[html] http://i950.photobucket.com/albums/ad34 ... bott0m.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; padding-bottom:240px; background-position:bottom center; background-color:#252237"> ┤Sorry for the wait, and...I doubt I can hit that length << Now, as for the drinking...I really don't know enough about it to speak with any authority. Jantus is a lot bigger than Rurik, but I've also heard of little old ladies with a lifetime of alcoholism drinking frat boys twice their size under the table XD Given how limited his experience with it is (I doubt he's gotten drunk more than half a dozen times in his life), I don't even know if he could keep up with Rurik, though he's not about to know when to stop, either. Should we assume that their comfort zones are just reasonably close together?├
Jantus laughed alongside his foreign companion as they approached the "home near the water." Jantus had nothing against the coast, really, other than its strategic value, something he'd needed to learn to appreciate since joining such an organized fighting group as the Pine. Coasts obviously had the advantage of providing a direction from which you could not be attacked...or at least from where you couldn't have neighbors. That was good barring an actual raging battle, when you really couldn't afford to have your back up against a wall. The idea of choosing a home near the water because you were a sailor made sense to Jantus, but at the same time, it wasn't something he'd ever thought about, so it seemed a bit strange...not that someone in Rurik's situation would do so, just the thought of being a person who derived comfort from the sea and the ever-open choice of getting in one's boat and sailing away from here. It was a bit romantic in a sense, though such ideas were usually over his head.
He studied Rurik's home with his one eye and considered it. Anselm lived out here too, and at least one gang of wolves, besides. It seemed strange, but on the other hand, cities were more sheltered most of the time, and it might be that Tanya and Nikolov--who lived in a human house to avoid trouble with roving wolf packs--had the right idea. If he was ever out on his again, he might look into living the way his friends did, rather than out in the open as was his custom. That said...he wasn't sure what he'd do about the passageways the humans built...they clearly weren't built for someone his size. He couldn't fit through most of them horizontally or vertically, and he usually had to turn so that his width could squeeze through. On second thought, maybe it was better that he'd never given this lifestyle a try.
He smiled at Rurik's return, and--taking the formidable bottle, which was much larger than any human one he'd ever seen--followed the pirate to what he considered was a safe distance away from home. Humans clearly didn't need as much of the stuff as werewolves did, considering how small their bottle usually were, but wherever Russia was, apparently they knew how it was done. For the first time, Jantus felt like he was being accommodated. He took a swig before gritting his teeth. It was true that alcohol didn't taste all that good to him, but it was the effect that he liked. If he hadn't been terribly thirsty the day he'd given it a try, he probably wouldn't have figured out what awaited at the bottom of the bottle.
"Wish I could tell you more about Phoenix Valley," he said, wiping moisture from his lips. "My group and I were only there long enough to attend the funeral. The alpha's an interesting piece of work, name's Jefferson. Scarred from head to toe, missing pieces...also, not very reverent, though that bothered the others more than me. Skoll was just a wolf, not sure I believe his spirit's lingerin' around to offend." He laughed at that. He thought anyone who fought for the good of others left a legacy worth respecting, but people didn't become sacred after they died. He'd buried too many to think otherwise. Skoll had enjoyed enough fame during his life, there was no reason to heap on more after his death. Jantus still didn't forgive him for not being sensible enough to seek help in a situation where he was fighting a younger wolf of his own skill.
"It's a pretty place, though," he went on. "They've got a cabin we saw, and lakes. A lot nicer than the places we passed to find it, which is saying something, as no part of this area has looked ugly, so far. Wouldn't have minded sticking around, but most members of my company were armed and scarred and we figured we were pushing our luck even asking for permission." Again, he laughed, a little more shallowly this time. It probably didn't do much for his friend's reputation that they were the ones to show up, but what the hell: they were a rough and tumble crowd, who else was a lifetime warrior supposed to associate with?
