And since nobody seems to want to guess what "very special kind of kadeling" Ilmari is to fool the sentinels: The relevant hint is him calling the kade by an endearing name. After all, when you cannot make him a puppet outright, but command a bunch of mages whose traditional magic has a Department of Making Him Love Me™ (like so many other systems of magic around the world) ...

She opened her eyes. It was cold, the sky was dark, and somehow she knew it was usually called "night". So the cold and dark is night. Alright. Now, what is night? Cold and dark. Stuck in this logic loop, she blinked and felt something against her eyes. Something dry resisted her eyelashes, fell on an eyeball. It didn't feel bad, just confusing. Somehow, she knew, that night had another thing, called "sky", and that the sky shouldn't behave like that. Could it have something to do with that smell of a frozen soil?
She reached her arms towards the sky. The sky resisted, dry, hard, cold, falling on her face like rain of a ...wait a minute! What was the word?
Soil.
She started digging.

-----
In the 2076th year of the L-d all that's left of Russian federation and CIS was roundly consolidated here, across the steppe shores of the Don river. Russians were always a people of a river, but The Plague left them few choices. Lena is too far away. Volga is covered with forests. Moskva and Neva flow through places you don't want to know about. Wide steppe was a perfect place for living, mainly because of the pseudolife, which was occupying the forests.
But soon it turned out, that all those pseudobears, and pseudowolfs, and pseudomosquitoes (now that's a real pain in the... you get it) were not the worst trouble.

----
What's that blue thing above? So bright. So clear blue. And another thing, right in the middle of it – even brighter. She took a few steps aside, and stood, looking up, studying the big shiny thing.
Sun.
That was her memory rolling restlessly, like a pseudobear in its den, as if it was going to wake up. She stood, looking at the sun, you can't look at de sun, Nadya, don' look at de sun, says ma, get inside, y’gonna catch a cold...
Nadya blinked again. She bent to shake the dirt out of her long black hair. She saw a snowy forest, and a fresh grave. Somehow she knew, that between this scene and a memory of when she was going to a church there was something else, and something kept telling her she didn't want to refill that gap.

Were those an aftermath of The Plague, or attempts to heal it... or maybe fairytales don't lie, and gods were always here. But where there are gods, there are believers, and where there are believers, there are zealots. There's no worse thing than an ill willing zealot, supported by a god. Even if it's your god. But not when it's G-d.

In 2070th the Inquisition was formed. After more than eight centuries, the Russian Orthodox Church had finally perceived the experience of its European colleagues and since there wasn't any other real law enforcement at the time, the Inquisition, despite the fearsome fame of this word, became a blessing.

-----
It was cold. Very cold. So cold, that it simply couldn't be so cold around here. Colder, then the darkest night in the coldest December. Even the fact that she had nothing on but a white funeral shroud couldn't explain that cold. Nadya felt so cold she was afraid she was going to die. She put her fingers to her neck. She felt that her skin was cold, smooth and hard, like old rubber. And nothing but that.
“Alright…”
She looked back, scared by the sound of this hoarse shrunken voice. But it was her own voice.
 “Alright. Don' panic. I'm dead. Don' panic. I'm dead, notin’ can kill me now, don' panic”
But the cold. It was still there. Nadya started to realize that it was something more than just cold. And that the source of this torment was everything but this delightful Russian weather.

A few days back now a ragged stalker broke into our office. His face, and his clothes and his gear – those were the signs of a mature stalker, an experienced wastelander, a man who can solve any problem, take on any job and walk any road. And this man was pale with terror.
“Sa-sa...” he was stuttering and completely out of breath “S... s...”

“Sit, my son. Calm down.”

But he remained standing. I don't think he even heard me.
“S-s-s-snegoorochka!”

