(no subject)

[father-grigori.livejournal.com]

Grigori downs the ale Sidious had given him, then drinks up the bottle of Madeira Xello had given him earlier, gives the closed door to the Security office an angry glare, then drunkenly stands still, blesses the bar at large with some sort of two-fingered benediction, opens the front door and stumbles out into a cold and snowy St. Petersburg night in November 1916.

Before the door falls shut, you can hear Grigori starting to bellow out some religious song at the top of his lungs.