TROLOLO
There was something about the sable-furred woman that penetrated Rurik's drunken mind, beyond the usual beer googles: she was pretty. Her body was tall and lithe, exceptionally so, and though his vision swayed and swirled, he saw this clearly. How pretty! He took a staggering step forward and stopped at her words, the anger in them halting him where he stood. He blinked his bright blue eyes slowly, and peered at her, utterly perplexed. “I am just trolololoing all the way home,” he said softly, sounding almost hurt at the accusation. Even shitfaced as he was, Rurik would never hurt a fly. He was not an angry or vindictive drunk—he was just bloody loud. He certainly wasn't a mugwump when it came to being drunk—he was either straight laced and sober, or really, really drunk. This was obviously one of those latter times.
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