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Kraven has arrived, and though he lacks the actual fanfare and pomp he feels such an event might warrant, you can be rest assured that it is going on in his head, loudly, and with streamers. He is not a man who subtly enters a room, and upon choosing to celebrate his landing in New York City here, at this particular establishment, he throws open the double doors simultaneously, and announces himself. "I have arrived! Ladies may swarm to my side, and ales will be poured immediately!" His booming voice, with a heavy Russian accent which he has never bothered to hide, carries across the small Midtown bar; not a dive, nor a high-end club, but somewhere in-between, where the servers are dressed in clothes that don't look obviously slutty, but you don't have to feel awkward about tipping the fellow in the bathroom holding the towel for you. Sergei Kravinoff is, as they will say in some decades, in the house, and he /owns/ it. The large, very large, Russian man crosses the floor to stand at the bar, where he expects to be recognized immediately by the bartender. "Two of your finest," he says, motioning to the taps. "And three shots of Stolichnaya," he orders, rapping his fist on the surface of the bar. His eyes move around the room, searching, hunting, if you will, for companions to join him in his reverie. The Hunter is in fine spirits tonight; with luck, for the sake of those who wish a quiet evening out, he will remain in such.
*
Sitting down from the bar from him is a beautiful young woman, with rich, auburn hair and eyes of warm honey. Her lips are painted to perfection and look like two ripe cherries, and her attire is fitting for the location, and signifies her as a woman of means. But her expression, beautifully powdered and perfect as porcelain, is somber. Once the booming voice of Kraven comes from the door, she turns his way and stares with doe like eyes, each lined black, and their lids are dusted with silvery-grey powder. As he settles at the counter, and orders his drink, she offers him a kind, timid smile, before turning her attentions away, and hiding herself behind the brim of her wine flute. Her drink for the evening is a sparkling rose, and her grip on the vessel is delicate. Even her well manicured fingers have been polished to a shine, each digit a vibrant ruby.
*
"And another glass for the lovely lady at the end of the bar," Sergei's voice booms again, fully expecting his demand to be met without confusion or refusal. He stands and moves to sit next to the young beauty; if there are others in the way, or occupying the seat where he wishes, he will give them /the look/, which says in no uncertain terms to move, or risk losing precious parts of your anatomy. There is no arguing with that look, and from the man's appearance, he is capable of making good on any threat, unspoken or otherwise. "Good evening, my dear," he says, allowing his accent to shine through; women love a man with an accent, right? Perhaps not a Russian one, here in America though. Even so, he is proud of where he comes from, and as a man whose family died fighting against the revolutionaries who brought about the Soviet Union, he should be celebrated here in America, not shunned! We all hate the Communists here, don't we?! Perhaps such distinctions are beyond the average New Yorker. "I am newly arrived in your country, and your city. Share a drink with me, to celebrate," he says; it's not a question, but an instruction. He does not pose questions which may be refused. "And tell me your story; what could a very beautiful woman such as you be doing alone in a place like this, on a night like tonight? It is a crime, certainly, to leave such a creature unattended!"
*
The youth blinks, her eyes going wide as a drink is ordered in her favor. She at least thanks the mountain of a Russian a smile, and then he moves her way. Like a rabbit she shrinks in on herself, her exposed shoulders lowering as she takes another sip from her glass. His accent, however, causes a glimmer of intrigue to shine in her eyes. "Welcome!" She greets, her own voice holding the solid inflection that was a New Yorker, born and bred. "I hope the weather wasn't too rough on your arrival." Something seems to dawn on the girl, who leans closer and covers her mouth to whisper a conspiracy to him. "Are you running from the Commies?" The very idea of them causes her to shudder. Her story? A flush of pink stains her pale cheeks as she glances away from the bar, and then back up toward Kraven. "I was suppose to meet someone very important to me here, but I think he's given me the run-around." A pouty frown, she finishes off her remaining drink, only to have a fresh refill of her favored wine. "I'm sorry. You don't want to hear about a silly girl drowning her sorrows with booze." A pause, she offers her hand out, fingers down as if expecting him to offer her knuckles a kiss. "I'm Wendy."
