the days they come but the years they go. - Printable Version +- 'Souls IPB Archive (November 2007–October 2012) (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb) +-- Forum: Dead IC (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb/forumdisplay.php?fid=110) +--- Forum: Dead Topics (https://soulsrpg.com/ipb/forumdisplay.php?fid=21) +--- Thread: the days they come but the years they go. (/showthread.php?tid=9760) |
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- Rurik Russo - 02-12-2010 [html] http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/rurik_bottledrage.jpg); background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid #000000; padding: 245px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#000000; line-height:16px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;"> This is backdated to February 6, pleaseandOK? :3 This is at the Trenches. <3 Winter rarely deterred the silver-furred werewolf from his explorations. He was still a newcomer to these lands; he had arrived at the very end of September, after all, and that was just over four months now. The grizzled werewolf had his hands full often with Liliya and Silas, but now that her other brother was here, Liliya and Anatoliy were nearly inseparable—they spent quite a lot of their time catching up with one another, and the silver-furred werewolf was glad for that. Liliy was growing more sure of herself and less dependent every day; she would end up being a lovely woman someday, he was sure of that. Rurik was especially protective of his daughter, but he didn't believe she ought to be reigned in simply for the fact that she was a woman. Kiska might not have been her mother, but that was a damn good example of a lady who could take care of herself—Rurik had no doubt Liliy would do the same. The Russian wolf meandered along the landscape, climbing his way along the hills. His four-legged form made this difficult on occasion, but he was able to navigate thanks to many of the derelict pathways among the rocky hillsides, perhaps carved by humans once upon a time. quietus had fallen over them many years ago, however, and the silver-furred werewolf could just barely make out the remnants of their pathways. Before long, one of these took him to a tiny fishing village—in reality, it was little more than three shacks huddled together. The remnants of the shacks were in poor condition at best; two had not survived at all, and could be accurately described as "piles of timber" rather than shacks. The third was still standing, however. Some human had the foresight to board up the windows, and its construction seemed slightly more permanent than the other two ruins. The cold did not drive Rurik inside, but curiosity did, and he jiggled open the door after a moment. The locking mechanism had failed years ago, though it had done its job as far as keeping the door in place. The air inside was musty, and Rurik left the door open behind him, peering about the dark innards of the apparently deserted cabin. It was a single room, barren of any sort of decor. There was a small cot in the corner, the softer materials of it already destroyed by some kind of parasite. The fishing rods hung near the door might be usable, but as Rurik disliked the taste of fish, he personally could not find them useful. Prying open the single cupboard did nothing but assault his nose with the stale odor of food that had gone rancid years earlier, and he quickly shut it. Rurik began to doubt he'd find anything of use here, until a familiar thing caught his eye—a cellar door handle. He knew what humans sometimes stashed in cellars, and he fearlessly pried the door open, leaning on the floor to peer around inside, giving a shout of joy when he saw it was well-stocked with several sorts of alcoholic beverages. Most seemed intact and unopened, though Rurik did not doubt some might have been damaged in some way over the course of time. It was rare to find a stockpile that wasn't. Still, this was an awesome find—except he had no way to get all of this home at once, and it was a very, very long trip back home. Glancing from left to right almost comically, the silvery werewolf reached down to grab a bottle of what appeared to be rum—confirmed by a quick sniff—and got to work, figuring there was no harm in having a sample now. It splashed down his throat hot, and sent his tail thumping mechanically against the floor, quite happy with his good fortune. <style type="text/css"> .rurik-bottledrage b{font-weight:bold; color:#BC2B26; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px;} .liliya {color:#770501;font-weight:bold; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px;} .rurik-bottledrage p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;} </style> [/html] - Kansas Sadira - 03-22-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 03-22-2010 [html] http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/rurikmaritgift.png); background-position:bottom; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-color:#005ac7; border:1px