#upyr

I wanted to post these because he’s very much my muse at times. My biggest weakness is drawing historical garments or making my own historical themed garments. It turns out ya girl Tatiana knows the most about Russian garments specifically.

This one was kinda silly because it’s a sneaker piece for my indie project. Ivan was re-imagined in the culture of the main country. The main country being an amalgamation post apocalypse of Kazakhstan, Russia, Hungary, Ukraine, Mongolia, Tibet, Siberia, and north Caucasus, It was a silly exercise and a bit self indulgent to draw characters I like in the garments of this post apocalypse world.

I brainstormed a FrUk AU in this world one time but got too EMBARASSED and chickened out, AU Ivan is all that exists.

These ones are kinda old and I did them a while ago but were fun exercises to once again draw historical garments

Then there was the time I drew him in the castlevania artstyle because I was trying to spread my Upyr and oprichnik propaganda

if i had a nickel for every menace-to-the-society-fictional-man with a strange companion in their head no one can see i'd have two nickels which- english version and close-ups under the cuttt

The Thaumaturge (2024)

• opyri can be of two origins: born and made. made opyri are made by witches, who can smear a baby with blood of a man who went to sleep without praying, thus making the child an opyr.

• opyri have two souls. when opyr dies, only one soul goes to the otherworld. this is why they continue living after death. they aren't immortal though, and only live post-death for seven years. you can presume the person who died was an opyr and will return later if right after their death was a great storm.

• they are very merry fellas and are known to sing, dance and play musical instruments. you can see them partying if you go to the village border at midnight. they also can be spotted smoking a pipe while laying in their coffin.

• opyr can turn into variety of different things: a child, a white or a black dog, a cat, a wolf, a horseman.

• if someone sneezes and you don't respond with "bless you" such person can become an easy target for opyr.

Part 1

@black-ak9' suggestion 🖤

It's always entertaining for me to learn something like this! There will be 2 or 3 more posts on this topic

Nosferatu

Across central and eastern Europe, the nosferat (“plague carrier”) is perhaps the best known species of all the vampires, considered by many to be the quintessential traditional vampire. There are several ways a person can become a nosferat, such as being born the seventh son of a seventh son, being born with a caul, the mother not eating any salt during her pregnancy or having the misfortune of looking upon a vampire while pregnant, being born an illegitimate stillborn child to parents who are also of illegitimate birth, or having died the victim of a nosferat attack. The nosferat who was created because it died an illegitimate child has a deep hatred for married people, as its own parents were never married. Nosferatu, as they are collectively called, can be either male or female, and are seen as an object of sexual desire to their victims. Shortly after nightfall, these revenants rise from their graves and seek out their prey. A successful nosferat establishes itself as the sexual partner of at least one individual whom it returns to in order to feed. Over an extended period of time, the constant blood and life energy drain becomes too much and the victim dies. Usually, nosferatu cause infertility in their prey, but on occasion a male of the species can impregnate a human female. The child, called a moroi, will be born with a full head of hair and for all its life will continue to have a full head of wild, unkempt hair. Eventually, it will develop magical abilities and realize its full potential by becoming a witch.

Masterlist - Misc. masterlist

Grigori Rasputin x female reader

Part 1 - 2

Words: 1653 (1723)

Summary: you, dear reader, are a thaumaturge traveling through the world. You attended a soirée, the invitation extended to you and Wiktor personally by Lazarev

Reader: short female reader with curves, but no other specific descriptions are used

Part 3

The moment you stepped outside into the cool evening air, Dantalion manifested beside you in a ripple of shadowed crimson, his voice low as he spoke within your mind.

“You let him too close, beloved one.”

You brushed stray hair from your face, still flushed from the intimate exchange as you murmured within your thoughts.

“He needed to see who I am… all of me.”

Dantalion’s everchanging-faced gaze flickered, unreadable as ever, before he closed his tome with a soft thud, an obvious, always same, annoyed expressions flickering through his shifting faces.

“Then you should know”. he continued, “that the man’s soul burns strangely - he is a thaumaturge, but there is no salutor attached to him. he shouldn’t exist the way he does…”

You froze mid-step, turning your head sharply as a cold tremor ran down your spine.