----
Nadya started walking forward. Just not to stand in one place. She was freezing. Soon enough she realized, that even this unnatural cold couldn't kill her or even slow her down. But it didn't make the cold less painful. Were she alive, she'd say that her life was being frozen out. It was almost as if a cold was The cold. When she came upon a hare, it was the cold, that told her what to do. Poor little thing looked at her and froze, rooted to the spot.
Nadya approached slowly, got down on all fours in front of the hare. She wasn't hurried. Somehow, she knew, that nothing could resist the Snegoorochka's eyes, those abyssal black eyes she now saw reflected in the eyes of the hare.
“Cootchie-cootchie-coo ya lil' one...”
She caressed the hare a bit and then clenched her fingers around it, so that her sharp fingernails pierced through its hide right into its soft and warm guts, to its hot juicy veins, and finally the answer was found, or at least a part of it came to Nadya, as she drank the hare's hot salty blood, filling her body with warmth.

----
If there is a worse thing, than an ill willing zealot, supported by a god, it's an ill willing zealot, supporting his god. On a 22th of December, the winter solstice, there was a good Inquisitorial tradition: to round up a mage, worshipping Carachoon, and burn him for good. We're not so hardcore with other heathens, they're usually harmless and sometimes even useful. But not those who worship the god of cold. Their motives are understandable: they hope to cajole him, to make winter less harsh. And the best way to cajole Carachoon is a human sacrifice. And as if an evil deity wasn't enough, The Plague is always here to bring more fun. What died in her territory may just not stay dead.

-----
“An’ so I realized I've to be a monster or else I'll become a monster. An' don't ya even freakin' try to cross y’self, or I'll bite ya hand off.”

Poor guy couldn't even imagine that his day would turn to such a disaster. He wasn't an angel of course, but the goddamned (literally) frozen zombie sitting right next to his bonfire was just too much. That eerie snow-pale girl wasn't trying to kill him. She just sat there picking out the large pellets he treated her with out of her forehead, and she didn't even look that angry. But he heard, that Snegoorochka likes to play with her prey. Her play was to make him boil the snow in a kettle over the bonfire. And then she drank it – the boiling water. Kettle after kettle, yearningly, like she needed a fix.

“Look, I know what it looks like. But someone has done it to me, an’ now I'm just...”

The stalker gave her the refilled kettle once more. She grabbed it and started gulping the boiling water, and he could hear a silent shriek of rapidly melting ice from her throat and stomach.

“...ah.” That was the first time Nadya actually breathed. “I'm just so... cold. So cold, I'd even... meh, you're probably not into dead girls anyway...”

 “Y...y...you're n-n-not g-g-going to... eat me?”

 “I'm tryin'. An' I hate it. Every second of it. But c'mon, are you really dat scared?”

“Ah-ah-I've b-b-ben s-s-s-stuttering s-s-s-since m-m-my ch-ch-childhood.”

-----
Snegoorochka. Now that's trouble. In a way it's even worse than a pseudogiant. A pseudogiant – that huge shapeless mass of a flesh, twisted by The Plague – is a disaster, but at least it's alive, which means you can kill it. Plus it's not the brightest thing around. With Snegoorochka it's different.
When a person dies, their soul lingers in our world for forty more days. Our L-d gave us this time to say good-bye, to gather the thoughts or even learn something one always wanted to know, using a newfound incorporeity. After that, a deceased one is free to go to the other side.
But it only happens when the L-d is watching over. Of course, Carachoon is weaker than the L-d. But as with any unclean one, it allows him to be more... here. More true. Closer to our realm. He's like a local maniac, compared to a president. And this maniac has to cheat and dodge and scheme. Carachoon uses those forty days to shroud one's soul with his cold – a cold that somehow manages to be both literal and metaphorical at the same time.
As loyal servants of our L-d, our job is to bring His will to this poor unfortunate soul. And while His will is always good and clear, bringing it is a hard part. Snegoorochka must be chanted off before those forty days runs out. After that point incineration is the only option.
Have you ever tried to forcefully chant off someone cunning as a fox, strong as a bear and hard as pykrete? We couldn't either. We've never made it on time.

Stalker was lucky to remember the golden rule: stand still, stay silent, it might go away. But he wasn't sure if that would work with this rarest specimen of a sentient pseudolife. So naturally, he failed to follow the rule.

“W-w-what's your n-name?”