solid #444477;"> <style>My post is weiiiiird. Of course, Rurik much preferred vodka—and it had to be the homebrewed kind, the firewater that the Chezov family had made for so many years now. They had perfected the recipies and techniques of the humans quickly and taken their place in vodka production; now they had made the recipe even stronger, creating swill that burned the bellies of the crustiest drinkers. Rurik ought to know—he was one of them. In fact, he was used to much rougher liquors than what he was presently sipping on; the Russian werewolf wasn't planning on getting drunk here, he still had to meander all the way home, and excessive drunkenness on such ventures was ill-advised, to say the least. The cacophony of creaking within the old structure told Rurik someone else was on their way in; this was a curious thing. He knew there was a pack nearby—he'd seen their borders once, and he'd actually met two members of the pack prior, Cambria and Savina, and he considered himself friendly with the bunch. As they were the nearest pack, it only made sense that one of their members would be here, but Rurik made no assumptions—on these unclaimed lands, anyone was free to wander, and that was the way Rurik liked it. The smokey-furred man leaned back toward the entrance to the crawlspace, his bright blue eyes looking on similarly shaded ones, though the stranger's held an almost turquoise hue that Rurik had not seen before. A friendly smile spread across the Russian wolf's strong features. “Allo. The rum's fine, come on in,” Rurik said, punctuating the statement with a laugh and tilting the bottle toward the other man. .rurikgiftmarit b {color:#85d2dd;} .giftmaritliliya {font-weight:bold; color:#218E9D;} .rurikgiftmarit p {text-indent:25px; margin:0px; padding:0px;} </style> [/html] - Kansas Sadira - 03-22-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 03-22-2010 [html] Hurrdurr, I can't remember which of those is correct or how to spell them. ;P Some double-letter words give me problems for some reason, IDK! ((518)) The silver-furred Russian was always welcoming toward company; he invariably enjoyed such interruptions. It simply didn't occur to Rurik that perhaps someday someone would stumble across him who wasn't quite so happy to interact, and as friendly as Rurik was, he would probably walk right up to the vicious bastard and get a nice scar across his nose. For his muscles and his bravado, Rurik was not a fighter; he was something of a pacifist, even, though he didn't preach such ideals and he did not know the English word for it, even. Even so, the cloudy-furred male did not subscribe to absolute pacifism; he was bound by blood to his children, and he would protect them at any cost. He was now duty-bound to fight for Cour des Miracles, should his King command it. This was a notion that did not particularly sit well with him; in the days since he had joined the Miracles pack he had heard whispers of wartime, things that were disturbing and upsetting—many things that told him he had to visit Inferni as soon as he could. The ghostly-furred man was exceptionally quiet; he seemed almost withdrawn at first. This didn't put Rurik off any; Gabe was one of his better friends in these lands, and if nothing else, the Infernian Aquila was stoic and withdrawn the vast majority of the time. Even so, as he clambered into the crawlspace, the pale-furred wolf reached out for the bottle, which Rurik gave willingly, of course. He had offered, after all. “Of course! It is nothing, my friend. Plenty to share here. I would be quite the zasranec if I did not share,” he said grinning and waving his hand. Though the word zasranec was more than likely foreign to this man, the unmistakable pejorative tone added clues to its meaning, of course. Human alcohol caverns like this were exceedingly rare on his side of the world; Luperci had already raided those places for everything they were worth years before Rurik was even born. The turquoise-eyed wolf drank, and Rurik grinned. Nothing spurred a friendship faster than a good bottle shared. An introduction passed the other wolf's lips; Rurik gave a polite nod of his head and smiled still (though, really—when was Rurik not smiling?). “No, no. I vas just taking a long walk today, and I end up here. Good thing, though,” he said, reaching for the bottle and tilting it upwards to indicate that it was indeed a good find. “I am Rurik Russo of Cour des Miracles. Good to meet you,” the pepper-furred man added. Of course, from his accent, it was fairly obvious he wasn't from Cour des Miracles, but as the Miracles pack was his present home and a hell of a lot closer than Sobirat'sya, and therefore, of course more relevant. He was speaking a fair bit, but he generally did this anyway—Rurik was prone to rambling, and especially prone to drunken rambles. Of course, he had grown up with half-hour-long toasts in