Jantus laughed alongside his foreign companion as they approached the "home near the water." Jantus had nothing against the coast, really, other than its strategic value, something he'd needed to learn to appreciate since joining such an organized fighting group as the Pine. Coasts obviously had the advantage of providing a direction from which you could not be attacked...or at least from where you couldn't have neighbors. That was good barring an actual raging battle, when you really couldn't afford to have your back up against a wall. The idea of choosing a home near the water because you were a sailor made sense to Jantus, but at the same time, it wasn't something he'd ever thought about, so it seemed a bit strange...not that someone in Rurik's situation would do so, just the thought of being a person who derived comfort from the sea and the ever-open choice of getting in one's boat and sailing away from here. It was a bit romantic in a sense, though such ideas were usually over his head. He studied Rurik's home with his one eye and considered it. Anselm lived out here too, and at least one gang of wolves, besides. It seemed strange, but on the other hand, cities were more sheltered most of the time, and it might be that Tanya and Nikolov--who lived in a human house to avoid trouble with roving wolf packs--had the right idea. If he was ever out on his again, he might look into living the way his friends did, rather than out in the open as was his custom. That said...he wasn't sure what he'd do about the passageways the humans built...they clearly weren't built for someone his size. He couldn't fit through most of them horizontally or vertically, and he usually had to turn so that his width could squeeze through. On second thought, maybe it was better that he'd never given this lifestyle a try. He smiled at Rurik's return, and--taking the formidable bottle, which was much larger than any human one he'd ever seen--followed the pirate to what he considered was a safe distance away from home. Humans clearly didn't need as much of the stuff as werewolves did, considering how small their bottle usually were, but wherever Russia was, apparently they knew how it was done. For the first time, Jantus felt like he was being accommodated. He took a swig before gritting his teeth. It was true that alcohol didn't taste all that good to him, but it was the effect that he liked. If he hadn't been terribly thirsty the day he'd given it a try, he probably wouldn't have figured out what awaited at the bottom of the bottle. "Wish I could tell you more about Phoenix Valley," he said, wiping moisture from his lips. "My group and I were only there long enough to attend the funeral. The alpha's an interesting piece of work, name's Jefferson. Scarred from head to toe, missing pieces...also, not very reverent, though that bothered the others more than me. Skoll was just a wolf, not sure I believe his spirit's lingerin' around to offend." He laughed at that. He thought anyone who fought for the good of others left a legacy worth respecting, but people didn't become sacred after they died. He'd buried too many to think otherwise. Skoll had enjoyed enough fame during his life, there was no reason to heap on more after his death. Jantus still didn't forgive him for not being sensible enough to seek help in a situation where he was fighting a younger wolf of his own skill. "It's a pretty place, though," he went on. "They've got a cabin we saw, and lakes. A lot nicer than the places we passed to find it, which is saying something, as no part of this area has looked ugly, so far. Wouldn't have minded sticking around, but most members of my company were armed and scarred and we figured we were pushing our luck even asking for permission." Again, he laughed, a little more shallowly this time. It probably didn't do much for his friend's reputation that they were the ones to show up, but what the hell: they were a rough and tumble crowd, who else was a lifetime warrior supposed to associate with? "Anyway, Jefferson's a bit strange, but the pack members we met were friendly enough. A yearling named Ty kept coming out and training with us. Even though he's a bit messed up, I got the impression Jefferson can defend himself, too. Pretty, friendly and defended? You could definitely find worse places." He took another deep gulp of the stuff he'd been offered. He had no doubt that the brew Rurik provided would be very satisfying once it took hold. |
Who wears the eyepatch around here?