“That’s impossible”, you whispered, though the memory of his mind, vast, bruised and hungry. made the truth feel all too plausible.

“Impossible”, Dantalion’ soft tone echoed, “yet he walks with power borrowed from nothing but himself… a void where a companion should dwell.”

Your pulse quickened, confusion and fascination tangling like vines in your chest as you looked back toward the house where Rasputin still lingered.

“He thinks God placed me before him”, you said softly, “and I don’t know whether that makes him dangerous… or simply lost.”

Dantalion’s shifting eyes narrowed, studying you as though parsing truths you hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

“Be careful, beloved”, he whispered, “men this powerful who walk without a salutor cling to faith, desire, or madness to fill the void.”

You paused beneath a lantern, letting its glow chase away the lingering shadows of Rasputin’s touch, and murmured.

“And which of those do you think guides him?”

“All three, aimed entirely at you”, Dantalion’s voice wrapped around you like velvet as he answered.

Grigori sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the dim glow of the candles as he whispered to himself.

“What are you doing to me, angel?”

He had felt your presence inside his mind like a warm blade, cutting through certainties he had carried for years, exposing hollows he never knew were there. He lifted a trembling hand to his lips, stunned by how vividly he could still feel your kiss. so real that he muttered a blessing under his breath, unsure if it was gratitude or desperation. Only then did it strike him that what he had felt in the void was not simply enchantment but a power he had no right to withstand, let alone welcome so completely.

He knew thaumaturgy, knew its echoes in the soul, and yet he felt no familiar tether within himself. no guardian spirit, no salutor, only an empty, ringing space where something should have dwelled.

For the first time, the absence frightened him.

For so long he had believed his strength came from God alone, but now he sensed the truth with a cold clarity: his power moved through him untethered, wild. The emptiness where a companion should have resided pulsed like a bruise beneath his ribs, a silent confirmation that something essential had always been missing. And yet you. so effortlessly, so naturally, had stepped into that void as if it belonged to you by right. He found himself replaying the moment your lips touched his, the way your will slipped into his consciousness with the ease of breathing, and it frightened him how willingly he had yielded. Never before had he surrendered control without fear, but Grigori understood that whatever path lay before him, it now wound irrevocably and dangerously toward you. He wondered if God had denied him a salutor because He intended for you to be the one to guide him, to shape him, to anchor the storm within him. The thought made his heart pound, a dangerous mixture of devotion and longing that tasted almost like prophecy. And as he pressed a hand to his chest, Grigori silently vowed that whatever this bond was, holy, perilous, or utterly mad, he would follow it to its end.

You arrived at the Nadarzynskis’ house on Wiktor’s arm, the warm spill of lamplight from the windows failing to dispel the tension Dantalion had warned you about moments earlier. Inside, Mary welcomed you with practiced elegance while Magdalene hovered nearby, her smile bright and unfocused, eyes straying again and again toward the drawing room. Wiktor leaned closer as you handed over your coat, his voice barely audible.

“Madgalene still hasn’t rid herself of her youthful naivete. I think she’s honestly fallen in love with Rasputin.”

Before you could answer aloud, his voice brushed your thoughts instead, light and teasing.

Should I be worried? Are you jealous?

You let your reply slip back along the same unseen channel, amused and unbothered.

Only of her illusions.

Wiktor suppressed a smile, eyes flicking toward Rasputin just as the man turned, reverence softening his expression when he saw you, as though God had briefly parted the crowd.

The party had settled into a hum of music and conversation when you felt Rasputin’s attention find you again, deliberate and unhurried.

He approached with that familiar half-smile, reverent and amused in equal measure, as though greeting a vision that insisted on speaking back.

“You look unimpressed”, he observed lightly, eyes flicking toward the clustered guests circling him, “shall I assume Heaven finds Warsaw lacking?”

You arched a brow, swirling your drink.

“On the contrary, Grigori. I find it endlessly entertaining how easily people mistake fascination for faith.”

A soft laugh left him, genuine, and for a moment the weight of the room seemed to lift.