Arkhangel'sk from his relatives, so perhaps verbosity was simply in the blood. <style> .rurik-giftsam b{color:#227c9b;} .liliya {color:#38B0D9;} .rurik-giftsam p{margin:0px; padding:0px 0px 10px 0px; text-indent:45px;} </style> [/html] - Kansas Sadira - 03-27-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 04-04-2010 [html] http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/erin_rurikban.jpg); background-position: bottom center; background-repeat: no-repeat;"> Slowsie is slowsie. :[ 308 There was no better social lubricant than alcohol, and the silver-furred werewolf was intimately aware of this. He liked being drunk and getting there; it was not only family tradition with his brothers (and later the rest of his family, as he grew older and it was more appropriate for him to drink) but the lifestyle in some places over in Europe. These practices were not limited to Russia alone, of course—there were just as many, if not more, bars and clubs in London, and they were crammed into a far tighter space. The old adages and prejudices when it came to Russians and drinking could be easily applied anywhere else in the world, and so Rurik did not take much offense to them. “Aye? So we are neighbors,” the man said, his tail thumping against the dirt floor of the hidey-hole. He liked having friends around, that was for sure. The cloud-colored man thrived off of interaction. The pale-furred man's question was not unexpected; Rurik was used to discussing his origins and he rather enjoyed doing so, considering it a privilege to represent his country. He was certain he did a good job of it, anyway—not many people walked away muttering contrary or nasty things about him (or so he hoped). “I come from Sobirat'sya, Russia. Is a long way away, over the ocean and everything,” he explained, grinning. “Liquor flows free, the veemen are strong, and the nights are cold,” he said, succinctly summing his country up in three sentences or less. “To mine motherland,” he said, grinning once more and tilting his head back for another swig. “You are from here?” he questioned, curious as to the other wolf's origins. Even as he asked, the man passed back the liquor, of course intent on sharing until his companion requested no more be shared. .rurik-gifterin002 b {color:#A5A7AC;} .rurik-gifterin002-liliya {color:#676A71; font-weight:bold;} .rurik-gifterin002 p {text-indent:25px; } </style>[/html] - Kansas Sadira - 04-09-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 04-15-2010 [html] 406 There were mean drunks in every part of the world, and Rurik had known a few of them—some of them even within his family, though they were much older and long dead. But one of his father's grand uncles or his mother's second cousins, some distant relative like that, had been an alcoholic, and a very mean drunk, and the stories and warnings that had flowed down through the ages... well, they had made Rurik respect alcohol from a very young age. Perhaps it was also exposure that helped; from a small boy he was allowed to sip a very small glass of wine at dinner one a week, and that had made him very well aquainted with the liquor. The silver-furred Russian had certainly never intended to turn out like anyone those stories had warned against, whether they were myth or wives' tales or truth, and he had never gotten to that point, though he had overused the alcohol in the past and he had blacked out before. There was no meanness in his usual drinking, however. The pale-furred man was rather quiet, making a few short remarks here and there, and Rurik was content to take another slow sip from the bottle. He set it down between them for the moment, content himself but open to having his neighbor drink more—after all, they were surrounded by a very lovely stockpile, and the silver-furred werewolf was not so greedy as to keep more than he needed. The other man's quietness did not bother the Russian in the least; he could talk anyone's ear off, and it didn't matter if they found it interesting or not, really—once Rurik got going, he didn't often slow down. The other man's mention of storm made the Russian's ears perk up, and he cocked his head, laughing. “Oh yeah? Vhen were you born? Maybe we were neighbors then, too! I vas living in place called Aremys for short while, and zhis place, it vas right next to Storm then,” the Russian declared, laughing at the thought—it was fanciful thought, maybe, but funny to think they had been neighbors before. “Russia es deeferent, though. All places are deeferent. There is some good in all of them, though,” he said, stating one of his closer beliefs—the silver-furred werewolf honestly believed this; no matter how bleak or dreary a place seemed, there had be something worthwhile within it. <style type="text/css"> .rurik-hell b{font-weight:bold; color:#E4DED8; letter-spacing:1px;} .ruri-hell-liliya {color:#CEC4BB;font-weight:bold; letter-spacing:1px;} .rurik-hell p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;} .rurik-hell {width:400px; background-color:#000000; background-image:url(http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/ruri_hell.