#rasputin!thread;

“Well, had to make myself presentable.” Maybe it was maybe a bit too much of an over-step considering he didn’t really know where he was going to end up. Well, there was that and being chased by some not too happy Sontarans. It was the usual when he was left to his own devices, truly.  

“I also,” he says, hands slipping behind his back, not even caring about the fact of how close the other was, “happen to have an invitation.” He decided to ignore the part about the year. Not because he couldn’t answer it - no, Dylan just wasn’t going to for the moment.

The human looks… familiar. Something he chooses not to dwell on. It's not like he ever remembers anything positive from his past lives, anyway, nothing that ever makes his current regeneration any easier. He's cute, though, he'll give him that. Maybe it's just the confident way he asserts that he's meant to be there, that he was invited, that he's not at all concerned with being called out like this.

The realm split apart, a nasty tear before Dwight’s very eyes. It sucked up the life around it like a black hole. He held onto Meg, the closet person near him before she fell into the rip of reality. Eventually Dwight fell in as well, and it felt like he was falling forever. Until he wasn’t. He hit the hard ground with an ‘oof’ and immediately felt the bitter cold biting at his skin. He thought about laying in the cold there, the snow drifting onto his body. Maybe he would die a real death this time. But he didn’t fight just to die like this.

After walking around, Dwight had no idea where he was, nor where they any tell signs that gave it away. He knew he was in a courtyard, that’s where he started off. He peered into the windows, a glazing spectacle of dancers and beautiful attires. It looked warm in there. And there was food. And there just so happened to be a spare customer laying out, discarded by a couple who were dying to jump each other’s bones rather than join in the party. When Dwight awkwardly shuffled inside, there was great relief. Nobody gave him a second glance. This was good! Dwight immediately spotted a table of food and he felt hunger hit him like a freight train. It took all his might to not devour everything in sight, no need to draw attention to himself.

However, when the stranger approached him, his blood nearly ran cold. “What?” He sputtered out, crumbs on the corner of his lips. “What are you talking about?”

It's difficult to say whether Dwight is playing dumb or if he's genuinely dumb. This could just be a ploy to take suspicion off of him, to trick the Master into letting his guard down. Regardless, the Master loses his patience nearly immediately. His entire plan hinges on no one noticing anything out of place, and this party crasher is more focused on the food than on the structural integrity of the timeline.

‘One minute I’m about to work on a corpse, and now I’m back in the 1900s oh joy oh joy…fucking kill me if it’s possible. Kill me ‘til I’m dead.’

First thing’s first, this guy was way too close for comfort, hence the backstep and brushing of herself; as if his closeness would taint her somehow. It was also a subtle jab of her usual rudeness. But human? She could have corrected him right then and there, but what was the point: the objective now was to get back to the time period she was in.

‘1916 huh.’

Oh yes, she could remember where she had been during this time period: her bruised and battered past self would have been deep in the trenches with the Foreign Legion right about now. Hell, even now, she could still recall the memory of her comrades back then dying all around her, whether riddled with disease or grievous wounds.

Well, remeniscing won’t get her anywhere. It’s time to question the eccentric over here.

“Your olefactory senses to be questioned later: why am I here is the question?” Something told her that outing herself as death would not be wise. To delegate herself as a confused guest would work, if only this one would stop haggling her. “Really now, drunkenly accosting someone is rather….low.”

She looks undeniably familiar, though he can't quite place it. Someone from a past life, undoubtedly. That nagging familiarity, the certainty that he'd met her dozens if not hundreds of years ago, combined with her words leads him to realize that she's right. Her scent isn't quite human.

It was small minded of him to think of the categories as 'Time Lord' or 'other' and then label all the other as human. The realization puts him just slightly on edge. He's underestimated her, something that could easily backfire on him.

Ohh, Thera should really have known this wasn't going to go smoothly.  She'd noticed the man watching her several minutes earlier, had seriously thought about heading for the door - she didn't need a bearded Cossack stranger deciding to try his luck - but for the moment she had nowhere else to go.

But with all that said ... when he did approach her his line of chat was very different from anything she might expect. Which, considering the way coincidence liked to sneak up and mug her, had probably been a mistake. But of all the people in the world, of course she had to run into ... well, another like herself.

She took a quiet breath and a smooth step back, eyeing him sidelong.

"I'm here because I missed it the first time."

The woman takes a step back and he does nothing to close the newly found space between them, though the distance does little to dampen the intensity with which he's staring her down. At her very brief explanation, he squints, scrunches up his nose; really plays up how hard he's thinking about it, and just how much he doubts the honesty of her claims. But, really- it's understandable. She picked a good year.

He grins at her once he decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. Whether she's up to something or not, getting more familiar with her is the only way to know for sure.

Indeed , the particular technology & blend of small - batched ingredients required to formulate his preferred product reside exclusively in modern day Sweden. The allowance couldn’t be avoided. “ Oh , ” it appears I’ve been made . ” Such a novelty in itself, this line of questioning coming from Grigori Rasputin is almost … de trop. ( Almost. ) Despereaux turns, eyebrow raised, cheeks dimpling as his grin widens just past polite. The intimate proximity remains intact. “To answer your question in the simplest way possible, I’m at this spectacular soirée because I can be . ” Thanks, of course, to a charming device retrieved from a once - prominent diplomat’s personal safe alongside a particularly priceless cache of emeralds. The thief inclines his head, considers the cut crystal glass in his hand before his gaze glimmers back on the so - called Mad Monk. “The 21st century does grow dull after a time, & where else would I partake in such fine champagne & company tonight ? ”

The man’s answer seems straightforward enough. It may not be the truth, but it has too much charm for this to be one of the Doctor’s new companions. Despereaux isn’t here on anyone else’s orders, he’s here of his own free will. 

But, why, is the question? Time travelers are a tricky bunch. But, the Master is in no rush. He’s here to mingle. If this man is really up to something, it’ll come to light in time and be dealt with swiftly. He does, however, intend to keep a close eye on him. 

He remains just as near as he’s been, close enough to smell his hair products, close enough that it might look odd if not for the fact that the entire country is already used to his peculiar behavior. He reaches around the human, nearly pinning him against the table in the process.