"Anyway, Jefferson's a bit strange, but the pack members we met were friendly enough. A yearling named Ty kept coming out and training with us. Even though he's a bit messed up, I got the impression Jefferson can defend himself, too. Pretty, friendly and defended? You could definitely find worse places." He took another deep gulp of the stuff he'd been offered. He had no doubt that the brew Rurik provided would be very satisfying once it took hold.
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Although Rurik had a formidable stash of the Chekov-made vodka, he was well-aware of how to make his own rotgut—samogon, as it was called in the home country. This alcohol was a fair bit harsher than what was in the bottles both werewolves now carried, simply for the fact that it was not aged or mellowed out any. It was not infused with berries or mint or any of the other myriad of things one might used to flavor alcohol—however, the samogon that had been brewed in little Russian villages for many centuries was intended to be imbibed while it was still almost lukewarm, fresh from the distillation process. It was at its harshest and highest alcohol content then; this was a special kind of alcohol the Chekovs sold, though the sales of it were dismal as virtually every wolf in Sobirat'sya knew how to make samogon, the cheap, plentiful drink that had been rumored to grant its drinkers with virtality and longevity. Rurik wasn't sure if that was an old wives tale or the truth, but it was certainly true that it was some harsh stuff, certainly liable to throw some extra fur on one's chest.
The silver-furred Russian had lived in houses and homes for all of his life not spent in transit on a boat, though he certainly was not averse to sleeping outside. Even then, when they'd first came to this coast, he'd picked a cave for himself and Kiska, finding it unworthy of his once-love to sleep outside on the ground as he did. The silvery werewolf did not often think of the green-dyed wolf, and it was rarer still that he thought of her in such a positive light; more often than not Rurik simply pondered whether she was still out there, somewhere. She hadn't returned to Sobirat'sya or even Russia that he knew of, unless the canines of his hometown were simply doing an exceptional job of hiding the Ozero-Russo wolf. That was highly unlikely in Rurik's eyes, and he thought it was more likely she'd melted westward or even northward from this place, finding an entirely new place to call her home, far away from the painful memories of her first mate and her children, unwanted by their father for the first several months of their lives.
Rurik Russo could not think of Zaets, Zorish, and Vladimir now without a pang of guilt—he'd come to this faraway land once more to seek them out, to find them and let them know they were still loved and wanted by a whole extended family, and even if their connection to this family—Rurik himself—had done wrong by them, it did not mean that their grandmother Zinoviya and their cousins, aunts, uncles, and so forth, should have been denied their presence. Rurik would have given them Sobirat'sya if he could have known such an act would give his sons even a sliver of momentary happiness. They were worth all of that and more to the grizzled old wolf. If he had one great regret of his life, it was not knowing his children. Were it not for Silas, Liliya, Anatoliy, and Lizaveta, Rurik might not have ever even realized his elder sons' value, which was sadder still to the Russian werewolf.
The pair settled in a hollowed out husk of a building, its floor-to-ceiling front window glass blown out and swept away with the wind. The innards of the building were melting away back to nature; streaky brown and black dirt covered the floors and piled in the corners, and a few winter-dead leaves brown and curling up, ready to disintegrate into dust. The werewolf poked at one of these leaves and watched it do just that, a grin appearing on his face as the other spoke of Phoenix Valley, tilting his ears up to catch the sounds of Jantus's words. "No worries. What you have said is helpful enough—though I gotta say, them spirits, some of 'em can get quite unruly if you forget about them. Mine domovoi—house spirit—didn't like bein' on a boat too much. Caused us a bit of mischief on our way over," the werewolf said with a grin. Their domovoi had hidden the key to one of the storage rooms below deck; Rurik was sure of that. It could have just as easily been one of his children playing a prank on him, but these Slavic religious traditions were ingrained into Rurik's head. "Your friend might be hangin' around yet, keepin' an eye on you," the Russian said reassuringly, smiling. He was not one to push his religious tradition on the unwilling, and that was as far as he was willing to take the issue, falling silent to listen to the grizzled male's description of the territory even as he cracked open his own bottle.