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid #000000; padding: 278px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#B6B1AD; line-height:16px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;} </style> [/html] - Kansas Sadira - 05-09-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 05-11-2010 [html] 369 The silver-furred werewolf enjoyed reflecting on the past, though he did not dwell on it too harshly. Most of what had gone on during the course of his life was quickly forgotten, lost in the haze of alcohol and new memories. Some things stuck with him harder than others, however, and the cloud-colored male could not possibly forget. Kiska was one of those very rare things, and with her was the burden of not taking his children home to meet their family. Zinoviya might never forgive him for that one. He contemplated the pallid wolf's question, tilting his head to the side and playing with the dark tuft of fur on his chin, as was habitual when Rurik thought of these things. “Ohh... I zhink so,” he said, taking the notion rather serious. “I arrive... sheeeet,” he said, laughing as he realized just how long ago it was. “In winter, six years ago. I come and go, but I zhink in the spring of that year, I was here in Aremys,” he said. “Maybe. It is hard to remember exact time,” he said, tapping his head. Tilting the bottle up to his lips, the man shrugged his broad shoulders. “Too much of zhis, maybe.” “But for sailing... ah,” the werewolf said. A different smile crossed his face, enveloping less of his sharply featured face. He was reminiscing about the open ocean—it wasn't calling him back yet, true, but he could always think of her fondly. “Not'eeng but open ocean around you, the sky and vater. You vant to see the vorld, I take you,” the werewolf said. “I go home to Sobirat'sya eventually. You vant see other side of vorld, come along,” the man offered. It was a sincere offer—the boat he had come over here with was still stowed safely away, and though it was a small vessel, they could accomodate at least four more crew with Rurik, Liliya, Silas, and Anatoliy. Perhaps they wouldn't come home, though—that had entered Rurik's mind a few times before, and he had decided it was alright. His children were old enough to make their own way in the world, and eventually home would come calling to them again. <style type="text/css"> .rurik-hell b{font-weight:bold; color:#E4DED8; letter-spacing:1px;} .rurik-hell em {font-weight:bold; font-style:normal; color:#CEC4BB;font-weight:bold; letter-spacing:1px;} .rurik-hell p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;} .rurik-hell {width:400px; background-color:#000000; background-image:url(http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/ruri_hell.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid #000000; padding: 278px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#B6B1AD; line-height:16px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;} </style> [/html] - Kansas Sadira - 05-23-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 05-26-2010 [html] 315 <333! Alta made it! XD The werewolf rolled his shoulder in a shrug at the other man's words. He did not know for certain either way; the past was confused and jumbled to him in many places. Rurik lacked the sharp memory some other canines boasted, for he could hardly remember his own name at times, and surely this did some damage to his very brain, though perhaps he had never been particularly bright to begin with. He was not book-smart—the werewolf could read and write fluently in Russian, but this skill was rarely, if ever, useful on this continent. Reading in English was difficult but doable with some effort, though writing in this land's native tongue was impossible for him. “Maybe. Eet is nice someone remembers old things, though,” the werewolf said honestly. Aremys was not Syemv, true, but it contained some of Syemv's legacy nonetheless, and he was happy that someone at least recalled the name. The ghostly white canine reacted rather positively to the man's offer, and Rurik grinned broadly at this, the blackened tip of his tail thumping against the floor of their little hideout. “I vill come and let you know in Crimson Dreams before I go,” the man said, and he meant this. He would also have to go to Dahlia de Mai and let Lolita know—this was no problem for Rurik, though he knew he would not wait forever for them. If they were not ready to depart within a few weeks, he would have to go on alone; the wild world would not wait so long. The other man's words drew his attention and a smile graced his ash-colored face, lighting up his saphire gaze. “Aye, and I like you,” Rurik declared confidently. More than anything, he enjoyed being social and making new friends—and what better way was there to bond than over a bottle and some stories shared? <style type="text/css"> .rurik-hell b{font-weight:bold; color:#E4DED8; letter-spacing:1px;} .rurik-hell em {font-weight:bold; font-style:normal; color:#CEC4BB;font-weight:bold; letter-spacing:1px;} .rurik-hell p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;} .rurik-hell {width:400px; background-color:#000000; background-image:url(http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/ruri_hell.