Gavriil's deep-set eyes looked over his newest acquisition with simple and cold appraisal. It called to him in a way that made the Russian certain that if he ever let it out of his grasp he'd regret it. It was beautiful in a disturbingly alive way, almost as if it would speak or call to him when he was finally able to read the runes. [i]No.[/i] That was't quite it. It was more... like it was already dead and was just waiting to make other things like it. [i]What had the crone called it? The bones of the White Death? Ice from some Norseland?[/i] It seemed to be nearly the opposite of all the weak and warm things that had so corrupted the country that he'd spent about three hours in. [i]Three hours too many.[/i] 

It didn't help that it seemed like a lot of his current company seemed to be much the same as he'd feared. Soft. One appeared to be an American solider, if the man's posture, exceptionally clean shaven face, and the gift of a map was anything to go by. Graviil's harsh laughter wasn't able to be externalized by the crone's spell, but the sheer silliness of the terms being used in tandem made him arrogantly mirthful. More like a puppet helpless without his technology and his maps. What he wouldn't give to see the man in a real battle for his life, against the sheer cold and icy wastes of the north. [i]However....[/i] The woman next to him with the werewolf pelt. She seemed to smell of danger and the dark nights with the pack. No wonder she was chosen, as even Graviil with his icy disposition shuddered. Something much older than his physical body told him that the anything that could bear to use such a wolfish pelt was bad news.

The next in the line of brethren was the shifty looking fellow. The Russian could almost taste what was about to happen. [i]I know the sort. Slippery fingers and even slipperier when confronted, making for a dangerous combination when on the opposite side of the poker table.[/i] However, this only made him more desirable to have on the closer side, if only to make sure he was stealing from the correct people. Of the three final ones, Gavriil decided to tackle his impressions of the one with the toothy necklace first. [i]Dangerous.[/i] That was the only word that correctly described him. Something was there, prowling beneath the surface. Not like the wolf-woman. This was something like an idea, almost. Just a very old feeling, again like the wolves. 

Before he could appraise the last two of his brethren, the stench of blood, something ever familiar to Gavriil, roused him from his internal ranting as the crone called for questions. Gripping the rifle ever tighter, the dark haired man pronounced his words with the barest trace of a Russian accent, choosing English over his native language because it was what the old one had spoken with. "Elder. You can see who was our parent, then? If so, tell who sired me. I am not familiar with the Norse myths. I want to know, also, about the White Death that has made this... weapon."