Word Count: 813
Drakien nodded thoughtfully as the stranger explained he was merely a pupil of some Russian he'd come across before; they hadn't taught him very well, or so it seemed, although there was the slightest hint of...deception in the air that made Drakien believe perhaps he wasn't being told the whole truth. It didn't matter to him, anyway; so long as he was in no danger, the other male could keep whatever he liked to himself. Drakien didn't rightfully give a damn about it. His gaze drifted toward the flames, and he thought of the cultures he'd become pupil to over the last few months; the Cruentus tribe from the north of Russia, who wore the skulls gilded with jewels and paints occasionally mixed from blood. He'd not understood their dialect, most of the time, but befriending Cai had been the best move he'd ever made--especially since it saved his own life in the process.
A small half-smile formed on his face as he wondered what his blood brother was doing, but he was quickly drawn away from more brutal contemplation by the male's apology. He stared incomprehensively for a moment before rolling his shoulder in a shrug. "Vy govorite dostatochno khorosho, dlya kogo-to ne rozhdayut·sya zemelʹ materi." He paused, and then slid his glance toward the male, his gaze somewhat bored. "Vy prostite menya, yesli ya ne myasnik vash yazyk bolʹshe. YA predpochitayu, chtoby moi sobstvennye." And if the male could understand him well enough, he saw no point in twisting his tongue to form the odd words that only frustrated him; his voice sounded better, to his own ears at least, speaking the Mother Tongue, anyway. Russian was more guttural, and it suited him perfectly.
The stranger gave no sign, other than a nod, to acknowledge Drakien's answer to his question about Mother Russia; had Drakien known he'd mistaken the man's words for those about his own dam, he might have laughed. Really, as if Drakien would share that sort of information about his family, unprovoked and unwanted; he was a private sort of person, and he'd never had a mother, anyway, being raised by two men. Russia was his mother, and all the woman he'd ever need; as much as he respected the feminine form, all the ones he'd met had proven to be nothing more than weak-minded versions of their stronger counterparts. He had no doubt that his own dam, whoever and wherever she might be, had proven to be the same.
Drakien inclined his head, murmuring nonsensical pleasantries under his breath, and then nodded his head again as he was corrected, filing the information away for later. It would prove useful when conversing with people who didn't understand Russian; as it was, he was tired of going back and forth, and so would most likely not be using the language again any time soon, at least not while in this male's presence. Drakien followed the male's gaze to his cloak, and though he didn't recognize most of the words that were spoken to him, he could recognize the tone of the question, and "Romani" was nearly universal. YA ...ucheniku svoe povedenie." He acknowledged, laying a hand on the coat and stroking the fur gently.
He'd spent quite some time with the Romani, having departed home when he was a year and a half and traveling the trade routes with them until the time came for him to settle down, and he chose to sail across the ocean and find prosperity in new lands. They'd been family, to him, and he knew much of their ways; many a secret had been shared with him, and he'd been left marked, in some way, by their presence. He could still dance and drink with the best of them, and there wasn't a horse in Europe he couldn't break; though Briexo was doing his damnedest to resist. Pausing to think over those months, he finally admitted, "Vy mozhete nazyvatʹ menya tsyganskie bez kakikh-libo vozrazheniĭ."
The bottle was offered to him, and it was only then Drakien noticed the stranger--Odysseus--was drinking something other than the tea brewing on the fire; a bottle of alcohol, something strong--though not the Moonshine that the caravan he'd traveled with had been so fond of brewing. He leaned forward to sniff curiously, and then leaned back holding up a hand with a small, amused smile. "Not wise, friend." He said, in English, just to make sure his polite refusal got across as clearly as possible. If he accepted the offer to drink, he'd most probably continue drinking until it was gone, and then this fine fellow would be out, unless he had another bottle somewhere...but if Drakien found out about that stash, there would be no end to the revelry. It was best if Odysseus drank alone.[/html]