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid #000000; padding: 278px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#B6B1AD; line-height:16px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;} </style> [/html] - Kansas Sadira - 06-12-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 06-15-2010 [html] http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/rurikmaritgift.png); background-position:bottom; background-repeat:no-repeat; background-color:#005ac7; border:1px solid #444477;"> <style>I respectfully disagree with the opinion that you suck and request you shove it up your butt and keep it there!!!!11 :| ILU <3 ALSO this post is short D; Syemv and Chimera had quite a close relationship, and of course that had eventually led to the creation of Aremys—the silver-shaded werewolf hadn't been around for the official creation of the pack, but he'd returned just in time to find that the once coastal Syemv pack had moved to the Moaning Woods, as landlocked as could be. Perhaps that was the reason he'd never truly settled in there—without the ocean, Rurik was positively lost. He listened to Kansas and tilted his head, marveling at the man. “But zhat is impressive,” Rurik said, protesting. “I could not do such a zheeng—stay in same place almost for so long. Zhis is home to you,” the werewolf said, waving his hand about. “Zhe vide vorld, eet is beautiful, yes—but maybe, maybe I vould be better eef I just stay home with family,” he said, shaking his head. “I see zhe vorld, but I meess some zhings—nieces and nephews, mine grandmothers and grandfazhers...” he added, trailing off. The eldest generation of Russo was rather old, and they would die sooner or later—Luperci were hardly eternal or immortal. Rurik might be halfway around the world when they were buried, and he might not learn of their deaths until months after the fact. .rurikgiftmarit b {color:#85d2dd;} .giftmaritliliya {font-weight:bold; color:#002961;} .rurikgiftmarit p {text-indent:25px; margin:0px; padding:0px;} </style> [/html] - Kansas Sadira - 06-15-2010 [html]
- Rurik Russo - 06-29-2010 [html] http://sleepyglow.net/rp/rurik/rurik_bottledrage.jpg); background-repeat:no-repeat; background-position:top center; background-repeat:no-repeat; border:1px solid #000000; padding: 245px 0px 0px 0px; font-family: georgia, sans-serif; font-size:12px; color:#000000; line-height:16px; letter-spacing:.5px; text-align:justify;"> 313~ The werewolf knew that living his life as Kansas had would have been impossible; by the time Rurik was two years old, he was already living in London, waiting for his ship to be built so he might sail around the world. He had gotten the traveling itch even younger than that, and maybe he'd even had it all his life. Though he would never have traded his experiences with the world, he did wonder how different his life would be if he had just stayed at home. Maybe he'd still have Kiska and his sons; maybe Anatman and Barskii would have even been alive. The silver-shaded werewolf could not say for sure, and he smiled. “Most of mine family still leeves in Russia. Mine parents, siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews... beeg family,” the werewolf said, clearly taking pride in his blood. “But here I have mine children Liliya and Anatoliy with me in Cour des Miracles. Silas live in Inferni,” the werewolf explained. Now he leaned back, taking a long swig of the bottle. He lit a cigarette afterward, and sighed his smoky breath outward. “Mine oldest sons, zhey were born in Syemv. But... I vas not good father. I did not even zhink zhey were mine children at first,” he said, shaking his head. He struck the ground with a fist suddenly; for once in his life, anger showed through in Rurik. “Stupid! So stupid,” the man said, sighing heavily. The anger had evaporated and gone as quickly as it had come, and he dragged his cigarette again. “I search for zhem, but I do not find them.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug, and looked away. This was his darkest secret, though it certainly was not secret—the silver-shaded werewolf would publicize his search for Zorish, Zaets, and Vladimir wherever he could in the hopes that it would help him. <style type="text/css"> .rurik-bottledrage b{font-weight:bold; color:#BC2B26; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px;} .rurik-bottledrage em {color:#770501;font-weight:bold; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px; font-style:normal;} .rurik-bottledrage p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;} </style> [/html] |