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01-08-2010, 01:14 PM
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01-10-2010, 07:25 PM
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http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/rurik_bottledrage.jpg); background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid #000000; padding: 245px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#000000; line-height:16px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;"> No problem either way! XD Alcohol actually deals with several factors when considering how it affects the person who is drinking it—body size and weight is a huge factor, so Jantus would have a clear advantage based on that alone. XD There's also the issue of tolerance, as well—Rurik excels in that area. XD You've also got to consider the speed of drinking ("a drink" is a 12oz beer, a 1oz shot or a ~4.5oz glass of wine) and whether or not the canines have eaten or not. Drinking faster obviously gets you drunk faster, and alcohol is filtered out of the body at a rate of approximately 1 "drink" per hour, so if you drink three shots back to back and wait an hour, you're still as drunk as if you'd had two shots. More questions, feel free to ask. XD I've had quite a bit of liquor training thanks to my restaurant jobs, and experience in dealing with drunkies that need to be removed from said establishments. Word Count: 1018 Although Rurik had a formidable stash of the Chekov-made vodka, he was well-aware of how to make his own rotgut—samogon, as it was called in the home country. This alcohol was a fair bit harsher than what was in the bottles both werewolves now carried, simply for the fact that it was not aged or mellowed out any. It was not infused with berries or mint or any of the other myriad of things one might used to flavor alcohol—however, the samogon that had been brewed in little Russian villages for many centuries was intended to be imbibed while it was still almost lukewarm, fresh from the distillation process. It was at its harshest and highest alcohol content then; this was a special kind of alcohol the Chekovs sold, though the sales of it were dismal as virtually every wolf in Sobirat'sya knew how to make samogon, the cheap, plentiful drink that had been rumored to grant its drinkers with virtality and longevity. Rurik wasn't sure if that was an old wives tale or the truth, but it was certainly true that it was some harsh stuff, certainly liable to throw some extra fur on one's chest. The silver-furred Russian had lived in houses and homes for all of his life not spent in transit on a boat, though he certainly was not averse to sleeping outside. Even then, when they'd first came to this coast, he'd picked a cave for himself and Kiska, finding it unworthy of his once-love to sleep outside on the ground as he did. The silvery werewolf did not often think of the green-dyed wolf, and it was rarer still that he thought of her in such a positive light; more often than not Rurik simply pondered whether she was still out there, somewhere. She hadn't returned to Sobirat'sya or even Russia that he knew of, unless the canines of his hometown were simply doing an exceptional job of hiding the Ozero-Russo wolf. That was highly unlikely in Rurik's eyes, and he thought it was more likely she'd melted westward or even northward from this place, finding an entirely new place to call her home, far away from the painful memories of her first mate and her children, unwanted by their father for the first several months of their lives. Rurik Russo could not think of Zaets, Zorish, and Vladimir now without a pang of guilt—he'd come to this faraway land once more to seek them out, to find them and let them know they were still loved and wanted by a whole extended family, and even if their connection to this family—Rurik himself—had done wrong by them, it did not mean that their grandmother Zinoviya and their cousins, aunts, uncles, and so forth, should have been denied their presence. Rurik would have given them Sobirat'sya if he could have known such an act would give his sons even a sliver of momentary happiness. They were worth all of that and more to the grizzled old wolf. If he had one great regret of his life, it was not knowing his children. Were it not for Silas, Liliya, Anatoliy, and Lizaveta, Rurik might not have ever even realized his elder sons' value, which was sadder still to the Russian werewolf. The pair settled in a hollowed out husk of a building, its floor-to-ceiling front window glass blown out and swept away with the wind. The innards of the building were melting away back to nature; streaky brown and black dirt covered the floors and piled in the corners, and a few winter-dead leaves brown and curling up, ready to disintegrate into dust. The werewolf poked at one of these leaves and watched it do just that, a grin appearing on his face as the other spoke of Phoenix Valley, tilting his ears up to catch the sounds of Jantus's words. "No worries. What you have said is helpful enough—though I gotta say, them spirits, some of 'em can get quite unruly if you forget about them. Mine domovoi—house spirit—didn't like bein' on a boat too much. Caused us a bit of mischief on our way over," the werewolf said with a grin. Their domovoi