“You wound me”, he replied, placing a hand over his chest, “I would never confuse the two… except, perhaps, when God sends me an angel who refuses to behave like one.”

You leaned closer, voice lowered just enough to feel intimate without being kind.

“And you romanticize me because it’s safer than admitting I’m simply a woman who sees through you. But I was rather talking about your guests and hosts.”

His gaze darkened, admiration sharpening rather than fading.

“No”, he murmured, “I admire you because you see - and still stand before me. As for my guests… Support the weak, be patient toward all men.”

Around you, women laughed too brightly at his words, lingered too long at his side, but he barely registered them, attention tethered firmly to you. Wiktor watched from a careful distance, every polite exchange weighed and measured, aware now of the invisible currents pulling beneath the surface. Rasputin tilted his head, studying you like a question he had already decided the answer to.

“You challenge me”, he said softly, “and I believe God does not waste such gifted encounters.”

You smiled, neither agreeing nor denying, letting the tension stretch between you like a held breath.

The noise of the party dimmed at the edges when Wiktor stepped forward, posture straightening.

“What intentions do you have toward me?”, he asked straightforward, not even bothering to perform the social dance. Rasputin answered without hesitation, voice calm and earnest.

“Intentions? That we become friends and help one another. And complement one another. I have skills that you don’t, and vice-versa.”

The moment Rasputin’s words settled, the party thinned into nothing, and you and Wiktor slipped inward together, surrendering fully to the pitch-black space in your minds where sound and form dissolved. Dantalion emerged first, his presence unfolding like blood in water, but his attention did not turn to Wiktor. Instead, it fixed upon the hunched silhouette beside him. Upyr stood there as he always did, crooked and looming, his walking stick striking the void with a sharp, echoing stomp that vibrated through the darkness. Dantalion inclined his head toward him, voice calm and deliberate.

“The man you sensed carries thaumaturgic power”, he said, “but no companion, no mirror to restrain it.”

Upyr’s response was wordless: another heavy stomp, closer this time, his empty eye sockets locking onto Wiktor as a pressure crawled beneath his skin, cold and instinctual. Wiktor sucked in a breath as the sensation settled in his bones, understanding blooming without language: danger, imbalance, hunger. Upyr leaned in just enough for the warning to sharpen, the void tightening around them like a clenched fist, urging caution without mercy. While they communed in silence, you turned to Wiktor, your voice threading through his thoughts.

“He believes me an angel”, you told him quietly, “and belief is all that holds him together.”

Wiktor’s outline tensed as Upyr stamped his staff again, the vibration carrying a final, unmistakable message. This man does not reflect, the sensation pressed into him, he pulls. Wiktor nodded once, grim understanding settling over him as he met your gaze in the dark.

When the void finally loosened and the party crept back into existence, he carried Upyr’s warning with him like a weight he could not set down. Rasputin met Wiktor’s eyes with an easy honest smile, unaware of the verdict already etched into the spaces between thought and instinct. To the guests, he looked harmless, a curiosity at worst, a far too charming holy man enjoying an evening among admirers. To you, he felt like a prayer whispered too often, worn thin at the edges by need and relentless desire. His piercing gaze returned to you once more, reverent and searching, as if awaiting confirmation that Heaven still watched him closely. You answered with a kind yet measured smile, neither blessing nor refusal, letting uncertainty do its quiet work. Wiktor shifted beside you, posture composed but guarded now, Upyr’s silent warning pacing his steps.

The party continued, glasses raised, alliances hinted at, futures casually imagined aloud. Yet beneath the chandeliers and courteous words, something irreversible had already begun to turn. And as the night wore on, you understood that whatever Rasputin was building, it would demand far more than faith to survive what was coming.

OPTIONAL ENDING:

In the thinning veil between thought and shadow, you and Wiktor glimpsed a figure standing too straight to be imagined, a red-clad soldier with a human face and a discipline that feels carved from iron. He did not advance, yet his presence presses forward with command rather than hunger, as if desire itself had learned restraint. Only then do you understand that a salutor was watching at last, he disappeared.

PART 4? Not sure how to continue this^^

Tags: @dipsylou