, worn initials on the bridge's knob. It looks like... L... K... maybe?

A final, daring flash of the old woman's teeth to Joe, and her attentions shift to Perdita. "Ah, or so you think. But that's because you've been moving, running even, for so long, you've had to travel light. Once you settle and grow roots, you'll be loathe to tear free. Then you'll find you've much to lose." All the same, she considers the opera glasses, nods her approval. "A fine trade." She tucks them back into the bag, slides them into her pocket. Vjernost, meanwhile, has chewed his way through one rock, ground it to dust, and moved on to another.

"So then. You need not tell me what you wish to know." Another shuffle, then she sets the deck down on a large rock next to her, nods for Perdita to cut them. "Only focus on it as you cut the cards."

The pilot seems to take it as written that he's invited to watch. Back to smoking his pipe, the ember flaring and dying in time with his slow breaths. The light of the fire catches in his eyes, leaving them looking pale as crystal, as he stretches his legs out before him again, comfortably.

The girl doesn't seem to notice the goat's... peculiar dietary needs, more caught up in what the old woman is saying. Something like old hurt crosses her face after the comment about running, and she nods, slowly. Bending, she cuts the cards for the old woman as instructed, focusing on her question. Her hands are perfectly steady, the manicured points of her nails tipped in gold that catches in the firelight. Is Perdita bougie enough to have gold leaf on her nails, or is she smart enough to have just used a metallic polish? The world may never know, but Baba Y'ga probably can tell it's just polish.

The old woman restacks the cards, pulls the first one. The art is colored pencil, done in a rustic style with high detail in simple drawings. The first card is a woman standing on an ice floe, a blue and white tea cup offered up, with a narwahl's horn appearing in the water behind her. She's dressed head to foot in a white bear fur suit. "The Queen of Cups," the old woman says. "A woman of emotional intuition, compassionate and caring. See how she comes out into the cold to offer hospitality? She moves along the ice with ease, for she's in tune with its movements. The flow of life isn' treacherous to her--its her world. And see," she taps on the offered teacup, which is capped by ice, "how her cup is closed? Her feelings are from her deeper soul, not merely surface affectations." She dips her head at Perdita. "This is you, I think. A woman of the bitter cold of the far north or south oceans, who somehow has not let it pierce her own heart."

The next card is some manner of robot man dressed as a postal worker, a letter in his hand, pierced through with arrows, eight in total. A pigeon with a letter in its beak sits next to him, but they're upside down. "The Eight of Wands, in reverse." She ponders it a time, taps it. "This is a card of delays. The messenger is slain, so his letter can't arrive, and thus whomever it was meant for won't know what it held. It also suggests a refusal to change--you're waiting for a sign which may never come. This card says it won't. You must realign yourself, plan anew."

The final card is a man dressed as some manner of scarecrow, or hay monster, holding hands with a racoon, four swords strapped to his back and a fifth in his other hand. A coral snake winds up his sword. "The Five of Swords." She frowns. "This warns you of coming conflict. This man is prepared for war, armed and armored. Poorly armored, though, and see how a poisonous snake, easily confused for a harmless one, approaches his sword? The danger is closer than he knows, and with it, defeat." She shakes her head at Perdita. "Conflict and competition beset you. Perhaps in," she gestures at the town, "this your new home, perhaps further afield. Or, of course, both."

She sweeps up the three cards, narrows her eyes, and pulls a fourth. A tattooed man, his feet tied by a piece of rope, carried through the sky by a barn owl. "The Hanged Man," she says. "As I suspected. The cards suggest you give yourself over to the experiences of," her arm takes in everything in a sweep--Joe, the bonfire, the ocean, the town lurking in the dark beyond, its lights a mere suggestion--"all this place may offer you. Your perspective here is new, and you should let that guide you. Don't refuse it."

The four cards go back into the deck, the deck into her pocket.

Joe's face is still, thoughtful, head a little cocked to favor his better ear. It gives him an oddly vulturish air, in the firelight. Then he remembers his pipe and takes a long draw from it, before blowing a ring of smoke politely away from them, letting the cold breeze take it and shred it.

Only then does he observe just how the goat is dining...and raising his hand to call its attention, he offers it the pack of cigarettes he mentioned earlier. Maybe he likes Lucky Strikes.

The young woman sits at the crone's feet on a lower rock, watching the cards as they're placed, dark eyes discerning meaning in them even as the woman explains them to her. Her eyes flicker from Baba Yaga to the cards and back several times, catching her full lower lip slightly between her teeth as she listens. Something out there, in the darkness, the world at large, is hunting for her. Not that it's any surprise to her, at all. "I... think I understand." she says softly, meeting the old woman's gaze with a small but determined smile.

