With the capture of Verandi Farley and several high-ranking Trossach members, the British wizarding world has finally caught a break. The rate of rogue werewolf attacks have started dropping at a steady rate and, hopefully, things will stay that way. The Ministry is starting to loosen some restrictions, like not arresting werewolves standing on the street for loitering, however there’s still an obvious power imbalance between wizardfolk and werewolves.
The Cotswolds pack are continuing to advocate for the rights of werewolves and petitioning to change the legislation that has been set in motion by the current Minister for Magic, whilst the remaining Trossachs members are trying to stay out of the spotlight and keep a low profile… for now.
Whilst the British wizarding world seems to have calmed down, the same cannot be said for over in Northern Europe where a rebellion of magical creatures has risen. The state of things has gotten so bad that the European Ministry has enacted protocols to protect those under eighteen whilst their adult witches and wizards fight to keep control of their countries.
Students from Durmstrang have been sent to Hogwarts to keep them safe and those not old enough to attend school have been sent to live with relatives or designated British Ministry officials outside of Europe for the time being.
Will the low rates of werewolf attacks in Britain continue? How long will Durmstrang students stay at Hogwarts? Will the creatures usurp the wizardfolk in Northern Europe? Only time will tell.
SEPTEMBER 2019 It's been a very long, eventful summer in the wizarding world. A baby was stolen, several high ranking Trossach members were imprisoned, and werewolf attacks have drastically dropped as a result. What will happen now school has returned?
MAY 2019 An attempt to capture the beta of the Trossachs has been launched. Were the Aurors successful in their mission? Go read more here!
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on May 2, 2020 4:02:53 GMT
so many roads left
It had been months since Emil had been in a proper kitchen. The last time--he was pretty sure that it had Samantha's kitchen, when she had made him dinner, the evening before--before all of that had happened. The confrontation, the Killing Curse, and then the first time he'd gone through the horrible pain of transforming, so certain that his skin was going to split open and make him bleed out, to death this time.
He didn't want to remember, but it was burned into his mind, the flash of green light, the way the pack leader had gone from a steady presence to a crumpled mess in one moment.
No. Emil shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He was here to bake, something he sorely missed, and just the thought of losing himself in piles of flour and spices was already making him more cheerful than he had been since May. It was a good thing that he would be strictly not allowed to go out in any places where there would be customers--he knew that out there was the place where Askold had treated his wounds, and he didn't need those memories cropping up as well.
"What do you want me to start with?" Emil asked the baker, tying an apron around his waist. "I don't know your recipes, but I can learn." It wasn't the career he had pictured for himself--no, that was closed to him forever now, in fact, it was something he had to fear now--but at least baking was something he knew he could do.
Giving werewolf a job was strictly against the law. Letting a werewolf starve to death on the side of the road because nobody would extend them a helping hand was strictly against Askold's moral code. In fact, in his mind, the British Ministry was actively working against human rights, because werewolves were just humans. With a problem, yes, but no less human because of it.
So now he was in the kitchen of the Hogs Head, accompanied by none other than Emil -- the young man he'd pulled in from the street, all bruised and battered, though by now he looked much better, if not a bit thinner. He'd invited him over against the wishes of Samantha, but he didn't even want to think about the woman right now, the woman who'd rather sit on her wealth and wait for someone else to save the world.
No. He didn't want to think about that. He was here to bake and to run his store, and his new apprentice didn't have too much time before the new school year to learn the ins and outs of Askold's kitchen.
"Today we are making," he said, tying on his own black apron, "piroshki. I'm sure you're familiar with those, Emil. Now, where did I put those bowls...""
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on May 2, 2020 16:50:47 GMT
so many roads left
Emil didn't speak Russian, but his parents had always spoken Polish to him at home, and plenty of the customers at their shop had always spoken Polish to him as well. Never mind that he hadn't been home since last Christmas--he was still working out how he was going to tell his family the truth, writing them letters that he hoped were reassuring for the moment. Anything just to let them know that he was alive, so they wouldn't be sending search parties after him, even if telling him that he was well was an abject lie.
So Emil didn't speak Russian. But growing up around Polish food made him very familiar with pierogi, which sounded similar enough that he nodded, not needing to ask any questions for that at least. "I can do that." He rolled his shoulders back, getting ready for the kneading of dough that he knew was coming. "Where do you keep your flour? And eggs, butter, sour cream..." He listed off the ingredients from memory. "...and a bowl to mix," he added, looking around at the cabinets. Being so new here, and knowing that his position in the Inn was precarious in the first place, he didn't want to start tearing apart Askold's kitchen without permission.