“Nadezhda.”

“R-r-r-oma. H-h-h-who k-killed you?”

Nadya emptied another kettle. “I was hopin' you gonna tell me. Ain't recallin' much. It's just... sometin’ tells me dat a name for a ting I've become is "Snegoorochka". Sometin’ from inside o'me y'know?”

“T-t-t-they s-s-s-say y-you drink blood, r-r-right?”

“Yup.”

“W-why?”

“Cuz I'm cold. Seems like notin' can help it, not a fur coat, not a fire, only blood. I'm yet to try alcohol, but I don' really hope for it eider.”

Roma remained strained. It wasn't only the golden rule that kept him from running. It was also a curiosity – the same thing that made him a stalker. He froze in intense waiting, observing this pretty village girl with snow-pale skin and eyes black as cold deep water, and he was just waiting for one more kettle of snow to boil.

“Seems like y'know what I am. I mean... it's like y'know even more about it dan me, so... tell me.”

“W-w-wont it h-hurt your f-f-feelings?” Roma felt safe enough to joke.

Nadya took a handful of the pellets she picked out of her forehead earlier. “Pfft, please...”

And so he told her. And he was right – it actually hurt her feelings. She'd have been sacrificed, Roma told her. She would've been tied to a tree, naked, left to freeze to death. A sacrifice, that a druid of Carachoon would carry out, or so he'd been told. He had never seen one personally, since the Inquisition's intense engagement in the elimination of Carachoon's cult had been mostly successful.
The worst part was that his story made her recall.

-----
You might think this is a story about a poor girl, forced to turn into a monster. But it's not.
My name is Semyon aka "Lucky" Schastlivkin. I serve the Inquisition as a sniper, but in times of calm, I also do some paperwork. So it was me who first met Roman Mäkin, a lone stuttering stalker, who saw the Snegoorochka. And naturally it was me who rushed out from the table to get to the closest radio and report to command.
But the story's not about me either. It's about my friends.

-----
Nadya recalled everything. Those people in her village – she knew that there was something weird in their eyes that morning. There was always something weird in their eyes, when they looked at her. And pretty often her father saw those glances. Nadya was always wandering, was that making him keep telling her to “stop shining”.
This year, December was colder than usual. People were dying; things were getting very serious. In desperation and shame, the villagers apparently asked a druid to help. Nadya recalled the druids of Svarog, Zheva, Rauni, Tol-ava – all of their half-legal witchcraft had no long-term effect. Nor bowing to a wooden idol, nor Vepsian songs, nor Oodmortian hexes – nothing helped. Although she knew that in other situations the old gods leave no prayers unanswered.
And so they addressed one you should never address to. All that the druid asked for his services was Nadya herself. The things he'd done before the ritual even started... and things he'd done after it started. They let it happen.

“Dey let it happ’n...” Like a tree bark on a strong cold, her face cracked into a smile. There was an irony in all of this. She was a part of this world now, the Carachoon's realm, and thus she was now able to intuitively understand his logic. He didn't stop freezing people to death because they give her to him, but vice versa - he started to freeze them to death, because he wanted her.
Roma became scared for real, as Nadya started laughing. She finally understood the law of Carachoon, and his law was the irony.

“I get it! I tink I do. See, he's not evil. De Carachoon. Or, I mean... well, he is evil obviously, but not angry. He's just... playful. He wanted a toy. An’ y’all gave it to him...”

“W-w-whoa, hey, ah-ah-I wasn't a p-part of this!”

“Oh yes you were!” said Nadya lovingly. She passed through the fire on her knees and leaned toward the stalker.

“Yes you we-e-ere, cootchie-cootchie-coo, ye lil' one...” She caressed his cheek leaving a trace of black frostbitten skin.

“О-о-отче н-наш, и-и-иже еси н-на небесеhmpf!”
Nadya slammed her hand over the stalker's mouth. Even after several liters of boiling water and a crawl through a fire, her skin was still about -120 Celsius, but Roma wasn't in a position to judge that as his face burned with the intense cold of her touch.