Lifting it up to take a swig, the Russian shivered in appreciation of the harsh stuff coursing down his throat. The werewolf's description of the pack's lands were rather picturesque in Rurik's mind; he could almost see the lakes and cabins, smiling at the other canine's explanation of the packlands. Rurik was appreciative of the idea that they were well-defended, but the idea that they were not very receptive to canines of a "different" persuasion—Jantus and his group of warriors, that is—was something of a turn-off. Rurik and his Russian children were also pretty damn different, though their differences weren't quite so deadly-looking as the large gray werewolf in front of him, it'd be pretty obvious once Rurik or even Silas began to speak—and Lily, too, assuming she'd even stoop to speaking in English. "They sound like an alright bunch. I'm planning on checking out some of the other places around here, even. There seems like there's quite a few groups one could pick for home," the silvery werewolf said, indirectly indicating he'd like to hear a bit more of what Jantus had to say—the gray-furred giant seemed very well-versed in his knowledge, and the silvery werewolf was quite willing to listen.
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[html] http://i950.photobucket.com/albums/ad34 ... bott0m.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; padding-bottom:240px; background-position:bottom center; background-color:#252237">┤Sorry for the wait.├
Jantus gave a hardy laugh, unsure of Rurik's seriousness in his spirit comments. It was difficult to tell...some learned wolves he knew of had a tendency to revere human wisdom and technology, and the more they knew about that the less spiritual they seemed. Others were the opposite, showing no interest whatsoever in human devices and being more naturalistic, as far as werewolves went. For his part...his lack of faith went hand-in-hand with lack of caring: he didn't know what would happen when he died, and he supposed he'd care more if he got old, but he still figured his death would be fast, occurring over a few minutes or even seconds, so there wouldn't be a lot of time to dwell. Taking care of mortal affairs mattered more than any number of considerations concerning the afterlife.
"Maybe so," he said, before taking another drink. "But if he's watching over anyone, I doubt it's the Pine. We can take care of ourselves. If he's lingering anywhere, it's probably somewhere here, so maybe you guys should watch yourselves, eh?" He laughed again, glad he'd taken the Russian up on this offer. Listening to the next query, Jantus got a troubled expression, and shrugged apologetically.
"Don't know much about the rest of them," he replied. "We passed by two packs down south, but we don't know anything about them except that they're far away from a group called Inferni, who from personal experience I can tell you aren't good neighbors. One of our youngest members, Trigger, isn't exactly tactful, but the fact that he managed to run into a fight with one of the Infernians so soon after arriving only confirms the bad things I've heard about them. They're up north, though I don't know how far, exactly. A group called Dahlia is east of Phoenix Valley, but I know nothing of them." He regretted having so little to tell. What he'd learned of Inferni he'd learned from Skoll who had at one point had bitter dealings with them, but he had no similar source for any other group. He'd seen a bit of what Phoenix Valley was like, and had met a few members from the other packs, he'd skirted the Dahlian border...but that was all.
"Of course, there's always the Pine too," he said, as an afterthought. "We have border fights sometimes, but our neighbors are slowly learning not to cross us. With fifty members, I don't doubt for the safety of those in our charge, though you'd be expected to do your share." He flicked an ear. "Not a lifestyle for everyone, though, and we don't have the ocean, so I don't suppose it'd appeal much." He laughed at that. What was he doing, advertising for the Pine? It struck him as ironic, that he should be suggesting it here, of all places, and he took another gulp of vodka. He didn't know how much or how long it would take to feel the effects, but with such an enormous bottle, he had no doubt he'd be feeling them long ere he reached the bottom.
"So," he intoned, changing the subject. "You gonna tell me where the scar came from?" He made a vague gesture towards Rurik's chest, where he saw very apparent claw marks. The guy owned a sword...who was to say there weren't some good stories to go along with it, even if it was mostly just an heirloom?
