(352) Slow slow, sorry. :C
Vasiliy is by me!
Aye, the wolf said, somber in his agreement. The world was a harsh place, and Sobirat'sya was not an easy place to live. On top of the world, the winters were long and bitterly cold -- the summers still managed to have unbearable heat and thick clouds of bugs for those brief few weeks of warmth and sunlight. And the Russo family in particular had not had an easy time of the last few years -- so many tragedies, even before Vasiliy's birth. But that -- that is why we make own places in the world, the Russian said, the tip of his tail wavering behind him.
At the blind woman's appraisal of their leader, Vasi listened intently. It surprised him to hear of Skye's youth -- he had made no assumption as to her age, but he might have pegged her for a matronly woman of three or four. She did not appear particularly well-salted, but her demeanor struck him as one assured of their position and completely comfortable in leadership. For what little he knew of her, therefore, the Russian could eagerly agree. I will like it here in Cercatori d'Arte, the wolf declared, certain of this even before he'd grown acclimated to the pack.
With the woman's speech of house and home, however, the granite-furred hybrid took a step back, crossing his muscled arms as he peered around the house. The room they stood in was the largest of the house -- a small bedroom lingered closer to the back, and several windows gave the residence a light and airy sort of feeling Vasi could appreciate. Well, he started, striding over to an end-table. It was flimsy and thin wood, and one of the legs was loose. Anything broken, I do not want now. I have very little, so I need very little. The Russian lifted the table and turned around with it, intending to carry it just out the door and set it down. You fix leg? Not shattered, just loose, the wolf said, taking a few steps toward the blind she-wolf.
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