Arrrrrrrgh. I am really not getting the hang of these linked account things. :|
"Ya... uchenik putyeĭ vashyeĭ strany." Odysseus replied haltingly, fully aware that he had fudged the pronunciation slightly. This was no mistake, he was, in fact, quite talented with Russian. Words tended to become branded into your grey matter when they were accompanied by kisses and a flogging. Almost unnoticeably, Odysseus’s jaw clenched. Would he never be rid of her? Each thought was a comet, accompanied by a fiery tail that was Ivanna Volkov. He was reminded of her in the stranger’s words, in the scent of the jasmine tea that steeped upon the hearth, in the red of the fire.
Returning to the point, however, Odysseus was never one to exaggerate, or even give a true indication of his level of proficiency in any given task. He found it served him better to put on a show and act the naive youth than start chattering away in whatever particular foreign language was the flavour of the locale. No, it was far easier to play the idiot, and listen in to what people believed he would not hear. Those were often the words worth their weight in gold. So, it was to this end that he shrugged sheepishly, spreading his hands wide in that universal gesture of peace and vague regret.
“But my deepest apologies, sir, if I have oversold my abilities. I know only the sparest of Russian, enough to calm my horse, for example, or greet a fellow traveler. I am not from the mother-land itself.” Odysseus smiled, but kept his lips firmly closed. He of all people knew the picture he posed when each tooth in his grin gleamed and his mad, pinpoint eyes haloed them like thin windows to a crazed soul. Usually he would not have done this, preferring his interactions to be filled with equal levels of charm and eeriness but alcohol and the heat of the fire had tempered and dulled the chilled knife’s edge that seemed to line the wolf-dog’s every move more often than not.
It was strange the effect the drink had on him and wildly unpredictable. Some nights he could be in high spirits while very low in his cups, singing and boasting and revelling with whoever had decided to lay down their packs and take up their drinks with him. Some days he could be as cold and fierce as the wind outside, sweeping across the landscape like an ill wish, cape billowing behind him in a miasma of red as his steely eyes surveying the world with mad detachment. Every time he picked up the bottle, there was a new facet that he presented to the world, though none of them were genuine. Even stone drunk, Odysseus hid away whatever was left of his decaying soul deep within the ice-locked chasm of his chest.
“That is the correct way of saying it,” Odysseus murmured quietly, not an interruption, simply a buoy to urge the stranger on to further words. He nodded in apparent relief that the wolf’s mother was fine, though it was a false an action as he could ever make. Odysseus simply did not care! His own parents had died over a year ago, dashed upon the pitiless rocks of the Hudson Bay, so why should he spare one iota of concern for some wanderer’s dam thousands of miles away? Still it did not make for polite conversation to yawn, or do anything but what he had just did, so as always he held his tongue.
“My name is Odysseus Argyris,” He said, bowing from the waist. “And it would be spoken as, “I am being rude.” If you’ll forgive my rudeness for correcting you.” The wolf-dog amended, the corners of his mouth quirking at Drakien’s speech. Odysseus’s gaze fell upon Drakien’s mani-hued mantle. “That is a fine piece of clothing, if I may be so bold to say.” He drew his own cloak more tightly about him, as the tiniest of eddying breezes floated down from outside. The scent of snow was picking up, the winds rising. A storm, perhaps. “I have seen it’s like before. Are you a Romani, then?” Here, the look upon Odysseus’s face was about as friendly as it had been in a fortnight. He had spent five months with Romanis, travelling south through Quebec, and they had proved themselves an engrossing and entertaining people.
The caravans had always been a heady swirl of light and sound and colour, even in the almost holy silence of the forests in winter. Odysseus had drank it up like a man dying of thirst, throwing himself in amongst them and quickly gaining a reputation for a class-A cheater at cards, a talented bar brawler, and a stone cold strategist at chess. He had been Ivanna’s pet, so the others knew not to insult him, lest she turn her (rather infamous) riding crop on them. He had lived like the king of a country so small it didn’t even have borders. It had been wonderful, at least until hitherto absent common sense intruded, bringing with it the harsh light of day and reality.
“May I offer you some of this?” Odysseus asked, holding up the small bottle. It’s contents glowed amber in the firelight. Whiskey, and a fine bottle too, one of the few left by the humans who had once tramped across this land. Like a student of history, Odysseus eyed these mysterious beings from across the gulf of time with avid interest and enthusiasm. They had been masters of their world, travelling about in vehicles that moved far faster than any horse, crossing distances that would usually take months in a couple of hours. They’d had films, and television and most importantly books. Today, most of their knowledge had withered, the pages torn, the ink faded, entire libraries lost to mould and the elements. It was a tragedy and that was an understatement.
Sometimes, Odysseus felt so keenly the loss of that mysterious race of beings that it seemed someone was driving an ice-pick into his heart. What wouldn't he have given just to speak with one of them about their world! Or at least greet one of them without causing mass hysteria. By the canine’s understanding, the luperci rather resembled a monster from the human’s stories: the werewolf. He doubted that his seven foot seven frame and various sharp extremities wouldn’t go over very well in the streets of Quebec or Halifax. What misfortune then, to be born after the collapse and decay of an empire, and denied solace even in your wildest dreams, for even if you could appear there and then, the people would run screaming from your face.