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Death was not a subject Rurik liked to contemplate often; he was well aware he was growing steadily older. It happened with everyone, he supposed. He hadn't yet started to display overt signs of aging, however; it would seem his boyish nature and general outlook on life would keep him from getting too old, too fast. The Russian werewolf could hardly imagine himself an old man, yet he knew one day, it would happen. That is, unless he was cut down early, as Jantus's friend seemed to be. Strangely enough these depressing thoughts welled up within him, though the alcohol was quick to countervail the thoughts' effects. He found himself just as joyous and happy as ever, eager to cock an ear toward the grizzled wolf's speech.
The werewolf grinned broadly at the other canine's suggestion; he wasn't quite sure he believed in ghosts, exactly, but he did think it was possible that spirits from the afterlife could watch over them. The Domovoi were not quite ghosts, anyway—they had never been human or alive. The trickster spirits were born trickster spirits, carved from the earth's essence as the canines and other creatures had been shaped from the earth's substance. He could surely believe there were two different worlds. "Aye, y'never know. Maybe we ought to set out a toast for him, then," the Russian suggested. The Domovoi certainly liked that—a cup of wine for them kept them placated for months.
At the mention of Inferni, Rurik frowned, wrinkles growing over his muzzle. He had no particular qualm with coyotes, but it was certainly true that the coyotes had run Aremys off of their land. Well... sort of. Rurik was now aware he'd committed a sort of trespass against Inferni; in taking the Syemv territory to the south, he'd picked up a tiny sliver of beach from the coyotes. Such a thing was not so serious an offense to the Russian; where he was from borders were not so meaningful and there were no coyotes in Russia. At least, there were no native coyotes in Russia. Verusha proved otherwise, though her parents or grandparents had emigrated to Russia, and she might as well have been a native. She spoke Russian first, after all.
"Aye? There was some trouble one of the last times I was on this land," he responded slowly, taking a sip from his own jug. The alcohol warmed his system and eased his mind; there was no getting around this fact of life. "Mine pack Syemv, we brought on wolves from the pack Chimera, and renamed ourselves at some time... and when I come back, Inferni had fought with Aremys—this Syemv and Chimera mix pack—and Aremys had to leave the coast," Rurik said, sadly enough. The truth was, he couldn't have lived in Aremys for very long after they'd gone from the coast. The ocean was in Rurik's blood and soul, and to be separate... well, Rurik didn't think that was possible. "Gabriel, that clan's leader, he is mine friend, though. I trust I will have no trouble from them," he said with a smile. He was overestimating his own state of friendliness with Inferni and underestimating the viciousness which possessed some of the coyote clan's members. Hybrid probably wouldn't have hesitated a moment to attack Rurik.
The pine place sounded interesting; Rurik himself was not a violent creature, and he much preferred to remain on the defensive, though that was what it sounded like Jantus's clan was like. He could certainly comprehend defense; the Russos surely wouldn't have taken kindly to creatures who crossed their borders without care or worry. The Russian took another swig of his vodka, shorter sips now—there was no need to gulp and chug. Such things generally didn't end well. "Sad to say I could not live outside of the coast, I think. It has been part of my life... well, forever," the Russian wolf said with a smile. "To live without the call of the ocean would be strange for me. To each his own, though," he added. The adage was a favorite of his—by Rurik's count it wasn't his business how anybody else chose to live, so long as their behavior was not detrimental to him or anyone else on a large scale.
The question came as a surprise to the werewolf—his bright blue eyes appeared to dim, and there was a moment of discomfort passing over his face, but it was gone in a moment. Kiska was no longer part of his life; he should not hurt over her. It was still a sensitive subject for the Russian, but he did not mind answering questions. "Well... I was much younger, you see. In Russia, the women are... hm. Let's say, you don't want to end up startling one in an alleyway," he said sheepishly. "Mine first and only love gave this time, actually. I should have been more careful to announce my presence." The world was different for women; they had to worry about more than the average man did, for certain.