“SHUT UP! Tell you what? I'm in a mood, kinda... So let's play. De rules are simple. I want your blood. You want to leave. I give you five minutes handicap. An’ den we see what happens...”

Vera was about to sleep sweetly. That was the reason she liked to be in patrol so much: you're at risk, having nothing against this cold world but a gun and a prayer, and nothing more to protect yourself than your tent. You're at risk, every second may be your last, and it makes every second so sweet.
And she knew, that Sanya would soon return after his watch, and throw some firewood in their campfire, so that they could have a few pleasant moments... She always thought of the L-d as of someone kind enough to let His soldiers go a little off the rules sometimes.
Half asleep she heard the snow creaking under someone's foot. She could certainly tell it wasn't Sanya - whoever walked to her tent wasn't walking surely. That someone was sneaking.
Wide awake now, Vera held her breath, and her fingers started a slow and quiet journey towards her Kalashnikov's grip.
“Attention all posts,” the silence exploded with a voxed voice on her radio set. Vera shuddered. Her noise masking was ruined.

“Dagnabbit!”

“We've got report about Snegoorochka in quadrant seven and moving. Full combat readiness. All patrols, report immediately, over.”
The canopy moved apart. Vera grabbed her rifle and pointed it to an ink-black night outside the tent.

“Pavlov, clear.” a radio roll call started.

“Sechenov, clear.”

She saw her. Pale haggard girl, with a beautiful young face, white and blank as snow.

“Vygotsky, clear.”

Barely noticeable nicks on her forehead – someone tried a shotgun on her, but with pseudolife of that level only silver could work, and even then not always.

“Luria, we've got a pseudobear den here, monitoring, over.”

White burial shroud was shabby, even burnt at some places. Someone tried a fire on her, but it takes much more than just a bonfire...

“Leontyev, clear.”

And those eyes. Completely black eyes are already scary by themselves, but when it comes to pseudolife, spirits and everything that has something to do with Nav', a phrase "the eyes are the window to the soul" gets much more literal. Yes, Snegoorochka have a soul - impenetrable like a well, going deep under ground. There are very few creatures in the world more ruthless and more dangerous than the Snegoorochka.
Holding tight to her useless rifle, Vera slowly took her radio:

“Voronina, contact.”

But there was a hope. There's always hope, but especially now it was pretty solid. There's always this forty day gap in which poor undead virgin becomes a monster.

“I...” Snegoorochka's voice was husky, she clearly found it hard to speak “am... sorry...”

She pounced on Vera. Vera tried to fight back, but with no result – it was like trying to bend a frozen log. She tried to cry for help, but the cold fell upon her like a pillow, making her voice just as hoarse. Scalding cold hands slid under her sweater.

“Don' get me wrong” Snegoorochka whispered over her ear “I'm just so cold...”

And then something happened. Snegoorochka recoiled, holding her right hand and groaning in pain. Wasting no time on thinking, Vera took a deep loud breath and sat up, pointing Kalashnikov at the monster.

“I'm sorry,” she creaked again, “I'm so sorry. I didn't want to.”

She started crying with no tears coming out of her eyes. And then she showed Vera her right palm with a cross-shaped burn on it. Snegoorochka never allow her prey to get away alive, but someone did warn folks about her, right? Vera realized that the girl was still fighting.

“Voronina, status!” It appeared the radio was working all that time. “Is Golovanov with you? Voronina, do you copy?”

Despite her name, Vera was never that religious. But she knew, that as the Inquisitor she's bound to have at least one of those moments when a huge forefinger pierces the sky pointing at you, and you hear a thunder-like voice, saying: this is your moment.
Vera had to do it very carefully. She smiled:

“Well ain't y’made a fuss, hoss...”

“You’re local? Like me?”

“Yup. What's your name?”

“Nadya.”

“Vera. Nadya, do you remember your life?”

“Well, I... der was dat... druid an’...”

“We'll find ‘im. Dat's not what I'm askin' 'bout. Do you remember your life?”