had hidden the key to one of the storage rooms below deck; Rurik was sure of that. It could have just as easily been one of his children playing a prank on him, but these Slavic religious traditions were ingrained into Rurik's head. "Your friend might be hangin' around yet, keepin' an eye on you," the Russian said reassuringly, smiling. He was not one to push his religious tradition on the unwilling, and that was as far as he was willing to take the issue, falling silent to listen to the grizzled male's description of the territory even as he cracked open his own bottle. Lifting it up to take a swig, the Russian shivered in appreciation of the harsh stuff coursing down his throat. The werewolf's description of the pack's lands were rather picturesque in Rurik's mind; he could almost see the lakes and cabins, smiling at the other canine's explanation of the packlands. Rurik was appreciative of the idea that they were well-defended, but the idea that they were not very receptive to canines of a "different" persuasion—Jantus and his group of warriors, that is—was something of a turn-off. Rurik and his Russian children were also pretty damn different, though their differences weren't quite so deadly-looking as the large gray werewolf in front of him, it'd be pretty obvious once Rurik or even Silas began to speak—and Lily, too, assuming she'd even stoop to speaking in English. "They sound like an alright bunch. I'm planning on checking out some of the other places around here, even. There seems like there's quite a few groups one could pick for home," the silvery werewolf said, indirectly indicating he'd like to hear a bit more of what Jantus had to say—the gray-furred giant seemed very well-versed in his knowledge, and the silvery werewolf was quite willing to listen. <style type="text/css"> .rurik-bottledrage b{font-weight:bold; color:#BC2B26; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px;} .rurik-bottledrage p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;} </style> [/html]
01-15-2010, 10:24 AM
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01-16-2010, 05:33 PM
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Word Count: 849. Death was not a subject Rurik liked to contemplate often; he was well aware he was growing steadily older. It happened with everyone, he supposed. He hadn't yet started to display overt signs of aging, however; it would seem his boyish nature and general outlook on life would keep him from getting too old, too fast. The Russian werewolf could hardly imagine himself an old man, yet he knew one day, it would happen. That is, unless he was cut down early, as Jantus's friend seemed to be. Strangely enough these depressing thoughts welled up within him, though the alcohol was quick to countervail the thoughts' effects. He found himself just as joyous and happy as ever, eager to cock an ear toward the grizzled wolf's speech. The werewolf grinned broadly at the other canine's suggestion; he wasn't quite sure he believed in ghosts, exactly, but he did think it was possible that spirits from the afterlife could watch over them. The Domovoi were not quite ghosts, anyway—they had never been human or alive. The trickster spirits were born trickster spirits, carved from the earth's essence as the canines and other creatures had been shaped from the earth's substance. He could surely believe there were two different worlds. "Aye, y'never know. Maybe we ought to set out a toast for him, then," the Russian suggested. The Domovoi certainly liked that—a cup of wine for them kept them placated for months. At the mention of Inferni, Rurik frowned, wrinkles growing over his muzzle. He had no particular qualm with coyotes, but it was certainly true that the coyotes had run Aremys off of their land. Well... sort of. Rurik was now aware he'd committed a sort of trespass against Inferni; in taking the Syemv territory to the south, he'd picked up a tiny sliver of beach from the coyotes. Such a thing was not so serious an offense to the Russian; where he was from borders were not so meaningful and there were no coyotes in Russia. At least, there were no native coyotes in Russia. Verusha proved otherwise, though her parents or grandparents had emigrated to Russia, and she might as well have been a native. She spoke Russian first, after all. "Aye? There was some trouble one of the last times I was on this land," he responded slowly, taking a sip from his own jug. The alcohol warmed his system and eased his mind; there was no getting around this fact of life. "Mine pack Syemv, we brought on wolves from the pack Chimera, and renamed ourselves at some time... and when I come back, Inferni had fought with Aremys—this Syemv and Chimera mix pack—and Aremys had to leave the coast," Rurik said, sadly enough. The truth was, he couldn't have lived in Aremys for very long after they'd gone from the coast. The ocean was in Rurik's blood and soul, and to be separate... well, Rurik didn't think that was possible. "Gabriel, that clan's leader, he is mine friend, though. I trust I will have no trouble from them," he said with a smile. He was overestimating his own state of friendliness with Inferni and underestimating the viciousness which possessed some of the coyote clan's members. Hybrid probably wouldn't have hesitated a moment