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WC: 1000+
You can mouse over the Russian to see the translation. I do hope it’s correct, I’m relying on Google translate here. XD
The M rating is just for any language. I seem to swear a lot more when I write for this guy.
The moon was high but the wind was low and cold, tearing across the empty plains like a sharply clawed ghost, tearing at fur, biting at noses and plunging deep into the bone. Odysseus smiled wildly. That might be the case, at least, if he were some thin-furred little stick. The smile grew smugly satisfied. His fur was thick and curly and kept out the winter like a fine, down coat. The long, scarlet cape that tied about his neck and reached all the way to his feet (though at present it spread across his horse’s hindquarters like a blanket) was quite warm in too, made of the thick, though, waterproof wool worn by those who spent their lives on the sea.
So it was quite a handsome he made as Hector strode across the snow, the large stallion taking fine, arcing steps and presenting no difficulty or lack of sureness in the face of the wailing weather. He was a a tall creature, mostly leg, and each limb moved with such passive energy that it was clear to see this horse was meant to run. Odysseus kept him soothed, though, kept him slow. He may be immune to the cold at this time, but a nighttime gallop would be absolutely frigid.
The wolf was in high spirits tonight, both figuratively and literally. Concealed by the folds of his coat, a small but thick glass bottle of whiskey slowly emptied it’s contents as the rider made his way across the expanse. His blood sang with heat, and his pale blue eyes burned in the dark like fox fire. He’d escaped! He was free! That crazed bitch would no longer lead him around on a rope like some pet! It was disgusting how wound up he’d been around one of those delicate little fingers.
Soon enough the pair came to an outcropping of rocks. Odysseus dismounted, but did not tie Hector to anything or hobble his legs. In fact, Odysseus carried no tack at all, his steed staying only through his orders. "Postoĭ, moĭ malʹchik, until I search this place out.” The wolf took up his spear, where before it had been resting across his lap while he rode. The outcropping was large enough that some space beneath the boulders existed. Propped up upon each other, they created a natural cave that seemed to extend to unknown depths.
Odysseus carefully lead his horse inside. The ceiling was close, but it rose even as the ground descended. Perhaps ten feet from the entrance it leveled out fully, with a large, flat space perfect for spending the night. In fact, Odysseus’s keen eyes marked the remains of a previous fire in the centre, and even some spare pieces of wood left behind in good grace. He began to stack the wood, trying to hum the piano concerto he had purloined whilst in Quebec City. The sound wouldn’t come, though, and he found himself unable to imagine the correct pitch and tone.
It must have been marvelous to hear in person. He had read that the humans, before their great empire had crumbled, often went to such things as concerts, sometimes thousands of miles away, just to listen to music being played. Wolves here seemed to have no head for such things, and he’d yet to meet one talented with any instrument, at least in Nova Scotia. The gypsy traders he’d spent some time with at least knew a good tune or two. His voice turned then to one of those, a jaunty, violent piece meant for frenetic dancing and lots of drinking.
He smiled wolfishly then, each tooth gleaming in smooth, pale planes. Those days had been fun, before Ivana had gone full psycho on them all. He’d enjoyed drinking himself to sleep every night, swindling his companions out of their money and possession and fucking any fine piece of tail that came his way. It had been a good way to pass the time. But now, but now he was on his own, in this big empty place. There was no friendly face here, no Hector or Lena, no Achille. The tall wolf sat before his little pyre and struck the flint onto the iron absentmindedly.
The fire was a welcome thing, though small at first, it grew with hungry grace, snapping at the little twigs Odysseus idly tossed it. He fished a packet of tea from the saddlebags across Hector’s withers, along with a tough chunk of dried meat and a packet of spices. Soon enough, he had a very basic stew going, with the small collapsible kettle he had also produced from these nearly miraculous pouches whistling upon the hearth. He fished the meat from the pot, and gulped down the tea, even as it scalded his tongue. He could go a whole day without eating and never grimace, but once he had settled for the night the young wolf ate like a ravenous monster.
Despite all his grace and confidence, Odysseus was indeed a young wolf. Turned two just this past December, his form still held the litheness of youth, even if it was tempered by the leanness of burgeoning adulthood. His eyes were sharp and blue and quite mad, each pupil shrunk to the size of a pinhead even in the relative darkness, but his smile was disarming. It gleamed even now in the dancing shadows like a cheshire cat’s, even though there was no one present to see it.