*
"Nonsense, dear little Wendy," Kraven says loudly, without caring who or what might hear him. "If I did not want to hear it, I would not have asked!" His wide smile beams down at the small girl, and a moment later his drinks, and her new glass, are delivered. "I am not running; Sergei Kravinoff runs from NO-ONE," he says, making sure to emphasize the last word with both volume and a thump of his hand on the bar. He picks up one of the shots of vodka, and nudges one toward her. "Drink with me. To New York, and new challenges!" He shouts, lifting the shot into the air, and expecting others to toast along with him. They probably won't. "This man, of supposed importance, he is a fool," he says after a moment, and a drink, the volume of his voice dropping to a more reasonable level now. He leans forward, rather boldly, and breathes in the girl's scent, closing his eyes for just a moment. "You have an intoxicating aroma, my dear," he says, his tone almost a low growl. That scent is familiar; beyond the perfume, the makeup, the smell of her laundry detergent, the scent of /her/ being, it is one he has known before. But where? The thought vexes him, but he does not allow it to show on his features. "If your man were to arrive now, and you must choose between him, or to have me as your companion for the evening, which would you choose, I wonder?"
*
Not being able to refuse, even if she wanted to, the girl lifts her glass of the clear liquid and raises it. "Cheers!" She chirps out before downing her drink, her face twisting up slightly at its bitter burn as it rolls down her delicate throat. Covering her cherry lips, she coughs lightly and clears her throat. "Excuse me. I'm not use to it." She bashfully admits. Reaching for her wine glass, she freezes in her seat, feeling the man lean forward and drink in her smell. Where her cheeks were a pale pink, they now dive into scarlet as she nervously sips from her beverage. The question, so bold, has those golden orbs swell with surprise. "How bold of you, Mr. Kravinoff. I suppose that he is late, and I suppose that he has lost his chance to be my companion." She smiles, trying her best to return the Russian's personality. "There's no question to it. I am in your company now, after all. Why would I change?"
*
Sergei lets out a hearty chuckle at the girl's reaction to the vodka, and immediately downs the third shot himself; he is much more accustomed to the liquor, obviously, drinking them down like they were little more than water. "I am nothing if not a bold man, my dear," he says bluntly. "When I see what I want, I do not hesitate." His eyes level on the girl, making it obvious what his intentions must be. A wide, almost predatory smile crosses his lips. "You may call me Sergei, my dear. You are correct, there can be no question. Tonight, you are mine, and I will have words with any man who would try to take you from me," he says boldly, in an intentional display of bravado. Though it can be safely assumed he would not stop himself at mere words. This is a man of action first, words rarely, unless to boast or make a claim. He reaches blindly for one of the draughts he had ordered, and picks up the pint glass, draining roughly half the ale once it reaches his lips. As large as he is, it will likely take a great deal of alcohol before he begins to feel its effects.
*
The Hunter's aura is something to behold. It was all consuming, and even if others were paying attention only to stare in awe, he was still reaping for his show. The girl beside him giggles softly, covering her lips to show politeness before silencing herself with another sip of her wine. Thankfully, her share of vodka was gone now, and not something she had to worry about any longer. "You're so full of life, Mr. Kra-Sergei. This city has been a mess lately, and it's so dark and cold outside. But, here you are, making a girl feel special, even if you just met her. How do you do it?" She turns, smoothly crossing one leg over the other. "I'd kill to have confidence like you."
*
"That is the secret, my dear," Kraven says, leaning closer again. "The hunt. The kill. Once you have stalked and subdued the greatest beasts of this world, everything else becomes small." He takes in another deep breath, taking in that scent, and struggles to identify it. Such familiarity. But he cannot place it, as hard as he might try. "This New York, it has seen much. Creatures of the night, beasts beyond the ken of mortals," he says, chuckling, "But I dare say, not beyond the skill of Kraven the Hunter." A laugh now, and he draws the pint to his lips again, draining the remainder easily. "Do you fear such things? Worry not, sweet Wendy," he boasts, the Russian accent thick, his speech not the diction of the peasant class, but of the aristocracy; a social status he has clung to, despite it no longer having a place in the world. "I would protect you from any dangers this city might possess."
*