of the old sort

Sofia Yakovna Sytnikova "We're old friends, so you really must call me Sonya."

[sofiayakovna]

kolkuh‌:

        he  had  been  young  when  he  first  met  her ,        barely  more  than  a  toddler  and  in  a  strange  new  city .  as  such ,  he  questioned  little  of  what  she  had  told  him .  alone  save  for  two  brothers     (   one  the  same  as  always ,  and  another  newly  found   )     in  a  new  city ,  without  a  mother  you  knew  and  now  under  the  roof  of  a  father  who  seems  to  have  little  use  and  therefore  care  for  you ,  you  trust  the  kind  woman  who  calls  herself  your     tyotya .     even  now ,  he’s  certain  that  sofia  was  related  to  his  father  in  some  capacity ,  a  cousin  of  some  removal  he’s  sure ,  but  doesn’t  feel  compelled  to  ask  for  the  complete  lineage ,  as  it  did  not  much  matter .

          he  musters  a  smile  of  some  kind  for  her ,  though  it  is  perhaps  not  the  same  smile  he  would  give  her  a  few  years  ago ,  it’s  empty .  it  is  not  her  fault ,  of  course ,  and  he  not  only      recognizes     her  but  is  thankful  to  see  her  alive  and  well  after  such  time  and  distance .  the  old  nickname  rouses  something  in  him ;  if  the  world  had  allowed  it  he  might  well  have  been  more  of  a  sparrow ,  or  some  kind  of  songbird ,  and  not  the  young  wolf  he  ended  up  as .

          ‘   kolya  is  fine ,  tyota  sonya .   ’    as  it  had  always  been ,  though  he  doesn’t  mind  her  petnames  either .  beyond  that  he  felt  nikolai  would  have  been  too  formal  for  them ,  after  he  spent  a  whole  childhood  knowing  her ,  and  he  would  prefer  not  to  be  reminded  of  his  father  every  time  she  called  on  him ,  and  comrade  was  too  political  for  a  boy  who’s  care  rested  more  in  doctrine  and  sheet  music ,  though  of  course  that  had  been  a  joke  he  was  sure .   ‘   it  is  good  to  see  you  again .   ’  a  pause  as  she  continues ,  and  a  frown  at  her  final  words ,   ‘   no ,  no  apologizes .  we’re  happy  enough  to  have  you  here .   ’

“Kolya.” She repeats the name when he offers it, saying it back with a certain respectful warmth, the kind of tone nieces reserve for distant country uncles or churchgoers reserve for priests. It’s a knowing fondness, as if to say: “I recognize you, and I am glad for it.” But it does not pierce; it refrains from impolite intimacy, especially with a boy now so clearly a man. And it stands in utter bizarre contrast to the previously preferred “little sparrow.” She claps her hands together with some enthusiasm, however, perhaps recognizing the hollowness in his expression and choosing to fill it with mirth.  “It is wonderful to see you. So well, so strapping and grown.” She smiles broadly at this, thin lips spreading across her face. “Oh, I so worried about you children.” And perhaps she did, or perhaps she didn’t. For now, the words come genuinely. “But you didn’t need me to worry. Women worry, and young men carry on,” she continues, extending a hand to see if Nikolai will offer his own. 

Before he does, however, Sofia offers him a nod. “I am happy enough to be here. And I come to serve. I’m sure it’s been...trying, in so many ways. It’s my duty to provide what I can: a listening ear, charming advice, stories of the old days. Things you’ve forgotten that I haven’t. Because everything does come in circles, and if we’ve weathered it once, we will again.” She drones on in succession. “How are you and your brother making due with your father’s affairs? I must say, I’ve grown so weary of letters. I’ll relish to see for myself.” She sighs, looking to the air, but seeing nothing, returns her gaze to the man’s face. “When everything else has gone, well, our little family lives on, yes?”

She has a way of speaking around the issues at hand, offering herself up, swearing allegiance, recognizing this change in leadership, all without referring to the voki for what it is. But that was what made Sofia Yakovna as lethal a force as she could be: the power to disarm, to speak in flowers, and to wrap even the most dire things in pretty packages. 

[sofiayakovna]

Even sitting alone in that darkened corner, Sofia managed, in her own way, to recline like royalty — Dido in her private chambers. There were no more furs now, no more pearls, but in the absence of everything else, she could at least retain the gilding of her posture. But even then, the little glass sitting in front of her, which she now nursed quietly every few moments, felt sour on her lips, a crippling downfall from finer nectar that had once passed them. Still, she felt no shame in being a drinker; most people were, after all. And the warmth settling over her limbs made her feel more settled in this place. She was doing what she always did; she was sitting and listening and drinking. That was not new. But Moscow and these darkened walls certainly were, and despite her odd, balmy affinity for the people whose powers surrounded those walls, she had none for the walls themselves.

