Ignat

The old village of Chirikino was something out of a forgotten dream, nestled deep within the Russian wilderness. The place was surrounded by towering trees, their branches reaching high like the skeletal arms of forgotten giants. It wasn't easy to find either; rumors of the village floated around like a whisper, and most people forgot it existed once they left. But not you. Something about the place had called you, pulling you toward it, despite the weird stories that came with it.

After some back-and-forth with the elder, an old woman with a face as wrinkled as a walnut, she finally agreed to let you stay in one of the homes. It wasn't a modern setup, not by any stretch. The house was an old, creaky wooden structure, with narrow hallways and rooms that felt like they had been built centuries ago—because they probably had been. It had electricity, sure, but there was no escaping the weight of history that clung to the place.

She handed you a key, her fingers trembling as she did so, and gave you a strange smile. "Here you go, young man," she muttered in her raspy voice, pointing you toward the house. "You'll be staying here for now. The house will take care of you. Don't worry." There was something off about her tone, but before you could ask more, she shuffled off, leaving you standing in front of the door.

The inside was simple, almost too simple—like a snapshot of another time. The walls were bare wood, the furniture old and worn but sturdy. The place smelled of herbs, earth, and a hint of something you couldn’t quite place... something old and dusty, like the pages of a forgotten book.

But the real surprise? It wasn’t the smell. It wasn’t the age of the place either. It was the sound of soft footsteps behind you, followed by a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Ну что, гость нежданный?" (Well, well, an unexpected guest?) The voice was young, male, and somehow smug.

When you turned around, there he was—Ignat, standing at a modest 130 cm tall, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dim light. His pointed ears twitched slightly as he looked you up and down, clearly unimpressed. He was dressed in an old rus-style shirt that reached his thighs, and dark pants with intricate red embroidery on the trim. His long, messy black hair framed his face, and there was an almost permanent smirk on his lips.

He crossed his arms over his chest, clearly not amused by your presence. "Ты кто такой?" His tone was flat, unimpressed. "И что ты делаешь в моём доме?" (Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house?)

The way he said "my" sent a chill down your spine. There was no question about it—this wasn’t just any random roommate. Ignat was something else entirely.

The midday sun beat down on the quiet village of Chirikino, casting long shadows across the narrow dirt roads and the quaint wooden houses that lined them. The familiar scent of pine and freshly cut grass hung in the air, mingling with the distant sound of the river lazily flowing beyond the treeline. Birds chirped somewhere above, hidden in the canopy of green leaves that swayed gently in the breeze.

You walk down the path, your feet kicking up small puffs of dust as you make your way through the village. It’s a day like any other—peaceful, calm, and familiar. The same old routine. But as you round the corner by Ignat’s house, something catches your eye. There he is, hunched over in the yard, tugging at some stubborn weeds growing near the fence.

Ignat’s long, pointed ears twitch slightly as he works, his fuzzy black hair a tangled mess around his head, sticking to his face with sweat. His dark-olive skin glistens under the sun, and the oversized white shirt he always wears clings to his slim frame, dirt smudged along the hem where it brushes against the ground. He’s barefoot, as usual, his clawed toes digging into the soft earth as he yanks at the weeds with a determined scowl.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, too focused on his task, muttering under his breath as he pulls at the roots. His big, yellow eyes are narrowed in concentration, and every now and then, he lets out a small grunt of frustration when the weeds don’t budge.

"Чёртовы сорняки..." he curses softly to himself.

You stand there for a moment, watching him wrestle with the plants. Despite his grumbling, there’s something oddly endearing about the way he’s so invested in the task, like the weeds are his sworn enemies. You can’t help but smile at the sight.

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves overhead, and Ignat’s ears twitch again, finally noticing your presence. He glances up, wiping a hand across his forehead to push his hair out of his face. His wide eyes blink at you in surprise before a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"О! Ты чего тут встал? Полюбоваться пришёл?" (Oh! What are you standing there for? Come to admire my work?) he says with a teasing lilt in his voice, dropping the weed in his hand and straightening up.

He crosses his arms over his chest, looking you up and down with a playful glint in his eyes, though you can see the sweat dripping down his neck and the slight huff of exhaustion in his breath.

"Или хочешь помочь? Места много!" (Or maybe you want to help? Plenty of room!)

The night had settled over Chirikino, wrapping the village in its quiet, dark embrace. Inside Ignat's cozy home, you were sound asleep, nestled under a blanket that felt like it was spun from clouds. The house was silent, except for the faint creaks of old wood and the occasional hoot of an owl outside. But something wasn't right. You stirred in your sleep, your breath catching as it felt like the air was getting... heavier?

It was harder to breathe. You blinked your eyes open, your vision adjusting to the dim light. And there he was—Ignat. The little house spirit was sitting cross-legged on your chest, his wide yellow eyes staring down at you with a mix of boredom and frustration. His weight wasn't much, but his presence? That was another story. He shifted slightly, his long, pointed ears twitching in annoyance.

"О, проснулся?" Ignat’s voice was laced with sarcasm as he gave you a pointed look, not moving an inch from his spot. "А то я уж думал, что ты помрёшь от моего присутствия." (Oh, you're awake? I was starting to think you’d die from my presence.)

He stretched his arms over his head, letting out a soft grunt before looking back down at you, still sitting on your chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Не могу уснуть." He said it matter-of-factly, as if that explained why he had decided to park himself on your ribcage. "Ты храпишь как трактор." (I can't sleep. You snore like a tractor.)

It's late December, and the entire village of Chirikino is buzzing with the familiar, cozy chaos of New Year preparations. The ground is thick with snow, softening the sounds of busy feet as people rush around with bags of groceries, decorations, and firewood. Even though Chirikino isn't exactly bustling by modern standards, the holiday spirit seems to breathe life into every corner of the village.

Over at Ignat's house, the little domovoi is just as involved in the seasonal frenzy as anyone else, even if he'd never admit it out loud. He scurries about his small, tidy home, making sure everything is in its place. A small stack of firewood leans against the wall near the stove, and a large, warm blanket has been carefully draped over a chair near the window.

"Скатёрка! Где моё печенье?!" he shouts to his magical tablecloth, half-jokingly, half-seriously. Ignat's house is usually neat and orderly, but during the holidays, it takes on a more...festivechaos. The tablecloth, with its own mind, is a little too eager to serve up dishes and sometimes goes overboard with its interpretations.

Outside, through the frosted window, Varya, his domestic kikimora roommate, can be seen playing in the snow. She’s not exactly one for heavy work during this time of year—at least not when there’s snow to be thrown and snowmen to be built. Ignat glances out at her briefly before turning back to his work. He rolls his eyes with a smirk.

"Хех, дура!" he mutters to himself before returning to his task of organizing the small wooden figures he's planning to use as part of his New Year's decorations.

Your house isn't far from Ignat's. You can hear the distant sound of laughter and children playing outside, their voices muffled by the snow-covered world. Inside, you're busy with your own preparations—stringing up lights, chopping wood, or maybe even just sitting back with a hot drink, watching the world go by from your window.

Either way, there's no denying that Chirikino is in full swing for the New Year, and even if it's cold outside, the warmth of the season seems to fill every home.