01-27-2010, 01:24 AM
It seemed fine to me, Sie! 588.
[html]
[html]
http://i49.tinypic.com/2gwyq7l.jpg); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position: top; padding-top: 165px; text-align: justify;">
His relationship with Sonja was very complicated, and perhaps what some might view as extremely unorthodox—especially since he was old enough to be her father, and she his daughter. Regardless, he had found the company somewhat refreshing after being tortuously alone for so long. Speaking with her and getting to know her was something that distracted his plagued mind, which made him all the more reliant on her. Did he love her? Yes, of course, and in more ways than one. Like it was said, it was complicated. But it did work—she had remained with the troubled Russian throughout their journey to the New World and they were still going until they had reached this general area in Nova Scotia. And they would have kept going if it weren't for the figure that would soon appear to them.
He had called his young wife back and she had flitted back to his side with a somewhat sour expression on her dark face, though it was more endearing than anything. He offered her a small, warm smile before continuing along. The brisk winter winds carried snow in their direction and flakes were already creating an icy layer over that of his worn clothing—the nondescript and threadbare (yet tailored quite for him) suit that he had worn since he had left Russia. At his question, though, she took his arm and answered truthfully. He respected that about her; there was no complaining and no grudging mention of nothing. He replied after some Italian phrasing in his head, "Stanca pure. Ci riposeremo un po 'una volta che trovare un posto," he responded in his rumbling tone, his slate eyes already searching for a place that might shelter two weary traveling werewolves in a foreign land.
What he found was very different, and perhaps last on the list of anything he had expected to find. Quite out of nowhere (as Rurik had been downwind of them) the werewolf loped into view. Originally Raskolnikov did not recognize him at all—he had changed a lot since the younger Russo had seen him last in Arkhangel'sk, but not enough to rid him entirely out of his recognition. His gray eyes grew incredulous, unbelieving, and muttered, "Дьявол берет это," under his breath. He was considering this of being a figment of his imagination, but he could tell from how Sonja reacted that it was not just his subconscious running amok in his mind. It was only then that a somewhat uneasy smile appeared on the haunted Russo's features. He was happy to see his uncle of course, but it made him nervous. He had run so far just to end up back with them.
"Rurik!" he called, composing English as that seemed to be what his uncle was using. Raskolnikov's voice was a very curious component of accents—predominantly heavy in Russian, but with a delicate lilt of Romantic to it. It made his English sound very unique, truthfully. "Of all to run into in these parts! How are you, my uncle?"
Then he remembered the woman at his side, and he glanced down to her swiftly. Sonja did not speak much English, and only bits and pieces of Russian. He said in Italian as swift as he could, "This is my uncle, Rurik Russo, from where I am from in Russia. It is some type of miracle we meet him, no?" Then he glanced up to the other Russo, a small smile on his face. It did not well reach his somewhat-sunken eyes, however.
His relationship with Sonja was very complicated, and perhaps what some might view as extremely unorthodox—especially since he was old enough to be her father, and she his daughter. Regardless, he had found the company somewhat refreshing after being tortuously alone for so long. Speaking with her and getting to know her was something that distracted his plagued mind, which made him all the more reliant on her. Did he love her? Yes, of course, and in more ways than one. Like it was said, it was complicated. But it did work—she had remained with the troubled Russian throughout their journey to the New World and they were still going until they had reached this general area in Nova Scotia. And they would have kept going if it weren't for the figure that would soon appear to them.
He had called his young wife back and she had flitted back to his side with a somewhat sour expression on her dark face, though it was more endearing than anything. He offered her a small, warm smile before continuing along. The brisk winter winds carried snow in their direction and flakes were already creating an icy layer over that of his worn clothing—the nondescript and threadbare (yet tailored quite for him) suit that he had worn since he had left Russia. At his question, though, she took his arm and answered truthfully. He respected that about her; there was no complaining and no grudging mention of nothing. He replied after some Italian phrasing in his head, "Stanca pure. Ci riposeremo un po 'una volta che trovare un posto," he responded in his rumbling tone, his slate eyes already searching for a place that might shelter two weary traveling werewolves in a foreign land.
What he found was very different, and perhaps last on the list of anything he had expected to find. Quite out of nowhere (as Rurik had been downwind of them) the werewolf loped into view. Originally Raskolnikov did not recognize him at all—he had changed a lot since the younger Russo had seen him last in Arkhangel'sk, but not enough to rid him entirely out of his recognition. His gray eyes grew incredulous, unbelieving, and muttered, "Дьявол берет это," under his breath. He was considering this of being a figment of his imagination, but he could tell from how Sonja reacted that it was not just his subconscious running amok in his mind. It was only then that a somewhat uneasy smile appeared on the haunted Russo's features. He was happy to see his uncle of course, but it made him nervous. He had run so far just to end up back with them.
"Rurik!" he called, composing English as that seemed to be what his uncle was using. Raskolnikov's voice was a very curious component of accents—predominantly heavy in Russian, but with a delicate lilt of Romantic to it. It made his English sound very unique, truthfully. "Of all to run into in these parts! How are you, my uncle?"
Then he remembered the woman at his side, and he glanced down to her swiftly. Sonja did not speak much English, and only bits and pieces of Russian. He said in Italian as swift as he could, "This is my uncle, Rurik Russo, from where I am from in Russia. It is some type of miracle we meet him, no?" Then he glanced up to the other Russo, a small smile on his face. It did not well reach his somewhat-sunken eyes, however.