Man, he said, shaking his head. So you've shipped across the Atlantic at least thrice now? he wondered, somewhat bewildered. Ghita had spoken of her journey as one of desperation versus something she cared to repeat on a whim. He found his thoughts drifting to an old friend of his: Boomer. The dingo had travelled the world, quite possibly by sea as much as by land. Maybe some folks just had that sort of adventurous drive in them, but it was a desire he would never fully comprehend. Like most he grew bored of the same old, same old; he liked to explore and experience new land formations and environments, but he never ventured too far from the familiar, either.
Anselm liked knowing what to expect from both the weather and the local wildlife alike. He knew just fine how to handle a blizzard or a ram, but a desert or a hippopotamus was different. It was quite simply a matter of stability: without some basic foundation to hold fast to, the tattooed hybrid quickly lost his mind. For everything to change constantly suggested chaos--anyone who knew him well enough would realise he'd be unnerved not being able to predict the logical flow of life elsewhere.
In his world, there were four seasons that transitioned logically from one to the next with appropriate weather patterns. Wolves were the dominant species, and even the greatest adversaries (i.e., a mountain lion or a bear) weren't that unmanageable for an adult, seasoned werewolf. He was comfortable in this little pocket of the world, and though he saw the value in adapting to any and all climates or situations possible, he felt it unlikely enough that he'd be randomly abducted and tossed into Siberia or the Serengeti.
His family was here anyway--maybe Rurik's repeated trips made more sense then? Sorry, he offered, ears down-turned slightly, but I'll keep an ear open. I'm sure if you stay in the same place long enough they'll figure out where to find you if they need to, he offered hopefully--a conclusion he'd reached just recently himself with the help of a good friend. Although Anselm felt bad for the friendly Russian, he was relieved when the conversation diverted to more enticing and encouraging prospects... to see another dwell on their missing children might make it harder for him to ignore his own problems in that arena.
Ah, all mushrooms reproduce by spores, I think, he said. Quite resilient, so long as you have the caps you should be able to grow more. But poppy seeds... those are a rare treat in this part of the world. He grinned knowingly as the pirate complimented his product and stood to pull a jar off of a shelf, opening it so the thick, piny scent could permeate the air. Maybe an ounce and a half was contained in each jar, and he put it down on the table. What you say? Some for now, he pulled out a small packet of marijuana seeds he'd been saving for next year, 'n some for later. It was a generous offer, he supposed--but something as rare as the poppy was worth it.