SoSu shall be mine death yes
Strel felt like he was waiting a good while, but that was because he was holding the bolt of cloth like the idiot he sometimes happened to be. Tapping his fingers almost impatiently on the roll, the noise muffled by the material, he sent his lavender hued eyes roving his surroundings. A log nearby caught his attention. Brushing off the light dusting of snow, he planted himself on it with a sigh and a light thud,. It creaked and groaned beneath his weight, but did not break or crack into shards of decaying bark, merely letting the snow fall in a lump at the base. Strel flattened the bolt across his lap, resting his elbows in the softness of the cloth. Burying his face in his hands, the redhead wondered what the person coming was like. Well, if someone was coming that was. Oh, god, what would he do if no one came? Then what? Oh, lord, the shame of it all.
Soon, later than he thought though, he heard footsteps in the brush and a figure approach. Wary, Strelein stood with the cloth held at his side, kept up with just the strength of his upper arms applying pressure. He looked like a jacked up idiot come a calling with stolen goods too big for him to bother with. Grumbling slightly, he fumbled with the bolt as he set it down on the log, grimacing as he realized that there was still snow on some parts of the log, like the parts where his rear did not sit. His ass was huge, but not that huge. Looking calm, nonchalant, Strel jammed his hands in his pockets as he watched the Cercetori d'Arte member approach. He wondered which of the leadership deigned to deal with someone not interested in joining.
It was a guy, a huge guy. Like the Russos. Was he related? Nah, he had no lilt. But neither did Mars and mars was a Russo, but he did grow up on the west coast of the continent. Maybe Shawchert was a secret Russo bastard child? Nah, no way. They did not seem like the kind of lot to make a pack based around the arts. They were fishermen, sailors, not artists. Okay, well, Mars had, but he had abandoned Cours for Cercatori. The stranger was looking at him oddly and the redhead gave a nervous look; he did not like tall, big looking strangers looking at him funny. It made him uncomfortable and concerned, namely because he did not know why they would look at him like that. Like he was sizing up Strel.
Swallowing a bit harder than he usually did, Strel nodded his head slightly. "Well, not really help. I just kind of heard of your pack from someone, not sure who," he began, moving toward the side to show the full length of the bolt. "I heard it was a pack of artists and I thought I'd bring a bolt from my private stash for whatever budding tailor was in your pack." The redhead was still a little wary of giving away the valuable stuff, considering he had found this stuff himself, still sealed in some kind of plastic wrap to keep the rot and water out. It had not even been dusty. And now he was giving it away like some kind of paper craft or a cheap common toy. "That and to hear what your pack is all about, really."
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