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[html] http://i950.photobucket.com/albums/ad34 ... bott0m.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; padding-bottom:240px; background-position:bottom center; background-color:#252237">┤Not such a wait this time! If it's alright, I'm gonna skirt the Inferni thing. Jantus only mentioned it because Rurik expressed interest in the environs.├
Jantus nodded, his eyes intense as Rurik described the fate of his pack. So this man had been a part of Syemv, which had become Aremys. Surely, such a man would feel great anger toward the child-killers...but as Jantus heard him speak, he was shocked to find the opposite. Rurik seemed less perturbed than Skoll had been, which--given the meaning the older wolf had found for his life--made some sense, but it seemed to bother him even less than Jantus. Perhaps the ocean had different lessons to teach, or Rurik was a much different kind of wolf...but either way, his reaction was far from what the alpha would have guessed. He supposed things really were different here. He looked uneasily at Rurik as he continued, even mentioning a friendship he shared with Gabriel, the young son of the Lykoi mother (who he guessed wouldn't be so young anymore).
Shortly, he waived his hand to move on from the clan...soon enough they were discussing the Pine, and then what he assumed were battle scars. He would have laughed out loud, but the moment of pain he saw on his companion curbed his jocularity to a casual chortle. Russian women, huh? He wondered how peaceful a place it could be if the females were so jumpy...that and the fact that Rurik's family kept a sword suggested that it wasn't a place to drop your guard, though if it was so, Rurik had certainly weathered that to keep the laid-back personality Jantus saw now.
"Well damn, Rurik." He followed suit with the sailor, sipping at his drink to slow down the process of intoxication (presumably just to a manageable level). "I guess you should have. I don't guess the girls of the Pine would be nice either if you shocked them in unfamiliar territory, but geez. That's a pretty price to pay for an accident." He had to admit, he would have been less entertained by a standard battle-scar explanation. Somehow, that story seemed to fit Rurik's personality better than a border struggle or fight for dominance. He thought that he liked it better...it was awkward, the more he thought about it, to think of this care-free sailor taking major injury in combat. Not that he couldn't handle himself...some warriors didn't have 'fitting' personalities after all. Often enough he found good personalities with lacking bodies...all of the coyotes who had attended the Resistance clearly fit under this category.
"So...first and only, though? That's serious." Rurik had betrayed a bit of his feelings in the momentary pause, and 'first and only' seemed a distinguished detail to add to the woman. Clearly there was history there, but he wasn't sure yet if his companion had chosen to make that distinction to bury the subject or to push it forward. He would let the sailor decide. Plenty of people had pain to deal with, and some didn't or couldn't talk about it. This held especially true for warrior groups in the midst of conflict...when the struggle was at its worst, people buried their insecurities and fought on, or wore the numbing armor of stoicism when uncertain of their survival. The Pine was not like this constantly, but talking through one's issues wasn't as popular in warrior-societies as clamming up and bearing it. Jantus didn't know how Rurik dealt with this pain...or even where this pain came from. He supposed he would know one or both answers soon enough.
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[html] No worriessss. 
The silver-furred werewolf should have been quite angry that his home had been destroyed; then again, his home was not really with Syemv. It had never been—his home was back in Arhkangel'sk with his grandparents and parents. This land was simply adventure; the silver-furred werewolf was the epitome of explorer, and his desire to see the world had not gotten any less strong as he aged. What had happened here was regrettable, but he had not lost anyone, personally, and as he was something of a pacifist, he had let it go, as he had many other trespasses throughout his life. Few had been taken against him, really, but if it had turned out that Segodi had actually slept with Kiska, the silver-furred werewolf probably wouldn't have attempted to punch his lights out a year later.