“Ah that would indeed make the night complete, wouldn’t Hector? A fine meal, a fine drink,” Here he retrieved the bottle and took a large swig, “And perhaps some fine company to share it with.” He spared a glance at the horse. “Unfortunately you are disqualified from this title by dint of your diet, I don’t think smoked venison would be entirely to your taste, old friend.” Hector whiskered in reply through his saddlebag, already groomed and brushed and fed long before Odysseus had even thought to begin his own dinner.
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[html] ooc: Awesome, same here!  And I use Google Translate too, so no worries. xD /wishes she could actually speak Russian ffff. Word Count: 696
Drakien found his gaze captured by the moon; it hung, high and full above his head, looking close enough to touch but, when he stretched a hand out to grasp the wondrous glow, proving to be too far away. He'd long been enchanted by the moon, though the glow he'd once bathed in back home seemed to pale in comparison to the pale light washing over the tall grass of the nearly endless plains he traveled through. His gaze followed a single beam of light as it traveled from its source to the back of his horse's neck, and for a moment he was entranced all over again, running a hand over the pale mane for a moment before a harsh snort drew his attention back to the task at hand.
With a snort of his own, he took a handful of Briexo's mane and pulled the horse's head, guiding him with only minimal effort across the planes. They were a strange sight to see; Drakien himself wore the fur cloak, and the moon played over the bright, warm colors it held, muting them all to blues and silvers. The ram skull from Cai rested atop his head, though he'd tilted it up so that he could see without having to bow his head and look through the eye holes. Briexo, completely unadorned save the brightly colored blanket over his back and the bags tied to his rump, could have passed for the white steed of legend, were he not perhaps more aggressive than any monstrous beast he might ride to face. It was odd, to have the Knight dressed as a monster and the horse more beastly than the image he presented, but Drakien's thoughts didn't linger there long, if they passed that train of thought at all.
The plan had been to travel due north until morning, as they'd set out only that afternoon and neither wolf nor horse were tired. But Drakien had miscalculated somewhere, most probably in the face of the knowledge--or perhaps the ignorance--of the fact that he was on an entirely new continent, and none of the land formations he'd learned about or seen at home would be the same on the other side of the world. It was due to this miscalculation Drakien found himself leading Briexo Northeast, and thus came across the scent of a fire, warm food, and...company. Drakien paused as the smells reached him, and then had to pull sharply at Briexo's mane to get the hard-headed creature to stop, as well. The former warhorse snorted sharply, rolling his eyes and glaring, but after a moment got his way, as Drakien urged him to follow the scents.
It was a good fifteen minutes before he saw what looked to be a cave, or the opening to one, up ahead; and the pair moved toward it at the same slow, down-trodden pace they'd kept for most of their journey. Though Briexo longed to run, and the twitching of his muscles and the occasional quick sprint belied this fact, Drakien would have none of it, and they reached the outcropping on his time. The scents were definitely coming from within, and Drakien dismounted shortly to investigate. There were tracks in the dryed-out ground, leading inside, but none coming out, so he could only assume, from those--and the faint light coming from within--that someone was still there. Curious, he removed the skull from his head, tucking it under one arm, and ducked his head in, looking about.
The cave went deeper than he'd anticipated, and seemed a good place for someone to spend the night, should they decide to camp rather than travel the night through; it was even large enough for a horse of Briexo's size to fit in comfortably. Scratching his ear curiously, Drakien finally took hold of the ring in Briexo's nose and lead him forth, pausing just before entering the rocks to call out, "Greetings? My imyeem v vidu nichego plokhogo." And then, rather belatedly remembering he was no longer in Russia, "We are meaning you no harm. I am being following the scents of your fire."[/html]
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WC: 1000+
Hope you don’t mind the giganto-posts, I’m trying for SoSuWriMo and I really, really want one of those shiny little skulls, lol.
Herp derp, I spent all night setting up Odysseus's profile and I still manage to post with Finn's account. 
Odysseus’s sharp, blue eyes flicked towards the entrance of the cave; he had chosen this specific spot because it gave him an unobstructed view of the entrance and a back to the wall. Another habit passed down from Ivana like some all-important tenet. Odysseus would grudgingly allow her this one, keeping one’s back protected while simultaneously having the widest field of vision could be crucial in a fight. Not that he was looking for one. In fact, Odysseus rarely started fights. That was the job of the angry and often drunk dog/wolf/coyote who’d had the misfortune to believe they could best him in a game of cards.
