caught in a world that won't stop burning

[Rurik Russo]

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http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/rurik_tropic.jpg); background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:fixed; padding-top:230px; padding-left:25px; padding-right:25px; padding-bottom:25px;">     The Russian's big hand clutched the stick, prodding at the meat every now and again to test its juiciness. He hadn't been cooking long, and it was done just that instant. Luperci who bothered to cook their meat generally did not require much thorough cooking; some of them just liked to wave the meat by the flame and have it just slightly warmed. "Well done" simply did not exist in the werewolf world, as they were insuceptible to the parasites or illnesses which might have befallen humans who ate wild game or even domesticated meat too rare. He pulled the skillet from the fire, again returning to the butcher-block table, flipping the meat out onto a large metal plate. Its surface was dinged and not so shiny anymore, but he had had it for most of the time he'd been traveling. He left the majority of the meat on the table, steam rising up from it, and brought back two healthy portions for Gabriel and himself on smaller, newer versions of the metal plates, traded for the last time he'd been in Bucharest.     As the wolf returned to the table, Gabriel spoke, and Rurik grinned, shrugging his big shoulders sheepishly at the mention of his drink of choice. "Could very well be! Sorry, I don't got much in the way of utensils off the boat yet," he apologized, before remembering that this area probably didn't use utensils, ever. They were growing more common in Europe, where some Luperci cooks prepared exotic foods that required them, but it was just as common to see a wolf gnawing a whole lamb's leg in a restaurant next to the one delicately licking gulyás from a spoon. He grinned at his own silliness, shrugging and setting the plate in front of Gabriel.     At the mention of his sons, the Russian stiffened, halting midway to bringing the first piece of meat to his mouth and setting it back down again. "You have seen them here, my friend?" he asked, all serious now. Taking a breath, the Russian spoke quietly. "Gabriel, I return here to find them. Mine younger children have come with me, mine daughter Liliya and mine son Silas..." he took in a breath, shaking his head. There was no need to trouble Gabriel with all of the petty details of what had happened, and anyway—if he had spoken to Zaets or Vladimir, he would know the sordid details of the childrens' upbringing anyway (Zorish was excluded since he was blind, it was unlikely he had any artistic slant). The Russian found it sad that he did not know his children well enough to identify them by a hobby as simple as drawing, and it was a painful reminder that he had failed as a parent the first time around.

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