Rurik rolled his shoulders in a shrug and he grinned broadly, tilting his head at his companion. "True, true. She was not very kind to me when we first met, but... ah, if she were any other way, I do not think I would have loved her so fiercely," he said, speaking rather lightly on Kiska, though he definitely began to drink just a bit faster. Of all the things he'd done and seen in life, there was but one sore spot, and she was it. The werewolf did not often miss her, but reflecting on her brought into stark contrast what the rest of the population as a whole lacked. The werewolf's next question brought a somewhat sad smile to the silver-furred Russian's muzzle, and he nodded his head. "No other girls like her," he said simply in response. "I screwed it all up, of course," he said, shrugging. He didn't particularly want to launch into the epic tale of Segodi and Kiska, but he would oblige if he asked.
The werewolf looked to his companion, his blue eyes swimming with liquor. He was generally more attracted to women; his bisexuality was kept very damn well buried, and he could pretty much tell from Jantus's manner of speech and his general demeanor there was nothing to be sparked between them; they were destined for friendship and nothing else, which was fine in Rurik's book. It was rare he did not peer to his companions and at least evaluate them in sexual terms, though, and the question seemed only natural after their conversation. "What luck have you had with the women? Can't seem to replace the one I've lost, anyway," he said, lines about the one that got away running through his skull. He was not one to evince sadness over the whole issue, though a little was certainly shining through his azure gaze.
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[html] http://i950.photobucket.com/albums/ad34 ... bott0m.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; padding-bottom:240px; background-position:bottom center; background-color:#252237">┤Gonna be hanging out with some drunk friends over the weekend. Maybe after that I'll have more idea of what I'm doing XD├
At this point, Jantus was beginning to feel the effects of the drink. Rurik had picked up the pace now that his old flame was brought up, and Jantus--not one to be left behind--kept pace, though it meant that he'd get further along in the experience faster than he was used to. He nodded his head at the sailor's words, knowing his share about women, though he didn't suppose that share was more than usual. He'd spent a long time living with Mala and Ranya, raising them from pups and living with them in their travels, which he supposed would give him some insights into behaviors, but when it came to women, that was to say, the kind you got serious with, he wasn't in any better shape than any other male, maybe worse since he wasn't as old and experienced as some.
"Well," he said, talking slow because the subject was touchy and because he was getting acquainted with Rurik's unusual brew, "Not a lot before I settled down in the Pine. I was big and fit, and some girls liked that when I was young. Looked pretty impressive at two, a little less of this spongy stuff, and the muscle showed through more." He laughed at this, remembering back to the perpetual rut that was adolescence. "But I had responsi...respons...I had a job, you know? Had to take care of my sisters when I was that age. Sister'd gone off and my good for nothing brother had run off with a girl of his own, didn't seem to be anyone else to do it." He shrugged his massive shoulders, taking another swig from the massive bottle.
"It was okay, though. When we got to the Pine, there were plenty of girls lookin' my way. And some boys who liked Mala and Ranya, but I wouldn't have it until they were older. 'Sort of turned into their dad." He cracked a lazy smile at this, though it didn't extend to his eyes. There couldn't be a pure happiness about that thought. "Anyway, Pine girls are a bit weird, they're all warriors, seems like, so you've gotta be tougher than them, and most aren't flirty or anything, so it's a little weird to get used to at first. Eventually--ha! there's a lot that goes into that eventually--I found Vera, and she was just right for me. New to the group, didn't much like fighting, and by then I'd had a bit too much of it myself. She didn't give me any pretty scars, mind. Yeah...we've got four kids back home. All daughters, which she got a laugh out of, let me tell you. Biggest, manliest man in the whole damn place and I didn't get a son! Hah...I figure I've got more experience raisin' girls anyway. She's with 'em now, back home." He paused there, and his mouth turned down on one side. "Hopin' that all four of the kids are still there when I come back. M'daughter Vel was thinking about leaving when I went off. Hoping she didn't take this trip as an opening to go." It was his turn to be sad, and he took a heavy drink then and there, as Rurik had done.
