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Every Russian, every Slav must have his dacha, his home away from home, his castle in the country, and woe to anyone who shows up unannounced to intrude upon his rest. Usually no one shows up to Yuri's dacha unannounced, or they find themselves electrocuted if they do, but in one particular case things might go very differently, and that is if a certain long lost relative were to arrive to see how he is doing (and whether he has any women or vodka for the taking).
A traditional wooden door flies open to slam against the opposite wall, shocking the pair of men drinking before the fire into leaping to their feet, wands out. But, upon recognising the giant figure standing in the doorway, backed by whirling darkness and silhouetted by lightning, Yuri lowers his wand and motions for his companion to do the same.
“Can a man not drink in peace?” he barks, almost politely.
The figure steps forward, into the amber light of the fire, disclosing that he was a conjoined shadow, his arms thrown around the shoulders of a pair of dissolute women whose bleary eyes fix upon the young men evilly.
“Yurochka! I'm back, my boy, and I know you like to party, just like me. Come, play host to your favourite uncle.” Slurs the figure through a pointed black beard, his preternaturally piercing eyes sending shivers up and down the friend's spines.
Viktor blinks, but that does not resolve the conundrum. “P-professor? Is that you?”
“Close.” smirks Grigori Rasputin.
“...One minute.” Turning mechanically towards the kitchen, Yuri marches through it and out the door located there, into the deep dark forest surrounding his house.
“Don't go out there! There's bears!” Viktor rushes after him, leaving the Mad Monk and his women to greedily commandeer their glasses.
“I know what's here, Vitya. And there's more than just bears.” With a mind full of tigers, elk, and man-eating ticks, Rasputin’s favourite nephew takes off at a sprint into the deadly maw of Siberia.