Perdita tilts her head back, looking up at the stars. "Not that long ago, I met a man. He... thought he owned me. Don't they always?" she glances to Joe, now, "No offense." before she continues, "He hurt me. So I hurt him back, a lot worse. He's what I've been running from. I told myself in Seattle I was done running from him, but... here I am again. You're right to say this is my new home, because I'm not running again. If he tries anything again I'll be waiting, this time. Thank you for your wisdom, Deya Dey."

Vjernost turns his head sideways, eyes those cigarettes with one gleaming, carmine eye. He leaves off rock-munching to snag the pack from Joe's hand, begins chewing them down with relish. The answer is, yes, he does like Lucky Strikes.

"Oh," she looks askance at Joe, "all offense, even to that one. Perhaps especially." Is she teasing Joe, or dead serious? Probably both, as always.

She nods at Perdita scratches her chin. "No more running, the cards say. I'd listen. Otherwise, once he catches you, you're simply tired." She plants her staff in the ground, uses it to leverage herself to her feet. "Well now. I should be going. Tell your friends to come get a reading while the offer is still good, will you?"

Vjernost turns to trot after her, detouring to bump against Joe in...maybe it's meant to be a thank you? Be careful, Joe, those horns will hurt if they bump anything 'important'.

He may have a wolf, but he's an old predator himself. She hasn't seen that self yet, with its sharp beak and its curling talons. "None taken," he assures her, gently. "They generally do. I been guilty of it myself." And still is...knowing makes it no easier to cease. "You'll have others with you, if you need," he adds to Perdita, with that measured calm.

He flashes that rakish grin at the old woman again. He knows what he is, and there's no denying. "Sorry, Vjernost, I didn't have but the one on me," he apologizes, even as he rises again, respectfully.

Rising to her feet as the old lady does, Perdita's there to lend assistance if she needs it, though of course she doesn't, not with that sturdy staff of hers, "I definitely will, Deya Dey. Thank you, again." she watches the woman heading off, then glances at Joe, her expression slightly... drawn, as if that interaction took something more from her than just the opera glasses. Maybe it's just that she let the mask slip, fully, for a moment. "This... definitely isn't a normal town." she admits. Folks have been warning her, of course, but it's one thing to hear it, it's another to see. She's fully aware the old woman COULD just be a grifter with a mutant goat and some phosphorescent paint for the goat. She knows a few of the tricks, after all... but that felt like the real deal.

"No, not normal in the least," the old woman agrees. "Thank the stars." She gives them both a mischievous grin, and heads off into the night.

The goat snorts at Joe; how dare he not carry a whole carton of smokes just for one demonic goat? Really, the nerve. Vjernost trots off after the old woman, bell clanking. Once she's out of the firelight, the old woman resumes singing that same, gentle nursery rhyme.

We are blueberries, black berries
We live in a green forest
We have black eyes, navy blue smileys
And the dresses are green and aquamarine...

"That was relatively gentle, as a .....first experience with that stuff goes," he says, language more circumspect than he might usually be. A lady is a lady, after all, even if he is a salty-mouthed old sailor. "You know, this place tends to attract those who know stage magic and legerdemain....and those who want a new mask to wear. Many of us here are more than they look at first glance, even aside from just the Shine."

Joe settles back down on the stone the old woman vacated, taps out the pipe again. The ember winks like an eye, and then goes out, and he leans forward to put more wood on the fire.

A business card appears in Perdita's hand, as if by magic, and she offers it to Joe. She's good. Maybe not perfect, but good. It's just got her name and a phone number on it. "Just... in case you need to get ahold of me. I can be rather hard to track down, from habit." She smiles at him, though she still looks tired. "I should get back to my hotel room before I turn into a pumpkin. I need to wash twelve pounds of make up off before I can sleep, after all." she winks at the man, probably joking. Probably.

"Like I once had a girlfriend say to me....it takes a goddamned lot of makeup to look like a natural beauty," Joe says, as he takes the card, tucks it carefully away in his wallet. Then he's pausing, and handing her a scrap of paper with his own number on it. "You take care," he wishes her.

She takes the scrap, tucking it deep into an inner pocket on her coat, smiling at Joe. "You too. Be on the look out for chicken tracks on your way back to the boat." She starts heading up the beach toward the parking area, singing softly as she goes, something upbeat and catchy, and definitely also not in English.