Vera sat a bit closer to the girl. She felt goosebumps covering her skin, and her hair covering with rime. The closer Snegoorochka was to maturity, the closer she was to mastering her main weapon – the cryokinesis. Nadya looked in her eyes. And Vera saw a dim flare of a moonlight on Kalashikov's barrel behind her back. That was Sanya. Trying very hard not to let Snegoorochka notice him, Vera as if between times put her finger on her lips.

“It's... hard... fog... cold. I don't. Dey took it. My life. Betrayed me. Dey were warm. Like you. Need warmth. Inside 'em. Cootchie-cootchie-coo, ya lil' one...”

Vera saw a terror in her eyes. She knew it wasn't really Nadya who was slowly reaching her arm towards her neck.

“God's Name!” she said loud and confidently. There was a big chance, that this girl didn’t even taste human. That meant that she was weaker against forces of Heaven, that a pseudolife usually is.
Nadya shuddered, looking like she was going to puke.

“Sorry, hoss. I know what it is. I know how you feel. An' I must say, I envy you. Your strength. You’re very strong. An’ you’re still a human bein', no matter what y’tink you are. An' dis cold, dat tortures you, dis lust for blood – it's not you.”

“But...”

“An’ y’might tink dose people who sacrificed you – y’tink dey deserve hell, right? Well, maybe dey do. But it's only for de Lord...”

Nadya curled up into a ball, moaning silently in pain.

“...to decide.”

Outside the tent Sanya was gathering all the minimum they were going to need to chant Nadya off.

“And y’might tink, dat de Lord...”

“Hisssss-s-s”

“...hates you. But it's not Him, who hurts y’now. Y’ight tink He turned away from you, but it's really you, who've been forcefully turned away from Him.”

Slowly, like she was disarming a bomb, Vera touched Nadya's hair. A painful freezing pierced her fingers, but at this time there was nothing more important, than the lost child to be caressed and consoled. With her left hand, Vera took off a chain with her cross.
From the darkness outside the tent Sanya looked at her and showed a thumb up. They were ready.

“Y’did good, girl. Y’did good. An' we'll save you. An' I'm sorry.”

Vera lassoed her by her neck with a silver chain with a cross and pulled her out of the tent. Nadya's new nature resisted, she was twisting and turning and swinging her limbs, trying to bite or scratch Vera and screaming smothered. Vera knew it wasn't her, and that the cross around Nadya's neck weakened her enough so she could be handled.

“Circle?”

“Check!” Sanya rushed in and grabbed Nadya by her legs.

“Candles?”

“Check! Are we really doing this?!”

“Yeah! De Book?”

“Check!”

They pushed her to the ground. Vera knelt over Snegoorochka, pushing her shoulders to the ground. Holding a chain in her left hend, Vera crossed herself.

“Well, God help us.”

Sanya passed here a little old textbook opened on a page with a funeral anaphora, crossed himself too and grabbed a radio.

“God help us. Command, this is Golovanov, we got her, beginning liturgy, over.”

“I got dis. Watch de perimeter, last time folks tried it, sometin' killed 'em.”

“Roger. I remember my part, begin.”

Vera took a deep breath.
“It's gonna be over soon, girl. Помилуй мя, Боже, по велицей милости Твоей, и по множеству щедрот Твоих очисти беззаконие мое.”

They started it wrong, right from the 51st psalm. But when those chants were being composed no one thought they were going to be used on something that just doesn't want to stay dead. Sanya fought an urge too look back at Vera and help her hold this monster. But she was right: the last time inquisitors tried to chant away the Snegoorochka, the next day they were found dead, frozen and skinned.

“Се бо, в беззакониих зачата есмь, и во гресех роди мя мати моя. Се бо, истину возлюбила еси; безвестная и тайная премудрости Твоея явил ми еси.”

So as she sang he had to hold his rifle tight and hold his ground. No sign of danger was seen yet though.

“Господи, устне мои отверзеши, и уста моя возвестят хвалу Твою.”

