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Rurik Russo · 01-05-2010, 06:01 AM

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Word Count: 849

The silver-furred werewolf had quite a lot of experience in the area of alcohol. He'd been drinking practically since birth, his stomach growing steadily stronger with each sip of liquor, beer, or wine he took. Of the three, he preferred the first one most of all, since it generally tasted better than wine and did not require copious amounts to become drunk like beer. Given the choice between nothing or either wine or beer, however, Rurik would've taken either in absence of the good stuff. Aside from that, the werewolf flirted often with marijuana, enjoying the hazy happiness of it swirling about his head. He had developed quite a tolerance for these two substances thanks to lifelong use, but at least he kept himself under control. Rurik was not an addict—he had seen one or two in his time, and they were not a pretty sort of people. Beyond the two basic substances which Rurik used, he'd dabbled in other chemicals. Mushrooms were fun, but though Rurik enjoyed their hallucinogenic properties, he rather thought they took a lot out of the user. It was difficult to be productive and more difficult to talk to others for him—his imagination was not so strong, so when chemicals altered his brain and dazzled him with faint hallucinations of images, shapes, and colors, he preferred to turn inward and simply enjoy these things rather than socialize. He'd dabbled with opium before, and while he appreciated that feeling—it was really, really nice, to be truthful—that was the chemical he'd seen ruin others most often. It was about the most addictive thing that was common use for the canines. Even their tobacco was far cleaner than the humans, free of the chemicals and additives that turned them to poison.

As the silver-furred werewolf placed the packets down, he noticed Anselm was doing something with paper. For all his love of language, Rurik had not been able to completely master writing all of them. His lingual prowess was verbal-based, and he could write only in his mother tongue. Reading, however, was a different matter entirely, and though he'd once struggled with English, he did not find it nearly so difficult to digest now. The silver-furred werewolf grinned, and nodded his head to show he would certainly understand it. It might take sounding the words out like a child and reading it over three times, but Rurik would get the picture sooner or later, perhaps even copying the words down in the Russian language so he could refer to them more easily. "Sure can, unless you're writin' something other than English," the Russian joked, his pale yellow canines showing in a broad grin. It was a joke—from the tawny-furred man's accent and his general demeanor, Rurik had surmised he was not a foreigner, and it was unlikely he knew how to speak or write any languages other than English. The silver-furred werewolf couldn't hold anyone's preferences or interests against them, however; perhaps it was just not Anselm's way to engage in that sort of learning.

The Russo reached out for the bowl, flicking the lighter with his large, awkward paw and drawing it to the green. It flared up and burned brilliant orange and then black as it began to char, and the werewolf drew in a large cloud of smoke, passing the still-smoking bowlpiece over to the other canine. Rurik held this large cloud of smoke until his lungs burned and his eyes watered, exhaling a great cloud of smoke that billowed outward. "This is some very good travka. This is what will come out if I follow your instructions?" the werewolf asked, excited. It was one thing to take bud from the earth; it would be a different thing entirely to grow his own. Perhaps if he ever went back to the other side of the world he could bring it back; no doubt this strain was something entirely exotic from what they had on the far continent. "Samogon is not so hard to brew, but you gotta be careful, too," the silver-furred Russian added with a mischievous smile. True, if one was not very careful brewing any kind of liquor had the potential to go wrong, whether it was from an explosion or over-fermentation or even just a bad batch, but people had been brewing the same kind of moonshine that Rurik spoke of for many, many years. It was quite simple, really, and the recipe could be altered for virtually any flavor and any type of liquor. "Ready to write?" the Russian asked, that playful grin still stuck on his face. He had to emphasize to Anselm not to brew anything with bits and pieces of the fruit or whatever he chose to make his alcohol with—anything containing cellulose might produce methanol, or whatever that meant. In truth, Rurik had no idea what that statement really meant, but it had been in just about every samogon recipe book he'd ever read. Obviously, it meant something, otherwise so many authors would not have made a precaution against it.

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