“Now, now, what are you doing here, hm? Russia really mustn't hide its jewels in the dark. It does you no credit, pretty thing.” She spoke up finally to the barmaid, whom she had perhaps been eyeing privately every few moments now. “We’re odd pictures, the pair of us, yes? We come to places like this because these are the places men come to. And when men come, so we follow. And that’s the curse of our sex.” She pursed her lips in a knowing smile, forthright with the alcohol’s punch. She raised the glass. “To your health. You’ll forgive an old woman for losing herself.” 

@galechkas​

[sofiayakovna]

Sofia Yakovna lacked the sensitivity of heart to call herself animal lover, but the Moscow Zoo, a gem of the city, represented, at least in her mind, a bastion of civilization. It was a place designed for the sole purpose of gathering, for entertainment, not unlike a theater. And even with the world changing, with such a cataclysmic bang, and so quickly, people still needed to gather. They still needed to look and to see and to enjoy and to marvel, and that awareness felt almost comforting. Through it all, people might still offer themselves luxuries, to do inane people things for the sake of themselves. A vestige of society someone might like to toss out. But they had not yet, and so, she would not be tossed out either. 

As she made her way along with the crowds, carrying with her a cloud of floral perfume, she peered in at bears and camels and almost managed to soften. After a revolution and a war and years of biding her time in close, less than ideal quarters, albeit, working and glad to do it, solace now arrived in the simplicity of being able to do something like looking just to look. 

An attendant beyond an enclosure held up a bundle of leaves to allow a young giraffe to nibble at their ends. Pausing to watch, Sofia clicked her tongue and leaned in close to an observer’s ear.

“Don’t look so awestruck, sir. They’re larger in Africa, you know. I’ve seen them there. This one is rather small; I do hope they feed it enough.” 

@ozgurkaminski​

[sofiayakovna]

SOFIA YAKOVNA had long considered herself the heroine of this miserable novel. And the novel, was of course, miserable. The narrative had been punctuated, perhaps, by enough joy, enough warmth, a sip of wine, a dance beneath a chandelier, to redden her lips and her cheeks, to keep her hairs handsomely golden. But the pen of dreadful Fate had written a tragedy, and to that end, the heroines of tragedies, she once heard herself say, always came to Moscow. They stepped off carriages or trains in long, threadbare cloaks and cried and dabbed their eyes, but Sofia had arrived smartly. She set foot firmly because Armageddon had come, and yet, she stood. And stand she would because stand she always had. 

Heroines loved Moscow. They held it in their hands like a beacon and prayed to be nourished by its warmth. But it would engulf them in its flames and leave them charred. And so, Sofia Yakovna hated Moscow. But still there was reason to come. 

An estate and a need to show her loyalty, her respect, her continued worth. It had been long since she stepped into a proper house; the war had been spent in darkened rooms, head and face covered, playing the role of landlady’s cousin, or private seamstress, or beggar woman spy. Useful but different. But she was a woman of many parts, many faces, and this twist was an odd one, a step back into a costume long ago discarded.

“It’s as though you don’t even recognize your Tyotya Sonya, little sparrow.” She spoke with the faintest smile, voice lilting and bright, a harsh contrast to the more rigid hand poised against the collar of her coat. “Or must I call you Nikolai Dmitrievich now? I know young men like things their way. And I think most young men go by Comrade now, hm?” She said this with feigned ignorance, stumbling to locate a word she already knew. “Ah, but you’ll forgive me. This is a happy reunion, and I’ve arrived empty-handed.” 

@kolkuh​

[sofiayakovna]