The last time that had happened, the man had tried to upturn a table before he realized Odysseus’s hidden little bowie knife was resting on some rather important equipment. The wolf-dog had laughed aloud in his opponents face, and left the place with a sweep of his red cape and a few bottles of alcohol missing from their usual places on the bar. Later that night, the sore loser and some friends tried to break into the room Odyseeus been staying at, but by that point the wolf-dog was already out the window, through the courtyard, and away laughing on a fast horse.
Indeed, it was far too fun fleecing those of lesser intelligence. Odysseus made something of a living out of it, if you could call what he did living. He called it celebrating. Every moment he drew another breath, every word he read, every word he spoke, all went to a greater purpose, namely putting himself somewhere comfortable and important. Odysseus had dreamed of that since before he could remember, all through his youth spent hauling smelly fish this way and that, and his young adulthood wandering with a pack of thieves, murderers, rapists and businessmen.
The lean canine’s ears did a small dance at the sound of native Russian. It was a conflict, a toss up between straightening in interest at a tongue he knew somewhat well, or pulling back in annoyance at the memories of the one who had taught him it. They compromised by each doing a different motion. Unfortunately, Hector took this chance to break into a loud squeal, pawing fitfully at the earth when he caught the scent of another stallion in his nose. He half reared, his size suddenly dwarfing the dimensions of the cave.
"I̱remía , Hector . Na eíste akóma.” Odysseus murmured, low, gravelly voice rumbling like the purr of a cat. He was at his steed’s side in but a second, stroking the beast’s nose in long, soothing motions. Almost immediately the horse quieted, though his pinned ears and beady gaze still indicated his express annoyance. Sensing trouble if he didn’t take some kind of action, Odysseus shifted his horse farther from entrance, and turned him towards the wall, so that the newcomer might have a place to put his own creature.
“No harm is a welcome thing, as are you.” Odysseus said, sitting back down at the fire. He stood quite close, basking in the almost overpowering heat like a flower in the sun. He had come from the north, where every fire quickly became a useless, guttering thing unless you fed it often and well. And if the fire was doing well, it was the wood that was soaked through, or frozen. Or the wind was too strong and your tinder wouldn’t catch. Odysseus did not miss the north in the least. Land of polar bear and seal and caribou. They were welcome to the whole bloody lot of it. Endless miles of ice wasn’t worth much anyway.
“So tell me, tovarishch, how fares Russia these days?” The wolf-dog enquired politely. Ivanna had spoken of her homeland often and to great (and boring) lengths, but the stories the other canines of the travelling market told far more interesting tales. Stories of cannibalism deep in the north, tribes of savages to the southeast, and a population that grew larger every day with only a meagre diet to sustain it. Apparently the winters were even colder there, and that was what dampened Odysseus’s enthusiasm about the place. As equipped as he was for the cold, he didn’t particularly enjoy it. Most of the stoicism Odysseus exhibited while out in the cold, open air was simply an act. If there was a choice between whining about the chill or silently and manfully soldiering on, he’d choose the latter every single time, frostbitten toes be damned.
Sometimes he wondered if he put on too much of a show. After all, around these parts there were only bumpkinish wolves who still ran about in packs and tribes like bloody savages instead of taking an example from their more civilized cousins in Europe. Perhaps some of the nuances went over their empty, furry little heads. Still, showmanship was tightly entwined to Odysseus’s soul, along with the urge to dominate and control. The mask had become a part of him, and to tear it off now would only reveal the skinless muscles, and blood and bone that comprised his real face, in other words, the far less becoming parts of him.
The stranger moved a little closer, and it was at this time that Odysseus finally noticed the wolf’s garb. Curious indeed! His eyes gleamed with greed, not for his valuables, but for his reasons. Why would a wolf require such headgear? To scare, to intimidate, perhaps to hear better? It was certainly an eerie accoutrement, and even the stolid canine felt the slightest of frissons rise up his spine at those dark, empty eyeholes and creamy bone. That was what they all were, in the end. Stripped of names, personalities, and appearances, they were all the same; skeletons who hadn’t yet found their way back to the earth.
And here again Odysseus was reminded that the show must go on, and hopefully never end. Without the scraps of knowledge and superiority and cunning he drew about him like his red cape, he’d be nothing, and if there was anything that Odysseus couldn’t stand more than bad manners, being led on, and his crazy ex-lover, it was nothingness.
