Drakien missed Europe. More so, he missed Russia; he wanted the cold, biting chill of winter to sweep around him again. Instead, he found himself sitting at a fire he'd built himself, wrapped up in layers he didn't need, gazing forlornly at the smoke rising up into the sky. There were mountains not far off--he didn't know what they were called--and before him stretched what seemed to be everlasting amber waves, with only the lightest dusting of snow about them--and by "light dusting", he meant maybe three inches. Pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, Drakien tucked his head into the hollow made between his knees and gazed into the fire, almost too warm under his brightly dyed fur cloak and close to the flames. The ram skull Cai had gifted him sat nearby, but it was too heavy to wear all the time, and didn't fit his head well just yet, anyway. He preferred the warm fur hat he'd worn often before meeting his friend, and only kept the skull out of respect for Cai's traditions--it made them brothers, after all, and he'd never had a brother before, not a real brother.
Sighing heavily, Drakien shifted his feet, tucking his head farther into his lap and drawing the cloak tighter around him. After a moment, he began singing softly to himself, an old lullaby that his mother used to hum before he fell asleep. He'd never learned all the words, but the tune in itself was comforting, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself and sang what little he knew of the old lullaby, and when he lifted his head to watch the fire, his tired eyes could see the scenes of old stories she'd told swirling in the smoke; there, a gray wolf fought for his right to survive; and there, a pup was losing its way, falling down a burrow to be seen only in her mother's dreams forever more. There was the heartless giant; and there, the soldier with his magic sack, wandering the ends of the earth forever in search of death. He squeezed his knees closer to himself, watching the stories play out and telling himself he didn't miss his mother; he was a grown man now, almost as big as his father, and he'd set out to make a name for himself, to find adventure.
Just because he'd gone farther from home than he ever expected to didn't mean he could chicken out now. This was what men did. There was more adventure on this continent than in all of Moscow, and he couldn't cling to mother's apron strings forever. Venkat needed a son he could be proud of, and Drakien was going to be that son. The Lusk Who'd Traveled the World, the boy who'd grown to be an explorer. He had only the cloak from the gypsies, his father's old moccasins, and the ram skull from Cai--not to mention the warhorse, Breixo, who was almost big enough for Venkat to ride--and that was all he needed. Drakien would make something out of nothing, the way all his family had, and one day, when Venkat grew old and Drakien grew strong, his name would carry over the seas to his father's ears, and the man would utter the words he longed to hear; "That's my boy."
He would make his father proud, even if it took the rest of his life to do it.[/html]