My method to get the shiny skull is to just force people to spree with me and get as many as possible around 3-400 if I can lol.Word Count: 902
Sounds came from within—a horse squealing, what appeared to be hoof steps on the ground—and Briexo whickered in reaction, tossing his head, or trying to. Drakien kept a firm grip on his nose ring, and the horse was reduced to little more than a quivering beast, his eyes rolling with excitement. Briexo was the sort of horse who had, at one time, liked to dominate others, and been the leader of the small herd when Drakien traded him off the gypsies; but there were no mares in there, at least according to Drakien's delicate senses, so the stallion's reactions to the other horse's presence were unwelcome and needed to be tamped down. When Briexo snorted softly and whinnied, a pained sound if he'd ever heard one, Drakien realeased his grip and straightened the ring out, rubbing the horse down shortly but murmuring not a word; the gypsies had explained to him that horses were too stupid to learn High Speech themselves, and if he couldn't speak it, Drakien very much doubted he could understand orders given in the language. They operated on a series of signals and motions, and it worked for them, as it had worked for the gypsies for as long as any of them could remember.
Formal words drifted up toward him, spoken in English though he'd been certain the man—he thought it was a man; the voice was deep enough—had spoken Russian before, to his horse. He spent only a moment figuring out what little he needed to know, and then stepped inside, leading Briexo behind him with a gentle grasp on the golden ring. As they walked down the short slope to the campsite the other had made, Drakien contemplated what he might say, what they might do—was this male from Russia? Would Drakien recognize him? He'd known most everyone in his hometown, or at least he thought he had; but there were so many people in the world, it was hard to tell, hard to do more than speculate on what good fortune had brought him to a male who could speak his language. Drakien cast his green gaze around curiously, and saw the wolf as he sat, not much older than Drakien himself was, far closer to the fire than Drakien might have been. Keen eyes saw in the firelight the signs of the horse having been moved to make room for Briexo in the sand, and he nodded gratefully and lead the horse to the now unoccupied space, turning him toward the wall and brushing a hand down his neck. Briexo snorted, tossing his head and stomping his feet, but after a moment found a small bit of weed-grass growing near him, and turned his attention away from the other stallion in the cavern and to his snack.
Drakien moved away from the horses to sit beside the fire, on the opposite side from the stranger, and nodded gratefully to him as he set aside the ram skull beside him and undid his cloak. It was warm in the cavern, enough so that he didn't need such heavy protection; and he doubted he would ever need it again, as the winters here were not nearly as cold as he'd grown used to. In the firelight, he could see the many different patterns and colors in the cloak, and he brushed a hand over the fur thoughtfully before folding it up and setting it aside, revealing himself to be in only his white work short and burlap jeans. Not warm enough, perhaps, to be so casually dressed; but the fire kept him comfortable enough, and he would rather be a little cold than terribly hot.
He was pulled from silent contemplation by the stranger's question, and his eyebrows rose in surprise at his title. "Kto ty takoĭ, chtoby nazyvatʹ menya tovarishch?" He asked, though his voice was more amused and curious than anything; the male spoke Russian, after all, so for all Drakien knew they were brothers of sorts. But then, his accent was slightly off, his words pronounced only a bit strangely, so Drakien thought perhaps not; only someone who had learned the language second-hand, not a child of Russia. And speaking of..."Mother, she is fairing good--no! Well...yes?" He paused for a moment to consider his own broken English, and then continued. "Winter bears down harshly. Osennikh shtormov, they were showing no mercy." It had been the small harvest and the sudden lack of wild caribou that had driven Drakien and his family away from their homelands in the far north, driving them southward and then across Europe. Drakien had been the only one to board a ship across the sea, however; he felt perhaps that the more untouched world to the west would bear more prosperity for him.
As he seated himself by the fire, his own lack of manners occured to him, and he folded his hands over a knee, leaning forward curiously. "I am having the rudes, yes? My name, Drakien. Drakien Lusk." He would have held out a hand, but with the fire between them, that would have been a very stupid move. Instead he inclined his head, the low pony-tail he'd tied his mane back into falling over his shoulder as he did so, and offered a small, minuscule smile. "I am in much gratitude for the campsite."[/html]