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[html] ooc: No worries! I'll try to keep up as best I can, but I'm not good at long posts. This'll be practice! My method to get the shiny skull is to just force people to spree with me and get as many as possible around 3-400 if I can lol.
Word Count: 902
Sounds came from within—a horse squealing, what appeared to be hoof steps on the ground—and Briexo whickered in reaction, tossing his head, or trying to. Drakien kept a firm grip on his nose ring, and the horse was reduced to little more than a quivering beast, his eyes rolling with excitement. Briexo was the sort of horse who had, at one time, liked to dominate others, and been the leader of the small herd when Drakien traded him off the gypsies; but there were no mares in there, at least according to Drakien's delicate senses, so the stallion's reactions to the other horse's presence were unwelcome and needed to be tamped down. When Briexo snorted softly and whinnied, a pained sound if he'd ever heard one, Drakien realeased his grip and straightened the ring out, rubbing the horse down shortly but murmuring not a word; the gypsies had explained to him that horses were too stupid to learn High Speech themselves, and if he couldn't speak it, Drakien very much doubted he could understand orders given in the language. They operated on a series of signals and motions, and it worked for them, as it had worked for the gypsies for as long as any of them could remember.
Formal words drifted up toward him, spoken in English though he'd been certain the man—he thought it was a man; the voice was deep enough—had spoken Russian before, to his horse. He spent only a moment figuring out what little he needed to know, and then stepped inside, leading Briexo behind him with a gentle grasp on the golden ring. As they walked down the short slope to the campsite the other had made, Drakien contemplated what he might say, what they might do—was this male from Russia? Would Drakien recognize him? He'd known most everyone in his hometown, or at least he thought he had; but there were so many people in the world, it was hard to tell, hard to do more than speculate on what good fortune had brought him to a male who could speak his language. Drakien cast his green gaze around curiously, and saw the wolf as he sat, not much older than Drakien himself was, far closer to the fire than Drakien might have been. Keen eyes saw in the firelight the signs of the horse having been moved to make room for Briexo in the sand, and he nodded gratefully and lead the horse to the now unoccupied space, turning him toward the wall and brushing a hand down his neck. Briexo snorted, tossing his head and stomping his feet, but after a moment found a small bit of weed-grass growing near him, and turned his attention away from the other stallion in the cavern and to his snack.
Drakien moved away from the horses to sit beside the fire, on the opposite side from the stranger, and nodded gratefully to him as he set aside the ram skull beside him and undid his cloak. It was warm in the cavern, enough so that he didn't need such heavy protection; and he doubted he would ever need it again, as the winters here were not nearly as cold as he'd grown used to. In the firelight, he could see the many different patterns and colors in the cloak, and he brushed a hand over the fur thoughtfully before folding it up and setting it aside, revealing himself to be in only his white work short and burlap jeans. Not warm enough, perhaps, to be so casually dressed; but the fire kept him comfortable enough, and he would rather be a little cold than terribly hot.
He was pulled from silent contemplation by the stranger's question, and his eyebrows rose in surprise at his title. "Kto ty takoĭ, chtoby nazyvatʹ menya tovarishch?" He asked, though his voice was more amused and curious than anything; the male spoke Russian, after all, so for all Drakien knew they were brothers of sorts. But then, his accent was slightly off, his words pronounced only a bit strangely, so Drakien thought perhaps not; only someone who had learned the language second-hand, not a child of Russia. And speaking of..."Mother, she is fairing good--no! Well...yes?" He paused for a moment to consider his own broken English, and then continued. "Winter bears down harshly. Osennikh shtormov, they were showing no mercy." It had been the small harvest and the sudden lack of wild caribou that had driven Drakien and his family away from their homelands in the far north, driving them southward and then across Europe. Drakien had been the only one to board a ship across the sea, however; he felt perhaps that the more untouched world to the west would bear more prosperity for him.
As he seated himself by the fire, his own lack of manners occured to him, and he folded his hands over a knee, leaning forward curiously. "I am having the rudes, yes? My name, Drakien. Drakien Lusk." He would have held out a hand, but with the fire between them, that would have been a very stupid move. Instead he inclined his head, the low pony-tail he'd tied his mane back into falling over his shoulder as he did so, and offered a small, minuscule smile. "I am in much gratitude for the campsite."[/html]
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WC: 1100+
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.
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[html] ooc: lol I've never understood linked accounts. xD 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]
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