There was another reason it wasn't Sanya who held the monster. This was G-d's will. The main part of any prayer is usually to be chanted by a man, not a woman. But it seemed like the L-d was taking part in their strategy by blessing separated individuals with a gift of a direct line with Him. Some called them mages. But some weren’t happy with mixing those vessels of G-d’s will and heathens. So in order to separate those two categories, G-d’s blessing of such sort was called “The Shining”. It was the reason why heathens also called L-d “Master of chances” or “Mister Luck” – anyone could be born Shining. Their strategic value was only clear to the L-d, so Sanya was just facing a fact: Vera Shines, and when she addresses the G-d, things get on the move real quick. Just like now.

“Яко аще бы восхотел еси жертвы, дала бых убо: всесожжения не благоволиши. Жертва Богу дух сокрушен; сердце сокрушенно и смиренно Бог не уничижит." Vera's voice became louder. She didn't force it. She put no effort to it. It just became louder, echoing around, amplified like someone just had given her a mic. “Яко по суху пешешествовав Израиль, по бездне стопами, гонителя фараона видя потопляема, Богу победную песнь поим, вопияше.”

“Пресвятая Богородице, спаси нас.” Sanya wade in with a choir part. First song out of eight. It was going to be a long night.

“Каплям подобно дождевным, злии и малии дние мои, летним обхождением оскудевающе, помалу исчезают уже, Владычице, спаси мя.”

Sanya saw a man approaching the circle. It was dark, but Sanya managed to see that he was old, with a lush white beard. There was no point in asking.
“Пресвятая Богородице, спаси нас, contact!”

Sanya aimed, but suddenly a terrible frost bit his eyes. He lost concentration for a moment. Nadya screamed, as if her throat wasn't clenched in a chain.

“Твоим благоутробием и многими щедротами Твоими, Владычице, преклоняема естественно, в час сей ужасный предстани ми, Помощнице Непоборимая.”

“Пресвятая Богородице, спаси нас,” Sanya grabbed a radio. “The druid is here! Requesting backup!”

He tried to aim again and saw the old man's eyes, light blue, with pupils so sharp he could barely see them. And he was smiling. Defiantly. And then Sanya heard deep low throat chanting, that sounded both outside and inside his head.

“Грешным и смиренным известное прибежище, о мне извести Твою милость, Чистая...” Vera was too busy to get distracted.

Some force tossed Sanya aside.

“...и бесовския избави руки...”

But just when he was about to fly out of the circle a blizzard arose, swirling around its edge, and softly pushed him back.

“...якоже бо пси мнози обступиша мя!”

No longer could Sanya hear anything over Vera's voice. The blizzard covered the druid from her, but Sanya saw clearly that she was looking right into the druid's eyes. Finally he got a chance for a blind shot at least. He pulled the trigger, but he didn't know if he hit. He wasn't even sure if the bullets left the circle.

“Несть свят, якоже Ты, Господи Боже мой, вознесый рог верных Твоих, Блаже, и утвердивый нас на камени исповедания Твоего.”

“A second song. We can do it.” Gasped Sanya with hope, “Пресвятая Богородице, спаси нас.”

“He is outside,” Nadya growled, “but I am inside!”

“Издалеча сего дне, Вла...дычице, провидя, и того яко... ahem! пришедша помышляяй присно... слезами теплыми моляхся не забыти мене.”

Sanya felt the temperature drop further.

“Пресвятая Богородице, спаси нас.” He looked at Vera: she was all covered in rime. “Now that's not good.”  Sanya ran up to Vera and hugged her. The evil took over that poor girl, and she had tried to freeze them.

“Об-б-быдоша мя м-м-м-мысленнии рыкающе скимны, и...” Vera began to cough.
Maybe it was against the rules, but Sanya had to cacth her part too, “...ищут восхитити и растерзати мя горце, ихже зубы, Чистая, и челюсти сокруши и спаси мя, пресвятая Богородице, спаси нас, Vera, it's all right, I'm here. We've been through worse. Just remember Who's on our side.”

Vera looked at him. Until that very moment he hadn't noticed that her eyes are shining.

“Угасшу убо отнюд органу словесному, и связавшуся языку, и затворившуся гласу, в сокрушении сердца молю Тя, Спасительнице моя, спаси мя.”

