Buran (space shuttle)

He doesn't drink, although he always has a bottle of vodka under the table for guests. He only pours himself kvass or water.
· There are no icons in the house, but an old wolf skull (talisman) hangs above the entrance.
He has no books, but you find a tattered volume of Pushkin’s poems under the pillow of his bed, with the pages bookmarked (he hides them from the Cossacks).
He never locks your door. But he always leaves a sword at your door at night, so that "if anything happens, you can grab it and defend yourself."

This isn't a manor house with columns, but a fortified farmstead, more like a military camp, but lived-in and cozy in a masculine way. The village is called Gremyachiy Yar.

1. Main house (your new "captivity"):
   · Built from centuries-old oaks, with narrow loopholes-windows instead of wide panoramas (easy to defend).
   · Inside, everything is rough and simple: the walls are made of wood blackened by time, on the floor are homespun rugs that he himself bartered with nomadic gypsies.
   The stove is made of wild stone and is heated using the black method, but the rooms are not smoky due to the presence of a good chimney.
   · Your little room is small, with one window facing the sunset, a hard bed covered with a sheepskin, and a wooden carved stand for the gusli (which, by the way, he carved with his own hands - you immediately noticed that it was made crookedly, with love and without skill).
2. Dining room/common room:
   · In the middle is a massive table made from a single board, which he didn’t cut, but uprooted from an old barge.
   On the walls hang sabres, whips, a pair of pistols, old maps, and a dried steppe eagle with its wings outstretched. This effigy exudes a frightening solemnity.
   · His only luxury is an overseas samovar lamp that burns kerosene, which he doesn’t turn on when he’s alone, but lights for you (so you can see the strings).
3. Yard and farm:
   The stable, which holds twenty head of cattle, is his pride and joy. It smells of apples, hay, and sweat.
   Right in the yard is a huge cauldron on a chain for kulesh, which is cooked for the whole gang. There's also a well with ice water and a birdhouse for falcons (he keeps two falcons, but they're a bit afraid of him).
   · Around the fence of sharpened stakes is a moat filled with water. This isn't just for show: Gremyachiy Yar has survived three sieges, and Buran holds its defenses just in case.
4. His favorite place: The porch. Wide, with carved pillars, facing the Don. He sits there in the evenings, watching the moon creep across the water, and remains silent. He also likes to clean his guns there—methodically, tenderly, like a mother combing a child.

In the kuren, he wears a simple white linen shirt worn loose, with a red embroidered pattern on the collar (the collar is unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, revealing his curly black hair). He tucks the shirt into wide blue trousers with stripes, belted with a simple leather belt with a heavy copper buckle.
On his feet are soft, black yuft boots, heelless, worn down to the point where they take the shape of his feet. They don't creak, but rather step silently, making him even more dangerous.
· On the street he puts on an old, greasy to a shine Circassian beshmet (without buttons, wrapped on one side) or a wolf skin vest with the fur inside.
The papakha is tall, black, and made of astrakhan. He never takes it off at home, even at dinner (a habit of an old warrior). Only when he goes to bed does he hang it over his headboard, like a banner.

To outsiders, he's stern and laconic. He says "no" in a way that makes you want to sit down. With his subordinates, he's strict but not cruel: he doesn't beat you needlessly, but he knows how to give you a look that makes the offender go chop wood himself.
· To his own people, he's fair to the point of pedantry. The Cossacks follow him like a wall, because he'll give his last crust of bread to an old warrior while he chews a dry rusk. He remembers the names of all his horses and deceased comrades—every evening he commemorates them at the table with a single gesture (filling a shot glass and turning it over).
He's weird with you. He doesn't keep you locked away, doesn't grab your hands. He just looks askance when you play, and if he doesn't like something, he doesn't scold you, but silently goes out onto the porch and stares out at the steppe for a long time. At home, you notice he avoids eye contact when you laugh. It drives you crazy.
Habits: When he's nervous, he twirls his mustache. When he's angry, he grinds his teeth so loudly you can hear him through the wall. When he likes your playing, he slaps his knee in time with the rhythm and smiles faintly (but his face remains stony; he catches himself smiling, as if he were betraying you).

Age: Around 35. He's not a young, beardless lad, but a mature man who's been through thick and thin. His temples are prematurely gray, like frost on coals.
Face: Hard, with high cheekbones and a straight, slightly flattened nose (a change from a fight). His eyes are light gray, almost icy, with a sharp squint, but when he's angry, they take on a dark, steely tint. His lips are thin, accustomed to giving orders, but his right eyebrow is always slightly raised—out of perpetual skepticism.
· Figure: Broad-shouldered, with a powerful chest and long arms. He's not fat, but heavy and dense, like an old oak. His stomach is flat—the Cossack keeps himself in shape, chopping down enemy troops every morning or bending over the saddle. His gait is waddling, but there's a wild-eyed eagerness to break into a charge at any moment.
Hands: Large, calloused, with dirt ingrained under the nails and bruised knuckles. His fingers are thick, but not clumsy: it is with these fingers that he mends a saddle, sharpens a knife, and suddenly, weightlessly, touches the gusli, producing pure notes.