to attack Rurik. The pine place sounded interesting; Rurik himself was not a violent creature, and he much preferred to remain on the defensive, though that was what it sounded like Jantus's clan was like. He could certainly comprehend defense; the Russos surely wouldn't have taken kindly to creatures who crossed their borders without care or worry. The Russian took another swig of his vodka, shorter sips now—there was no need to gulp and chug. Such things generally didn't end well. "Sad to say I could not live outside of the coast, I think. It has been part of my life... well, forever," the Russian wolf said with a smile. "To live without the call of the ocean would be strange for me. To each his own, though," he added. The adage was a favorite of his—by Rurik's count it wasn't his business how anybody else chose to live, so long as their behavior was not detrimental to him or anyone else on a large scale. The question came as a surprise to the werewolf—his bright blue eyes appeared to dim, and there was a moment of discomfort passing over his face, but it was gone in a moment. Kiska was no longer part of his life; he should not hurt over her. It was still a sensitive subject for the Russian, but he did not mind answering questions. "Well... I was much younger, you see. In Russia, the women are... hm. Let's say, you don't want to end up startling one in an alleyway," he said sheepishly. "Mine first and only love gave this time, actually. I should have been more careful to announce my presence." The world was different for women; they had to worry about more than the average man did, for certain. .rurik-bones b{font-weight:bold; color:#B44100; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px;} .rurik-bones strong{font-weight:bold; color:#B88060; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px;} .rurik-bones p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;} .rurik-bones{width:400px; background-color:#DED2C2; background-image:url(http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/rurik_bones.jpg); background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid #000000; padding: 252px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#000000; line-height:16px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;} </style>[/html]
01-16-2010, 06:18 PM
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01-26-2010, 09:44 AM
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No worriessss. The silver-furred werewolf should have been quite angry that his home had been destroyed; then again, his home was not really with Syemv. It had never been—his home was back in Arhkangel'sk with his grandparents and parents. This land was simply adventure; the silver-furred werewolf was the epitome of explorer, and his desire to see the world had not gotten any less strong as he aged. What had happened here was regrettable, but he had not lost anyone, personally, and as he was something of a pacifist, he had let it go, as he had many other trespasses throughout his life. Few had been taken against him, really, but if it had turned out that Segodi had actually slept with Kiska, the silver-furred werewolf probably wouldn't have attempted to punch his lights out a year later. Rurik rolled his shoulders in a shrug and he grinned broadly, tilting his head at his companion. "True, true. She was not very kind to me when we first met, but... ah, if she were any other way, I do not think I would have loved her so fiercely," he said, speaking rather lightly on Kiska, though he definitely began to drink just a bit faster. Of all the things he'd done and seen in life, there was but one sore spot, and she was it. The werewolf did not often miss her, but reflecting on her brought into stark contrast what the rest of the population as a whole lacked. The werewolf's next question brought a somewhat sad smile to the silver-furred Russian's muzzle, and he nodded his head. "No other girls like her," he said simply in response. "I screwed it all up, of course," he said, shrugging. He didn't particularly want to launch into the epic tale of Segodi and Kiska, but he would oblige if he asked. The werewolf looked to his companion, his blue eyes swimming with liquor. He was generally more attracted to women; his bisexuality was kept very damn well buried, and he could pretty much tell from Jantus's manner of speech and his general demeanor there was nothing to be sparked between them; they were destined for friendship and nothing else, which was fine in Rurik's book. It was rare he did not peer to his companions and at least evaluate them in sexual terms, though, and the question seemed only natural after their conversation. "What luck have you had with the women? Can't seem to replace the one I've lost, anyway," he said, lines about the one that got away running through his skull. He was not one to evince sadness over the whole issue, though a little was certainly shining through his azure gaze. <style> .rurik-giftsam b{color:#227c9b;} .rurik-giftsam p{margin:0px; padding:0px 0px 10px 0px; text-indent:45px;} </style> [/html]
01-26-2010, 10:40 PM
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02-12-2010, 06:45 AM
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02-17-2010, 12:05 PM
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