[hr][hr][center][h1][color=9e0b0f][b]Российский императорский цирк[/b][/color][/h1][/center]
[center][color=9e0b0f][b](Russian Imperial Circus)[/b][/color][/center]
[center][h3][color=c0c0c0]Sister Mary Ignatia Hale[/color] & [color=firebrick]The Great Bazhooli[/color][/h3][/center]
[center][sub][color=c0c0c0]Страшная католическая девушка[/color] & [color=firebrick]Vladimir Alexandrov[/color][/sub][/center]
[hr][hr]

	This small child had a overabundance of nerve. First he inexpertly threatens The Great Bazhooli with the Scary Catholic Girl's polearm, insisting that he cannot enter one of his own people's tents, and now he wanted food. Admittedly, it was for Elizaveta. Mostly for Elizaveta, Vladimir suspected, but it was supposedly for a cause that he agreed with. He admired the little guy's дерзость[sub]1[/sub]. Vlad took a knee, speaking quietly to Adam. [color=firebrick]"Da. Da, little one, there is food..."[/color] a light seemed to come to life in his eyes, one known very well to the others of the Circus. He was seldom without it when he spoke, unless the situation was grave. It served to indicate when he was brimming with unrefined Bazhooli-ness that needed a venting point. His casual whisper gradually turned into projection, which then splattered messily into the realm of shameless roaring. [color=firebrick]"...there is food in plentiful amounts, little Adam. Foods of our people from generations past! Foods enough to gorge herd of vild donkeys! [i]Donkeys[/i], Маленький![/color][sub]2[/sub] [color=firebrick]Have you concept of the donkeys, and food they can vith the eating? [i]Donkeys![/i]"[/color] 

	Naturally, he seemed very adamant about the concept. But moreso in the superior cuisine available, which in all honesty was a mere cut above the concept of street food. They were a circus, after all, and had only had food prepared at that moment with the expectation of ticket-bearing guests from London. But it was significantly better than most had access to in the city proper. Vladimir had risen (read: leapt) to his feet, enraptured in the discussion of suppertime. [color=firebrick]"Ve have the hot, moist cheburek! Ve have the fish blini! Ve have the cakes made from potato, da! Ve have pastry made from honeys and beet sugars! Meats carved from bone, [i]roasted[/i] over aromatic voods! Sausages both sveety [i]and[/i] meaty! Cheeses both pungent and exotic! Sugars! Savories! Salties! Roasted beet on stick! Roasted turnip on stick! Many roasted ve-ge-ta-ble... [i]ON STICK[/i]!"[/color] The wild look in his eyes seemed to spill out into the rest of him, animating his limbs to the point of barely controlled flailing. 

	Dashing to the tent flaps, Vlad poked his face out and began screaming culinary requests at passersby that worked with the cooks and/or utility personnel. [color=firebrick]"You! You there! Нам нужна еда, вода и вино в палатке прославленной великой княгини Романовой! ТЕПЕРЬ![/color][sub]3[/sub][color=firebrick] Meat pies! Yes, many meat pies!"[/color] his seemingly disembodied head bellowed. [color=firebrick]"Чтобы нас не догнал Голод, и мы обращаемся к инфекционному каннибализму, разрывая кишечник наших друзей и семьи! Пища, чтобы исцелить наших больных и исправить наших раненых![/color][sub]4[/sub][color=firebrick] ...and something sweet. Is for boy."[/color]

	Meanwhile, Mary was keeping her hands full trying to [b]think[/b] in the vicinity of a fully active Great Bazhooli, pondering the meaning of the visions of the Russian firewalker, Constantin, and the observations of Elizaveta. The concept of visions was not fully unknown to her; there were rumors of people from the Church with similar abilities from history, though they were either treated as prophets. Or heretics. Or set on fire. Such was the fate of one of her personal heroes, The Maid of Orleans. Perhaps her presence was fortuitous in this instance, or even determined by Providence. [color=c0c0c0]"Miss Wyndham..."[/color] It seemed like so much had happened the previous night, enough to have lasted months instead of just hours. Perspective was an odd thing that way. [color=c0c0c0]"I believe that I had the pleasure of speaking with her just the once, and it was in introduction only."[/color] 

	She considered the event at Almack's in greater detail. [color=c0c0c0]"I am afraid I must confess that my attention was elsewhere. The engagement announcements were not my priority. Though I seem to recall that Miss Wyndham was not in the best of spirits that hour."[/color] She wondered again about the vision. Haze, lace, broomstick, thistle. Pain. Considerable pain. Those images brought memories of how marriages took place in Scotland, with a blend of the old and new ways. She supposed Ireland too, perhaps Mann (though the Scandinavian influence was just as heavy there), but why a [i]thistle[/i], specifically? Mary had a thought. Perhaps it was something that clicked, but more likely it was an idea based upon her own conjecture. [color=c0c0c0]"The thistle... is a national symbol of Scotland. It is not necessarily associated with weddings, in and of itself, outside of my country. Provided that you are correct, Grand Duchess, and the vision pertained to the wedding of Miss Wyndham and that unseemly Lord, then it is specifically a [i]Scottish[/i] wedding."[/color] 

	But why Scotland? There were Vicars in London that would perform the ceremony, after the proper time and protocols had taken place. It would only be a matter of time, unless they wished to bend protocol and bind themselves in holy matrimony much, much sooner. Between the screaming of the Master of the Bazhooli Sem'ya, sticking his head out of the tent, Mary asked a solemn, two word question. [color=c0c0c0]"The Green?"[/color] 

[hider=Translations]
1	=	Chutzpah (derzost')
2	=	Little One (malen'kiy)
3	=	We need food and water and wine in the tent of the illustrious Grand Duchess Romanova! NOW!  
4	=	Lest the Hunger overtake us, and we turn to infectious cannibalism, ripping out the intestines of our friends and family! Food to heal our sick and mend our wounded!

[/hider]