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Rurik Russo · 01-09-2010, 10:48 PM

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Word Count: 1222

Language was something that Rurik took great pride and love in; he had grown up speaking Russian, and over the years he had picked up several other languages and several fragments of languages. He knew how to say hello and goodbye in many of them, and he was especially interested in the origins and families of languages. He was not surprised to have learned that the Romance languages had a common root; they shared so many traits with one another. French and Spanish had many similarities, and when he'd been learning a few Italian words from Cambria, he had picked up some of those same similarities. Italian was the closest descendant of the original language, or so he'd learned—the silver-furred werewolf knew nothing of Latin, and he assumed there were few left who did. It had been a dead language long before the humans were extinguished, though it survived through its children and the many words and roots it had imparted on other languages.

The werewolf watched the other canine write with interest, his bright blue eyes focused on the other canine's sloppy, sloping writing. It certainly was readable, but Rurik was paying more attention to the way he shaped his letters, which loops went before which shapes, and so forth. It was quite interesting for him to watch, though he doubted it would help him learn to write English any better, as he was unlikely to even attempt that. It was kind of nice, anyway—so far as he knew, there were only three other canines on the whole of this land who were possibly capable of comprehending his handwriting. Two were his children, and the third was the odd wolf he'd met on the beach shortly after getting here, pretty and clearly dangerous Marishka. He didn't have to worry much about his children; he doubted Silas and Liliya would be interested in what he had to say in notes or journal entries. As for the other one, the silver-furred werewolf hadn't even approached his home in Halifax with her.

The notes that Anselm scribbled would be tucked carefully in one of the Russian wolf's journals and studied, for sure—if it was at all possible to grow plants on a ship, Rurik would have to try it. The other wolf began to respond to the wolf's question, and Rurik nodded. It was a matter of his own skill, of course—it was doubtful that anything of his own would come out very much like Anselm's bud the first time around. Disappointing as that was, Rurik knew with time he might become very good at raising these plants. The idea that these plants were distinctly male and distinctly female—and that they exhibited differing characteristics—clearly fascinated Rurik, and he looked to Anselm with his brilliant husky eyes. "Male and female plants, huh? Never heard that before. Are other plants like this?" the Russian asked, more curious than anything. He didn't have a general interest in gardening, but he'd never actually seen any difference between different trees or flowers.

Anselm took a break from writing for a moment, heading back after a second. The werewolf reached for the pipe and poked the bud around with one nail, stirring it a bit before lighting it once more and sucking on the far end of the pipe. It wasn't too often he got to smoke out of one of these; though he generally preferred to roll joints the Russian wolf certainly wasn't above imbibing his travka this way. Anselm finished his writing and the werewolf perked up a bit, shaking his head as he placed the smoking implement back down on the table by Anselm, clearing his throat and shaking his head as if to straighten it out. "You need something like an old washing machine, a dryer—maybe even a bucket or a tub," the werewolf mused. He'd seen many different things used as the primary implement for brewing this simplistic recipes. Anselm would figure something out; he had the room for it in this very garage with a small one.

"You need something sugary—fruit, honey. If you can find real sugar that has not spoiled, or someone who can make it, the measurement for this raw sugar is ten kilograms, but you may have to change if you use fruit or honey. There are some in Europe who do refine sugar, but I do not think many refiners would live around here," he said carefully, not wishing to insult Anselm or his culture. Rurik revered the more feral way of life that was dominant on this continent; to live among these simpler canines was almost paradisiacal. They were no less intelligent and resourceful than their European counterparts, they just preferred a way of life that was closer to the ancestors' lifestyle. "After this you need three liters of milk, and roundabout thirty or forty liters of water," the Russian continued, pausing between each bit of speech to allow Anselm to catch up writing. He didn't want to tax the man's hand too much; after all, it was a rather unnatural motion for a Luperci's hand. "You stir this around for two hours in your tub, and then you need to distill it."

Rurik took no chances—it wasn't very likely that Anselm knew how to do this process, so he cleared his throat again. "You have to get a pot, and its lid must have a hole in it. Then you need another two pots, one with two holes on either side and one with no holes. You need pipe, too. Copper, something like that, you know?" the Russian asked. Anselm appeared to be a pretty smart guy; he wasn't sure his explanation was the best but he would understand. "You stick the pipe into the one-hole pot, and pass it clear through the two-hole pot, with the end of it held over the third pot," he said, wincing at his poor description. The werewolf motioned for the other canine's writing implement and pen, hoping to sketch it out for the other canine. "The one-hole pot, put the brew in there, put it over fire, and heat it up. The two-hole pot, you put cold water—as cold as you can make it—in there, and then your final product drips into the last pot," he said, a sheepish grin displayed on his face. "Do you understand?" he asked, hoping the other wolf might pose his questions if he had any.

Recalling the other canine's warnings, the silvery werewolf jumped, smacking his hand against his own knee. "Damn. You write this down, too—make sure! If you use fruit to make your sugar product, you cut out all skin and innards part. Use only pulpy fruit parts, otherwise you make methanol and kill yourself," the werewolf added, far too brightly for talking about potentially brewing a deadly chemical. "I have no idea what that means, methanol, but all of the books say it is deadly," the wolf said, growing slightly more solemn at this. He sincerely hoped the tawny-furred canine would take this advice quite seriously; Rurik had never seen the effects of bad moonshine, and he never hoped to. "Maybe if you look in a library you will find more on these processes, yeah?" he suggested, smiling brightly.

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