[M] burning on the highway.

Rurik Russo · 04-21-2010, 05:10 AM

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Also yes there is a ~*~*~magical table*~*~ by the couches now. It was there before I swear. :| Also I haven't written a post this long since Sosu. 945. O_O

The silver furred wolf and his Infernian companion were engaged in a rather heated debate about the different strains of cannabis, with Rurik insisting that a pale bud was better, while Anselm asserted that color had very little to do with the potency. There was nothing hostile in them, and every few moments one of them wound completely bungle a word or reverse a pair of words, and both would explode into laughter. It was not long before others began to join them, the first of which Anselm seemed to recognize. “Oh yeah, hey Cotl. Happy holiday, dude,” Anselm said. Sloppy grins were already plastered on both of their faces, of course, and Rurik held the smoking thing up to Cotl as the man vaulted the couch and made himself comfortable. His glassy and slightly reddish eyes were focused on the other wolf, a smile on his face. “German, eh? Guten tag, my man, guten tag,” the Russian said, laughing at this completely unfunny statement. It was awesome to encounter someone else from across the pond.

A more familiar voice sounded down the street, and Rurik looked up to see Silas. For this, he jumped up and spread his arms wide, positively roaring with laughter. “Празднование! Ну дыма с мужчинами, Silas,” the man teased, though thankfully this gentle prod was in Russian, and hopefully nobody else would understand it. There wasn't a doubt in Rurik's head that his children were grown; Silas didn't need to hang with the men to prove he was indeed a man. Another face showed—Conor! Rurik looked over at the young wolf, impressed—he seemed years older now, for some reason. Rurik knew almost nothing of the war between Inferni and Dahlia—all he knew was what Silas had told him those months ago. He glanced nervously at his companions, hesitating a moment.

“Allo, Conor,” he said, smoothly as he could—still, he settled back down to his chair and patted the space next to him. “You seet over here, ya? Silas, you seet too,” the man commanded. “Maybe Anselm and you have to grab another couch if more come,” he suggested. Such a move might ease the tension, if any arose. Removing two Infernians for a moment would certainly help, and Rurik would do his best to defuse the situation—the last thing he wanted was for someone to break out into arguement. Anselm had also picked up on some of the tension, and the tawny-hued man was busily packing a bowlpiece, not even hitting it before he passed it along to Silas wordlessly, working on the next bowl. Rurik nodded a very small nod, approving of this. If nothing else would help the situation, that certainly would.

Another presence immediately caught the silvery Russian's attention, and his bright blue eyes turned to Rikka excitedly as she strolled over, throwing his arm outward, turning toward the men gathered on the couches. “Aha, the veemen are arriving!” he declared, roaring with laughter. Anselm rolled his eyes in a seriously exaggerrated manner and passed the next packed bowlpiece and lighter along to Conor, briefly instructing him how to use it. “Put your lips there, put the fire there, and inhale.” Simple enough. The blunt was already growing small, so Anselm began twisting another one of those. Rurik winced, and vowed to help his friend when he was able—for now he just wanted to make sure that nobody was going to go slicing any throats. He waved Rikka over and patted the seat to the other side of him, grinning at her. “Allo, Rikka.”

Another stranger floated into their midst, and Rurik eyed him, positively amazed at the other man's demeanor. He was already cooking, the pale eyes clearly droopy and loopy even behind the rose glasses. He was Inferni, though, and he introduced himself in such an easy-going manner. They had just two seats left, but it didn't seem that anyone was going to explode, so Rurik didn't say anything else about the couch—they could grab another if they needed it. “Welcome, Razekiel! We just get started here, really—you are velcome to join, and sharing would be very good!” the man declared. They had plenty, sure, but the more the merrier, right? “Everybody, everybody,” the Russian wolf said, standing up once more, waving his hands about to indicate he wished for a moment of quiet.

“In Amsterdam, zhis is great holeeday, today, zhis fourth day of—no, no,” he stopped, laughed, and made an attempt to compose himself. “Zhis twentieth day of fourth month. Zhey call it ‘four-twenty.’ Eet is entire day... devoted to zhis,” he said, plucking the freshly rolled blunt from Anselm's fingers, holding it up for a moment before he brought it to his lips, inhaling a huge hit. “Eenjoy!” he declared in a voice choked with smoke, and then released, coughing and laughing as he fell backwards into his seat, landing beside Conor and Rikka, a sloppy grin planted on his face. Obediently he passed the blunt over, and began rolling another—there were many people here, and it was definitely time to start baking. “You know how to roll? You take, you roll,” the man said, indicating the tupperware of marijuana on the table. It was in the tupperware for safety's sake, of course—the last thing they needed was their stash blowing away. Rolling papers and the strange dried leaves were both stacked on top of the marijuana in there, and next to the tupperware was of course the last remaining bowlpiece out of current circulation and the bottles of liquor. That was easy enough—even not knowing how to roll, bowlpieces were quite simple to prepare.

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