it's hardest hue to hold

Rurik Russo · 01-18-2010, 04:53 AM

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Lalalala. XD

Oh, fuck. Rurik was madder than mad; he'd spilled a whole damn bottle of the Chezov-made vodka they'd brought over on the ship. Well, they had lots of liquor—there was a whole barrel of aged whiskey, for example, just waiting to be tapped. But the Chezov vodka was his favorite, and once they ran out of vodka, that was it. Rurik would never resign himself to not drinking, but he absolutely preferred the Russian-made vodkas to any other, and usually the human-brewed swill did not strike his tongue correctly. It was all burn and no taste, and Rurik simply couldn't stomach the stuff, not after being raised on the harsh moonshine his mother and sisters brewed and the Chezov firewater.

He wandered downstairs slowly, his steps more swayed than usual. The gentle rocking of the boat seemed almost enough to send the Russian right off of his feet at times, but steadily he made his way down from the Captain's quarters to the main deck. Normally the Russian wolf was in perfect accord with the rocking of the boat, but the alcohol had his balance all tangled up. He wandered over to the edge for a moment to stare over at the shoreline. He liked this place; he had no big ideas about it thus far, but the simplicity of it charmed him, and Rurik figured he could spend quite a few months here before setting off again. He had no idea how many times he'd return to this place in time. His mission remembered, the Russian turned back toward the steps down below deck, intending to grab another bottle to replace the one he'd smashed. It was a sad, sad thing, but it had to be done.

The werewolf was downstairs at last, standing in front of the door to the lower decks. The key to the liquor storeroom was in his pocket, but of course he didn't need that yet; they wouldn't lock the whole of the lower decks off from the rest of the ship. The werewolf would have noticed the noises and soft voices from within if he had not been so drunk; then again, he was celebrating their landing, it was only right for him to be a bit toasted. Turning the knob slowly, the Russian wolf stepped into the dimmer underbelly of the ship, his eyes adjusting to the light. What he saw surprised him; thankfully the alcohol had sufficiently slowed his reaction time, otherwise he might have yowled and jumped ten feet in the air to bonk his head on the roof. "Vhat the hell are you kidts doing?" he boomed in his deep voice, boggling at the children one by one. His accent was thicker and stronger, his accent more twisted.

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