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Raskolnikov Russo · 01-20-2010, 12:15 AM

814. For Sonja and Rurik.

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It was early, and they had been traveling almost incessantly for—how long had it been? So many days, so many weeks! It had been months; yes, months. It had taken months to go across the Atlantic Ocean on the vessel they had boarded from France, and it had perhaps taken a month or two to get there from Italy in the first place. And then they had been traveling for several weeks, northward from where they had landed in North America. They were much more at leisure now, as Raskolnikov no longer rushed. He did not feel as endangered as he had in Europe, even though it was highly possible that no one had been pursuing him at all. They might have given up in all those months, for it must have been longer than half a year since he had done it. Half a year, and it truly seemed as if only a day ago.

Only a few days ago that he had walked around the settlement of Arkhangel’sk to the neighboring families, the neighboring towns. He had been little more than a traveling stranger, but he had observed them all. He had noticed the hardworking family, the parents and the children, and the old woman who drained their money away like a parasite. She had spent it on liquors and jewelry that she did not need, trying to bring back the old life that she had lost when her mate had died. Rodion Raskolnikov took pity on them and decided to help—in the way that they would not be able to.

Now the sun was beginning to rise higher, allowing more of its diluted beams to trickle through the forest cover of the area. He did not know what this place was called, and he did not know who inhabited. They had already passed what seemed to have been a pack—he had decided not to risk it and steered them onwards, onwards. Now the woods were growing thicker, the trees crowding as if trying to find solace in the company. Still, winter had stripped them from the bulk of their greenery, so it was like walking through the arms of skeletons. A shiver passed down Raskolnikov’s spine, though he did not show how he felt. He often had these premonitions, these vague cobwebs of memory that clung to him. He tried to shake them away, but he had trouble. It was not something one could simply cast away so easily.

The issue of how to commit the crime had presented the greatest challenge to him—oh, how the question of how and how to cover up had tormented him! He could have been more base and savage about it, tearing her throat out with his teeth or claws, but the blood would be too difficult to wash away—and he was so much more civilized than that. No, in the end he had happened upon an ax left alone in a yard near where the woman had lived, and the family just so happened to be out. Raskolnikov came and killed as the object of what he thought would be a robbery, though he could not bear to take anything. He had left her dead in the house, cleaning his hands and the ax before leaving it in the same place he had found it. He went back to his home with his family as if nothing had happened.

But something had. Rumors began circulating and he began to grow antsy—an unspeakable fear grew within him, and a totally irrational one at that. There was no way they could have caught him, and yet he did the stupidest things. Becoming flustered when hearing of it, saying strange things at inopportune times. Hell, he had even went to look at the house where he had murdered only days after!

Eventually he had fled, but he did not feel things were any different. In fact, they were probably better. Despite his suffering he had found Sonja in Italy, and that had made a world of difference. He relished in her acceptance; it made him feel as though there was no wrong that had been done. And now they had all of these North American lands, and plenty of time.

He paused, waiting for her to come back to his side. “Sonja,” he said softly, the barest breeze of a smile brushing against his usually-dark features. He had to pause, fitting together the Italian. He knew that she felt most at ease speaking it. Raskolnikov was fluent in Russian and French, though his English and Italian were a little more broken. “Sono spiacente per il mio silenzio. Come lei fa?” While he was perhaps not the most gentle and chivalrous of them all, he was at least partially considerate. And he did love her—in some strange way of his own.

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Sonja Russo · 01-20-2010, 12:39 AM

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If Sonja had known the entire trouble of travel she would have had to go through in order to be with Raskolnikov, she might have reconsidered and stayed with her family. It was tiring, stressing, and overall a little troublesome. She loved the man she followed but her mind was young, naive, and innocent. She did not know the world as he did. She came from a small community in Europe where her parents and sister lived and other various sorts of friends she had acquired over her short life. Raskolnikov had come in to destroy that and she would never be the same. She had a passion for him she had yet to experience but over the last few months, she realized she may not have gotten her fairy tale ending.

They had arrived a few weeks ago and it became easier when she was off the sea. Her parents had spoken of the country they visited before she was born, perhaps where she was conceived, but she could not fathom the idea she was standing in it. To her, they were just traveling.