The last thing he remembered was the young girl yelling:

“GRANPA! I'M HERE!”

Vera opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was a little fragile woman, rushing between two beds in a small wooden hut and swearing like a sea wolf. Her white robe was covered in blood.

“Excuse me…”

Woman froze and looked back at Vera. Even though her face was covered with a medical mask, Vera immediately recognized her brown eyes with those creepy blue eyeballs. As with any heathen, Vera’s memory shortly came up with her file.
Seleznyova, Alesya Dmitrievna, aka “Maltheist”. Age: 23. Nationality: Moksha. Immune: yes. Mage. Occupation: freelance medic. Worshipped deity: unknown.
There were a lot of very complicated things behind this “unknown”.

“Blyat’!” Alesya spat the curse and rushed to the left bed.

“Ahem! Mam, dis is de Inquisition, what is…”

“ʜᴇʟʟᴏ”

The voice was… like someone dropped a rock on a bottom of a very deep and very dark well. It sounded behind Vera’s back and for some reason the last thing she wanted to do at the moment was look back.

“Arrgh, you again! Get the hell out!,” croaked Alesya fumbling over the bed.

Vera began to realize the meaning of all of this. She didn’t want to realize it. She didn’t want to see the scalpel in Alesya’s hand.

“ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴊᴏʙ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴᴛᴇʀғᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍɪɴᴇ”

“My job is to interfere with your job, Mara.”
“ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ ɪ ᴀᴍ”

“Yes. A parasitic cognitive construct, usurping the power over a natural process, aka “deity.”

“ʜʀᴍᴘғ... ᴡᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ɴᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪs. ᴄʜɪʟᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍᴇ.”

The moment the voice said it, Vera already knew that she was going with her. Sanya was not seen around. His soul at least. Vera turned around. She saw a tall pale woman with long dark hair. Her sarafan was made of something so black, Vera couldn’t even see any folds. And when Vera saw a huge shadow behind woman’s back, only its shape let her understand it was her wings. Her eyes were… usual, actually. Just a blue eyes. But somehow Vera knew that this was just a comfortable illusion.

“Will he…”

“ᴛʜɪʀᴛʏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀs. ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ. ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ᴊᴏʙ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ, ᴄᴀɴᴇ ᴅᴇɪ.”

“A job?!” Alesya looked furious. She rushed towards the right bed where Vera’s corpse lay and started to rapidly wipe defibrillator plates. “Razyebis’ ty nahuy zloyebuchim proyeblom tremudoblyadskaya ty mandoprohuyobina,” she croaked, after which she swore dirty. She knew the shock wouldn’t help. It only works in movies.
“Hey, cop! Don’t you listen to it! It’s not a real death! No matter what it says!”

Mara laughed silently:

“ᴘғғᴛ... ɪᴛ... ɪғ ɴᴏᴛ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴡʜᴏ?”

“As I said: a parasite!”

That’s why they called Alesya maltheist, and that’s why her worshipped deity was “unknown”. She called all the gods parasites. Back in a-days it nearly brought her to a fire: you can’t call L-d a parasite and get away with this.
And still… you can’t call Tol-ava a parasite and get away without a few burns; you can’t call Magozh parasite and get away healthy; you can’t call Carachoon parasite and get away without a frostbite. A single person simply can’t be so disrespectful to all the supernatural beings at once and stay alive. But Alesya – she could. Moreover, no deity will help you if you don’t deserve it. But Alesya – she sure was a mage, a druid, so talentful that even the worst cases of traumas and diseases were nothing to her expertise.
Someone even thought she was a priestess of Mara – the only deity who doesn’t care what you think about her. But what’s the point in worshipping someone who only takes and can’t give by definition?
There could be only one conclusion. She was a Shining one. No one ever saw that L-d would bless such a militant atheist, and yet it was a fact. Although Alesya herself wasn’t agree with that either.
Vera stepped towards the bed to look at her corpse and shuddered. That druid did a good job on them.

“I look pretty dead from where I’m standin’.”

