as long as there is whiskey in the world.

Rurik Russo · 08-19-2010, 11:44 PM

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Word Count :: 315 I am in a table-revolt phase. Tongue Wonder how long it's gonna last.

Mars did not seem at all fond of his mother; Rurik frowned heartily at this, shifting his weight slightly. He did not know what to say—he did not wish to bad-mouth the woman, as he simply did not know her, but he wished for the youth to feel comfortable. “I vish I had known, could have done something,” the werewolf mumbled awkwardly, drawing again from his cigarette. “I can only do my best now,” he said, looking to Mars with a faint smile on his face. He would love and accept this boy as he was; there was no doubt of their relation in Rurik's mind, and even if Mars had looked nothing like him... well, Rurik had rejected his children before, and such a mistake was not one he was willing to repeat—women could probably have foisted off numerous litters onto him and he would have been none the wiser.

“Mmm. Next time I make beeg keell, I vill skin and give you fur,” the man said. “I am no good makeeng t'eengs... but, ah... Strelein? He leeve in hotel, maybe he vill make somet'eeng for you,” the werewolf said. It was awkward thinking of Strel, for sure, but Rurik knew no one better with a needle and thread, and a thick, bear-skin coat would do Mars well for this first cold winter. Rurik settled down into the chair next to Mars, his eyes still glancing over to the horse every now and again—for such a large and magnificent equine, he was incredibly placid and well-mannered. Rurik certainly appreciated that; not every Luperci was able to train horses to this degree. “Ah! Music! I do love eet,” the werewolf laughed. “No—mine brothers and I, we seeng, but ah,” the Duke paused, folding his ears back. “Only drunk seengeeng,” he laughed. One could hardly call their ridiculous trololo song true music.

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