Askold was rummaging through one of the cupboards, trying to juggle two stacks of large glass mixing bowls, and was only half listening to his apprentice speak. "Uh, flour should be in the one left of the sink, sour cream and eggs should be in the iron fridge, and don't mind the dent in door. That's been there since this man, Almir was his name, I think? He was here last year, and some little beast escaped from his pocket and went to steal all my forks. He ran right into the fridge." It was a memory Askold brought back any time he needed to cheer himself up. He wondered, how the very tall man was doing now... Quite some time had passed since last November.
Only a few minutes later did it dawn upon the baker that there was something odd about Emil's request. Those were not the ingredients you made piroshki out!
"Why--" he stammered, finally closing the cupboard, having decided on a mixing bowl, "Why do you need sour cream and eggs for piroshki? I've never heard of anyone making dough with that? And no yeast?" He was all for exploring new recipes and foods, but this didn't make any sense.
"You know what piroshki are, right, Emil?" he asked, pushing his plastic glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, confusion plastered all across his face.
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on May 15, 2020 3:48:32 GMT
so many roads left
"Almir, yeah. He taught Care of Magical Creatures." Probably still did, Emil reflected, not that he would know for sure. He had never taken the class, but it was impossible to forget the large man's presence at meals and festivities. Only a person of his size would have made a dent like that in iron. Emil didn't think that even the wolf could manage it, and that--that could cause a lot of damage, he knew from personal experience, although he'd always been restrained so far. He cringed at the thought of the possibilities, thinking of the danger that he posed to the innocent baker and the nice kitchen.
It was only when he'd retrieved the sour cream and eggs from the fridge, setting them next to the mixing bowl in preparation, that he was distracted from the dark thoughts by... confusion.
"Why wouldn't you use those?" he said, looking between Askold and the ingredients on the counter, eyebrows knitted together. His parents' recipe had yet to fail him. "That's how I've always done it--flour, eggs, sour cream for the dough, and then you put the filling in and boil them." Maybe something had gotten lost in translation. "I thought I knew. In Polish we say pierogi. That's what I was going to start on."
The young man was looking at Askold, eyebrows furrowed as he explained to the baker the reasoning behind using sour cream and eggs instead of yeast to make piroshki. He'd never heard anyone do that and--
"Boil?" his eyes widened in surprise. Who the hell boils piroshki? What? Why would want soggy bread like that? "What do you mean you boil them?"
"No, wait, Emil, something isn't right here. You make piroshki by making dough with yeast and let it rise, and for a filling you make uh, what's the word, lard and mushrooms and cabbage sometimes or whatever else your heart desires. And then you take that dough and you put a little filling in so you can make a nice little crescent bun, and then you put that in the oven to bake!"
"As for the sour cream and eggs... You coat them with an egg, sour cream and sugar mixture before putting them in the oven, at least I do, to get that nice, golden finish. And I suppose there is no harm in dipping them in sour cream when you're eating, but..."
"Are you sure we are thinking of the same food?" To Askold it was clear that they weren't, but perhaps Polish people had some outlandish ways of making piroshki that he'd never even heard about.
lived like you told me how, look at me now/the whole world's bringing me down
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Post by EMIL ZALEWSKI on Jun 13, 2020 3:03:35 GMT
so many roads left
"To be honest, Askold... no, I don't think we're thinking of the same food." Emil had dropped all of the utensils on the counter, turning to face his new boss. "I don't know why you're talking about buns, and I don't understand why, because my parents own a grocery store, we have a bakery..." And when was the next time he was going to get to eat one of those loaves of bread? "But this sounds like buns, not like pierogi. You boil pierogi." Well, you could fry them too, but that still wasn't what Askold was talking about.
Baffled, Emil ran a hand through his hair, pushing the too-long bangs out of his eyes. He needed a haircut badly, but he wasn't so confident that he could do it himself--maybe someone in the pack knew how. "So we're making some buns with filling. But then I need your recipe." He wasn't sure if Askold was one of those bakers that had an exact recipe for everything, or one that knew every ingredient by heart.
Askold listened to the young man talk, and he could feel the gears in his own head turn. He was going through a backlog of many, many recipes he'd acquired over the years, and, if there had been a light bulb above his head, it would have lit up the moment he opened his mouth.
"You're talking about pelmeni! Dough around, meat filling inside, boiled in broth and eaten with sour cream!" He exclaimed, confident that he'd solved the mystery. "Piroshki are, uh, I think I might still have some from yesterday laying around, one second," he said, hurrying out to the front of the Inn, grabbing the last lonely pirozhek from the previous day's batch and handing it to Emil.
"These ones! That's piroshki. How do you call them in Polish, then? So we don't run into the same problem again." He asked, and once he'd gotten the answer, he explained the recipe to Emil so that the two could get to work.