“It’s my hospital! I decide who’s dead!”

“But…”

“Do you think?”

“Tink what?”

“Anytin, pa-a-ardnah! Well, do you?”

“Um… yes?”

“Therefore you exist. Therefore you’re not dead!”

“ᴡᴇʟʟ ɪ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ ᴀᴍ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴛɪʀᴇᴅ ᴏғ ɪᴛ.”
From somewhere in the folds of her sarafan Mara took a sickle and waved it. That very moment Vera suddenly realized she’ve never felt more ok. She used to feel better. But she never felt more ok.
“sᴏ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴇxɪsᴛ”
The time stopped. Vera could literally see one more curse about to leave Alesya’s mouth.

“ᴛʜɪs ᴠᴀʟɪᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ ᴀᴄᴛᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛs ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ᴍᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ. ɪ ᴡɪsʜ ʜᴇʀ ʟᴜᴄᴋ. ᴍᴇᴀɴᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴡᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴍᴏʀᴇ sᴇʀɪᴏᴜs ᴛʀᴏᴜʙʟᴇ.”

Never before Vera felt her mind was so clear.
“The druid?”

“ɴᴏ. ʜɪs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀ. ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ɢɪʀʟs ʜᴇ ᴋɪʟʟs - ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɴᴏᴛ sᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ɪɴ ғᴀᴄᴛ ɪ ᴏɴʟʏ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪs ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛ ᴛᴏ sᴛᴏᴘ ᴛʜɪs ᴅʀᴜɪᴅ ᴏғ ʜɪs. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ. ᴅᴏ. ɴᴏᴛ. ʟɪᴋᴇ. ɪᴛ.”

“So, the Carac…”

“ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ sᴀʏ ʜɪs ɴᴀᴍᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ. ɴᴀᴠ' ɪs ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴀʏ ɴᴀᴍᴇs. ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟɪᴠᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴏɴᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡs ɪᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏᴜʀ ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀs ᴋɴᴏᴡs ɪᴛ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡs ɪᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ sᴇᴇᴍs ɪᴛ ɪs ᴍᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ɪs ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴘᴏᴏʀ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ. ᴀɢᴀɪɴ. ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴏʀᴛʏ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴀʏs ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴏɴᴏʀᴀʀʏ ʀᴇᴛɪʀᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛʜɪs ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍʏ ᴀᴍʙᴀssᴀᴅᴏʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪᴏ̨ᴜɪsɪᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴛᴇʟʟ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇɢᴜᴇs ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴜs ɪɴ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴀᴄᴛ.”

-- Nadya is short for Nadezhda, that means Hope. Vera also translates as Faith.
-- This is basicaly "Our Father, which art in heaven". But the thing is that all the prayers in Russian Orthodoxity are read on Church-slavic - a special conlang, based on obsolete version of Russian language of I guess the XIIth century. So I left those untranslated.  Chant is changing to modern Russian at some point, but only when they're interrupted, and those moment are translated into English.
-- Nadya refers to Carachoon as her grandfather. A reference strictly for Russians and those who knows our mythology.  See, nowadays, Snegoorochka and Carachoon (being infused with Morozko - the good god of winter - and Nikolay the Marvelmaker aka St.Nicolas) are much brighter a characters - she's a magic helper (and a granddaughter) of the Grandpa Freeze, and a Carachoon is a part of base material to Granpa Freeze, basically - the Santa Claus.
So considering Nadya is now tied to a course of the myth, as she's on the other side, so it's natural for her to call Carachoon her grandfather.
-- The chant is continued by Sanya. In our tradition liturgy is conducted by ponomar', who chants the main part on C and E only, and a choir to give some nice harmony at some points. Due to the circumstances Sanya have to sing a choir part, but in critical situation he also has to take the ponomar's part.
-- What happens in a scene is a magic duel, and a Carachoon's druid happens to be stronger (due to much more experience, I guess), and Snegoorochka helps him, cuz she's being hurt by a liturgy, which wakes her "unlife-preservation" instinct to take over.