The identity of this particular lump at his feet now ascertained, Volodymyr regards Finian pointedly for few seconds of silence. Heavy, judgmental silence. He lowers himself (carefully) to a crouch on the flagstones, resting a forearm on his knee, all the better to squint at his young apprentice and not deprive him of the smell of stale tobacco smoke and alcohol.

"Vhat are you doing here?" he demands in a brusque whisper.