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Their surroundings certainly weren't particularly appetizing to the silver-furred werewolf; most buildings in Sobirat'sya of this quality were not often frequented. Many of those that were badly damaged by human riots or simple exposure to the elements were simply razed, leaving behind only that which was still usable. In this area, it was not the case—as these canines often times seemed to be figuring out the usefulness of human objects, buildings such as these were being explored by canines actively seeking human treasures for the first time. Rurik found it almost that they had not figured things out earlier, but his intention was never to force his lifestyle and imply its superiority—the feral way of life was just as valid a choice as his own, and he was in no position to pass judgement regardless.
The silver-furred werewolf listened, enthralled with the tales of a strange place—he couldn't imagine an area comprised of warriors, though it was rather intriguing to him. With their drinks the other canine's speech had grown slightly slurred, and even Rurik noticed the edges of his vision beginning to blur, a pleasant burn beginning in his stomach and tingling throughout his body. The warmth of the liquor had seized him up in its jaws, and a slow smile spread across his face as the other canine described their women; they sounded much like Kiska had been. For all his flirting, he couldn't impress her worth anything. At the mention of the other canine's daughters, Rurik's ears perked up, and he tilted his head. He couldn't fathom that—the silver-furred Russian was the father to a great many sons, but only one live daughter.
“Sheez, man. Sounds like a rough bunch of women—fun, though,” he said, shaking his head as he thought of the other canine's description of the Pine's ladies. “I dunno that I can think'a what it's like with daughters only—I have just one daughter, Liliya, and many sons! Love 'em all, though,” he declared, obviously proud of his family. “To family,” he said, baring his pearly canines in a huge grin as he held up his jug, clutching it around the neck of the bottle. Tossing his head back he took a long swig. The alcohol had brought a quietus over his finer thinking abilities, and he found himself reduced to such toasting, though in his head it was rather regal and fitting for the situation. Sadly, such perceptions were rarely accurate to how things actually turned out.
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[html] http://i950.photobucket.com/albums/ad34 ... bott0m.png); background-repeat:no-repeat; padding-bottom:240px; background-position:bottom center; background-color:#252237">┤'Sall good =P I've had lots of school to do anyway. Maybe one or two more and we close? I haven't posted in a while, I got to the end of paragraph three and thought "This is too short!" XD├
"To family," Jantus answered lazily, raising his jug up to Rurik's. He had turned into a family man himself, though it wasn't exactly in the conventional sense. He'd been a vaguely fatherish type figure since his littermates left him to care for his younger sisters, and so it had been much easier when he and Vera had puppies of their own. Having mostly sons was something he would have no idea about, though. He hadn't had any real male family since Pogrin had run off with his ill-chosen mate.
"You're a space older than me, I think," Jantus said after a moment. "Give me some time and maybe I'll have some boys of my own. For now I'm happy as can be, at least until Vel goes off. I don't think we need to worry about the other three, though. Liliya, though...Russian name, right? It's pretty...pretty." He wrinkled his brow looking for a word that wouldn't sound silly, but it was what he meant, so he'd go with that. He smiled widely and took another drink.
His own daughters hadn't been named after any particular tradition that he knew of. Between he and Vera they had found some that they liked, or that sounded similar but not the same as those around them. He wondered how grown up they'd be when he returned. He'd had some second thoughts, and regretted leaving them, though they were essentially grown up when he'd left. This had been important, especially considering he didn't have any solid plans about following Skoll's murder up with any kind of retribution. They'd failed, so paying respects was necessary, even though it was so far away.
It might also be his last chance to see some of their old friends. He didn't expect that Aivyr would be coming back around the Pine after this, and Nik and Tanya would visit less often; they were getting older, and most everyone's main connection was Skoll. With him gone, the memories of the war would grow a little dimmer, their camaraderie would bear the tinge of bitterness. He hoped it wasn't true, and even if it were, he still wasn't sure risking Vel's departure wasn't more important. Still, this might be the last time he saw some of these people. It would almost certainly be the last time he saw them all together.
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