Sonja strayed from her lover's side long enough to look at something, get a momentary bit of space from him, before he called for her. Like a child, she obeyed with a little frustration but showed up on his side eagerly. Her love was strong for him and she knew she would not part his side, even if he did not give her the attention she wanted. She still pictured him as her knight in shining armor, the type of troublesome boy her parents would not approve of (and whom she had gathered her father to be like when her parents fell in love for the first time). She was simply following in her mother's footsteps. She was her mother's daughter through and through.

The young woman put a smile on her face as he spoke, apologizing in her native tongue, and she could not help but wag her tail that dangle behind her. Her hand reached up to touch his arm as if nothing was wrong, as if they just had the vacation of their dreams. "Esaurito," she admitted and her tired eyes found his before she glanced around to see where they were going. "E voi?" she asked with concern in her voice.

Rurik Russo · 01-26-2010, 08:54 AM

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I think I'm playing this right. :| If not, let me know.

The silver-furred werewolf was particularly fond of these forests; they seemed to stretch forever, expanding over his head and covering the whole of the sky. They provided an almost eerie shade from the sunlight, dulling the sound of the moving earth. These were a favorite place for Rurik to hunt; he would have fished the piers if he needed to keep his children fed, but such a night meant he would go hungry. The silver-furred werewolf did not have more than one child to care for now, though. He reminded himself this sadly; it was only him and Liliya still living in their little home in Halifax. He had brought his daughter to the forest today, but they'd split up quite a ways back, and Rurik had not heard from her since. She would have called for him if she'd run into trouble, but the werewolf's best hopes were for them to bring down two different kills today—the snow made it rather easy to preserve meat, and Rurik could always smoke it down to jerky if need be.

The werewolf had been traveling for quite a distance when an oddly familiar scent struck his nose. Tilting his head to the side he tried to think of where he knew it from; it did not compute to the silver-furred werewolf that perhaps he could be smelling someone from the old country for a moment until it struck him—Raskolnikov. There was another scent, that of a woman he did not immediately recognize, but the first smell was clear enough. He changed course and headed for the source of the scent, picking his way through the almost silent forest. The thick covering of the trees made everything seem silent to Rurik, and it was peaceful, if a bit eerie. He had not expected to find a nephew here—certainly not one from all the way around the world, but perhaps his stories of this new continent had not fallen on entirely deaf ears, after all.

Most of the family was quite content to remain in Arhkangel'sk, fishing their lives away, but not Rurik. He had never been one to settle in a single place for too long, and if nothing else, the silver-furred Russian was one to wander. He was not one to evince comfort when stuck in one spot for too long a time, and though he'd enjoyed raising his children with Verusha he had found himself desirous of adventure once more, and so here he was again. He was rather eager to hear what had caused old Rasky to run this way, and the werewolf's pace increased to a trot, walking quicker to find the extension of family that had ended up on this continent with him. Spying the grayish wolf and the dark-furred female by his side, the Russian wolf barked out a hello: "Never thought I'd run into you two here!"

Raskolnikov Russo · 01-27-2010, 01:24 AM

It seemed fine to me, Sie! 588.

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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.

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Sonja Russo · 01-28-2010, 11:52 PM

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Sonja was more than pleased to hear the words coming out of her mates mouth and her tail wagged behind her before it decided to hang lazy by her legs. Her fingers gripped upon his arm a little. "Buono," she said quietly and decided to spend the next little bit in the quiet. The woman did not mind it at all and found it to be comforting at times. In a new land, her eyes were busy looking at her surroundings and absorbing everything in. It would take a while to get used to this sort of lifestyle. She just hoped she could find something that would suit her normalcy here so it would not be a total downgrade from Italy. Her community might have been small but it was all she was used to and being anything less than that was absurd to her. The woman only heard stories of the lands over here and now she was ready to experience them first hand.

Her husband mumbled something in Russian she did not understand and her jaw parted to question him, her gaze lifted to catch his features. Her head turned just in time to see the grey wolf that spoke to the both of them in a Russian accent but definitely in English. She did not recognize him and her husband greeted him in English as well. She only knew a few words but she was not able to put them together to make any sense and it was when Raskolnikov spoke to her that she was finally able to understand what was going on. She looked up to him as a child would a parent when she was too shy to respond to someone she was supposed to know. Though she did not know the man, he was family to her mate and she had to put a smile on her face and greet him.

