01-20-2010, 01:09 AM
471
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It seemed as though they were finally going to settle down somewhere—stop flitting to and fro like birds trying to avoid being shot down, with no happier metaphor available. Indeed, his insatiable paranoia had begun to settle down at least some since they had arrived in what felt like a new world; perhaps as new to them as it had been to those first European humans stepping foot here hundreds of years ago. He might have continued northwards along the coast if they hadn’t by the grace of God met up with Rurik and learned that he and several of his children lived here. Of all places, of all people! He simply couldn’t believe it, but perhaps he could. God worked in mysterious ways, and perhaps he was leading the bloody-handed Russo towards his carefree uncle for a certain reason. It was too far out of sight of Raskolnikov’s coal eyes now, so he didn’t really regard it. There would be more time for that later.
But now he and the wife were busy "shopping" for a house. Unlike many of the North American werewolves, they were a little more civilized and preferred something with walls and a roof besides a cave or a tree or something barbarian like that. Unfortunately, most smaller settlements were claimed by packs and clans (as Halifax was a little too frequented for his liking; he was somewhat reclusive, and with reason). But they had finally come across this village, and it seemed just about perfect. And now they were wandering across the snow-frosted cobblestones, trying to pick out a house.
Sonja danced away from him, pointing out a white-sided house that seemed to be in decent shape—it had either been blessed since the fall of humans or someone had kept up with it. It would need work, but they didn't have anything better to do now that there was no next place to drift off to. He mainly left the house-choosing to her—he did not mind personally, and he knew it would make her happy to make the decision. He followed silently and dutifully as they approached and entered the run-down house. The ceiling was low (for a tall werewolf, as Raskolnikov was), but not bad. She danced away, exploring far more swiftly than he. He was busy looking at the structure, making sure it would not collapse on them if they got too comfortable. He did not believe it would. He was looking at the fireplace and seeing if it was working when Sonja returned, trilling in her Italian voice. A smile came upon his usually-grim features, largely without his knowing. "Poi è il vostro, mio caro," he said in his deep voice, glancing around and continuing after a pause to piece together his Italian, "Porterà del lavoro, ma sarà piacevole."
It seemed as though they were finally going to settle down somewhere—stop flitting to and fro like birds trying to avoid being shot down, with no happier metaphor available. Indeed, his insatiable paranoia had begun to settle down at least some since they had arrived in what felt like a new world; perhaps as new to them as it had been to those first European humans stepping foot here hundreds of years ago. He might have continued northwards along the coast if they hadn’t by the grace of God met up with Rurik and learned that he and several of his children lived here. Of all places, of all people! He simply couldn’t believe it, but perhaps he could. God worked in mysterious ways, and perhaps he was leading the bloody-handed Russo towards his carefree uncle for a certain reason. It was too far out of sight of Raskolnikov’s coal eyes now, so he didn’t really regard it. There would be more time for that later.
But now he and the wife were busy "shopping" for a house. Unlike many of the North American werewolves, they were a little more civilized and preferred something with walls and a roof besides a cave or a tree or something barbarian like that. Unfortunately, most smaller settlements were claimed by packs and clans (as Halifax was a little too frequented for his liking; he was somewhat reclusive, and with reason). But they had finally come across this village, and it seemed just about perfect. And now they were wandering across the snow-frosted cobblestones, trying to pick out a house.
Sonja danced away from him, pointing out a white-sided house that seemed to be in decent shape—it had either been blessed since the fall of humans or someone had kept up with it. It would need work, but they didn't have anything better to do now that there was no next place to drift off to. He mainly left the house-choosing to her—he did not mind personally, and he knew it would make her happy to make the decision. He followed silently and dutifully as they approached and entered the run-down house. The ceiling was low (for a tall werewolf, as Raskolnikov was), but not bad. She danced away, exploring far more swiftly than he. He was busy looking at the structure, making sure it would not collapse on them if they got too comfortable. He did not believe it would. He was looking at the fireplace and seeing if it was working when Sonja returned, trilling in her Italian voice. A smile came upon his usually-grim features, largely without his knowing. "Poi è il vostro, mio caro," he said in his deep voice, glancing around and continuing after a pause to piece together his Italian, "Porterà del lavoro, ma sarà piacevole."