 𝐋𝐄𝐓  𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒  𝐎𝐅  𝐖𝐀𝐑  ,  SOFIA YAKOVNA SYTNIKOVA  ,  the  SOVIETNIK  of  the  volki  is  seen  traversing  the  streets  of  moscow  ,  but  the  bratva’s  rivals  swear  that  she  is  originally  from  PETROGRAD;  perhaps  it’s  THE DEMISE OF THE ARISTOCRACY ON WHICH SHE ONCE PREYED that  brought  them  here  .  fellow  members  of  the  volki  liken  their  resemblance  to  LINDSAY DUNCAN  .  the  SIXTY-SIX  year  old  CIS FEMALE  was  COSMOPOLITAN &.  DISARMING before  the  war’s  ruination  ,  but  in  the  aftermath  have  become  CONNIVING  &.  DOMINEERING  .  rumours  throughout  eastern  europe  have  given  them  a  reputation  of  LUXURIOUS FURS THAT ARE FLIMSY TO THE TOUCH, CONVINCING FAKES PLEASING TO THE EYE BUT LACKING CRAFTSMANSHIP OR PRACTICALITY ; A THIN FINGER WITH A GLITTERING RING, GLOVED QUICKLY TO HIDE THE DISCOLORATION WHEN THE JEWEL IS REMOVED ;  QUAINT STORIES OF BETTER DAYS FILLED WITH DELIBERATE LIES ; A SUDDEN LIMP OR PRACTICED COUGH WHEN FRAILTY IS THE PROPER DEFENSE  ; PERFUMES SO SACCHARINE THEY BORDER ON BLOODY ; A VASE OF FLOWERS PLACED ON A TABLE ONLY TO HAVE SOMETHING TO SMASH OVER A HEAD ; and MATERNAL FERVOR, GIVING, DOTING, AFFECTIONATE AT ITS BEST, WRATHFUL AT ITS WORST  (  max,  26,  est,  he/him.  )

i. basics

name: sofia yakovna sytnikova 

nicknames: sonya

age: sixty-six

gender: cis female

pronouns: she/her

nationality: russian

ii. stats

height: 5′6″

eyes: hazel

hair: blonde

mbti: esfj-a

alignment: lawful evil 

iii. background

TW: Mentions of Drowning

Sofia Yakovna was born in St. Petersburg in the year 1854. The daughter of servants, she grew up on the fringes of the old aristocracy, a sulking, waifish thing lurking on the edges and waiting for the chance to step over the dividing line. The opportunity first arose when her parents came under the employee of a certain count and countess’s summer estate. The young Sofia, insisting then, as she does now, on being called Sonya, charmed her way into the heart of a certain daughter her own age. And from her, she enjoyed little gifts, stole little trinkets, and began to familiarize herself with the rules and etiquette of the upper crust.

Sofia played these games for much of her young life. One daughter would give access to a brother, and that brother would give access to boys from other families. And while she was not part of this world, she could weave through it, poke and prod it, and bend it to her will. She once allowed a young son of the count to swim out too far simply to dive after him from the water’s edge and bask in the glory of the rescue. But the play would not remain fulfilling into adulthood. 

Options did exist. She could marry, of course. But the mere thought of some lowbrow husband made her shudder, and the sparkling young men so willing to befriend her as a child suddenly turned their eyes to other prizes. The young Sofia ultimately entered employ as a parlor maid for a well-off family, resigning herself once again to life on the diamond outskirts

The volki came in the early 1880s, still in its infancy but growing quickly. Sofia had been spying on a party in her employer’s home when a certain young man, an unrecognized guest, spotted and approached her. Now, wasn’t she just the prettiest thing? Flattered, enamored by his praise, and fueled by jealousy and hunger, she found herself suddenly in the business of secrets, pilfering them from eavesdropped conversations and locked drawers, passing them on, and enjoying the fruits of the labor.

Among those fruits was, of course, money. And as well as the role of the servant spy treated her, she knew, even then, she required more than it. And that was her greatest advantage: a knowledge of the wealthy, an intimacy with their ways, but no loyalty to them.

Thus, “Anna Vladimirovna” was born. This newly realized persona, the first of many, began appearing at parties, clad in cheap but convincingly elegant gowns, pretty under the proper light. We’re old friends, of course. You must call me by my affectionate name. Friend, confidante, no one knew her, but everyone did. And they must have, because she knew them. She knew private things no one but their closest companions would dare utter. And so, they invited her themselves,on holidays, to social affairs, chatted with her privately, and filled in the blanks of the picture with their own fake memories. 

Exploiter, manipulator, blackmailer, Sofia gradually staked her place as the eyes and ears of the volki in a glittering world fading far too fast, just as she was digging her talons into it.

However, this fantasy, the eternal party guest, the conwoman socialite, could not last forever. Revolution eventually came, violent and bombastic, and the aristocracy came to its knees. Anya or Olga or Katerina or whatever she was calling herself those days disappeared because she never existed. And so, no one would come looking for her.

Sofia emerged from private life with the war’s end. But to a true Russian of the old school, the world no longer looked like it once did. 

With a stern voice and a collection of anecdotes, gossip, and private tales, she is still, however, ready to offer consul when requested and to keep an eye on anyone who might try to topple this precarious new balance. After all, there are still rules, and there is still etiquette. But if she asks you to call her Sonya, one really must approach with caution. 

[awkward-sultana]