Her hand fell from around his arm and she nodded her head. "I am Sonja," she greeted slowly, making sure to sound as clear as she could. She could easily speak too fast and break her English or make it too difficult to understand her. Sometimes Raskolnikov had trouble keeping up with her if she was upset when she went on in the famous fashion speed of anger. "It is nice to know you," she said with an idle flick of her tail and let her hands dangle at her side so the two family members could return to their catching up while she lingered in the background.

Rurik Russo · 02-11-2010, 08:38 AM

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Except I did not realize Rurik + Sonja would not know one another. ;_; Also, I stole another pet name from Crime and Punishment--Rodenka? :B Is that okay!?!?

Rurik wasn't particularly picky when it came to discrepancies of age; he didn't have much trouble with the younger ones, but had he known Sonja was just a few weeks shy of his own daughter's age, he might have reconsidered. Maybe—Rurik wasn't exactly picky to begin with, and he might have jumped on something a few months older than his daughter, though now with Rikka it would seem he was attracting a more age-appropriate crowd. No matter—she'd been wonderful anyway. The Russian wolf grinned at Raskolnikov's English, which was pretty damn good. Maybe he had a touch of the linguist in him, as well. The tip of his coal tail wagged this way and that, and he offered a smile to the woman as she introduced herself. He had no idea she spoke Italian, else he might have exercised the scant vocabulary that Cambria had imparted to him. He certainly wouldn't have done so out of coquetry; though neither canine had been outright in asserting their relationship, Rurik could guess it well enough.

“Aye, funny thing to bump into you here, Rodenka” the werewolf said, shaking his head and grinning, applying one of the numerous pet names for the man. Everyone had just about a million names over in Russian—the Sobirat'sya clan especially was font of diminuative forms of names. Maybe the stories of this foreign continent were finally having some impact over on the far coast; Rurik would not be surprised. He turned to the stranger and offered her a smile, ecstatic to meet her. “Good to meet you, Sonja,” he sad, earnestly. She seemed reserved, but he extended his hand to her anyway in a gesture of friendliness. He didn't have to guess—she wasn't relative to him, so it only made sense that Raskolnikov would travel with her for reasons of love or devotion. “Doing pretty well—would to believe Anatoliy showed up just today, even?“ he said, lapsing into Russian as he spoke of gossip. “What about you? How is Avdotya? Ivan?” he asked excitedly, eager for news of family.

Raskolnikov Russo · 03-08-2010, 11:56 PM

Feel free to wrap this up, you two—my last post here.

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He smiled encouragingly to Sonja as she introduced herself in English to his uncle—language had been something of a barrier; his knowledge of French had given him a small framework for Italian, but he was learning it as swiftly as she was learning English from him. Russian, however, was a very different beast from the Romance and Germanic / Anglo-Saxon languages—if she was truly devoted to want to learn, he would try to teach, but it would be difficult. That aside, Rurik seemed pleased with his English and that gave him a bit of dark humor. When he had been home in Russia and everyone else had been out and about on the boats, he had mostly stayed home reading and writing in several languages. A fascination that haunted him to this day.

It actually was pretty amazing to meet Rurik here, of all places, of all people! The world was a vast and sprawling place, but sometimes it seemed as though it was just as big as one's backyard—at least when situations like this happened. And, as Rurik told him, Anatoliy was here as well. He had never known Rurik's son well, but he lifted a brow in surprise when he learned this and said, "You must be joking." Family was what he had least expected, and while he was glad he was also nervous. They would be able to see through him more easily than others.

"When I last saw them, they were doing very well. But that was a long while ago—many months," he said, looking to Sonja and then back to his uncle. "I left Russia to the east and traveled through Europe, meeting Sonja in Italy. We got on a French vessel and came here." Reasons why, he hoped, were less important than the actions themselves.

Yes, running into family was an unexpected curve in his plan. He wasn't quite sure how it would factor in yet; it would take thought, and thought of later.

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