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roquefort · 03-23-2025, 06:28 PM

The wind howls outside as the old oak door creaks behind him, nearly catching his tail on the way in. His sensitive nostrils absorb the sweet scent of smoked meats - the odor nearly lifting him off his feet as if it were a fresh baked pie sitting on the window sill. Squinting his eyes to adjust to the brightness of the crackling fire burning in the hearth, he notices the hearty Latvian sitting near the flames with his back to the door. A lonely black pot simmers over the heat.

"H-hello? Rence?" - Roquefort shudders, intimidated by the veteran's presence.

A solemn "Coo-ah, coo-coo-coo" would answer first, as the mourning doves slowly sang themselves awake outside. A small ray of light shines through the shuttered windows, further illuminating the imposing man in front of him.

"Rat! Good morning! I've been waiting for you. Here, have sausage!" Rence exclaims as he turns around with a crackling desa impaled on a fork, dripping grease as he spins.

Roquefort meekly approaches, burning his hands as he claws the link off of the utensil. Getting closer, he sees the iconic three white stripes on Rence's tracksuit, and he wonders to himself if he slept in his attire or simply woke early enough to put it on.

After watching the meaty man destroy a bunch of bangers, he followed him to his dresser - a grand wardrobe with an etched coat of arms that looks like it dates to the Teutonic Order. Sykut opens the doors, revealing a vast collection of tracksuits, each similar yet unique in their patterns and adornments. The man is clearly a connoisseur. A small bead of sweat drips down the length of Roque's tail, as he realizes the gravity of such a collection.

After getting dressed, the man grabs the pot off the hearth and spills a pungent borscht into a series of bowls. The first two he fills to the rim, the last exactly halfway. Expecting an offer to share the rat leaned forward ready for his helping, only to watch in dismay as Rence pounded down the precise portion. Roquefort followed him out of the door and down the driveway, the rhythmic clacking of his skates gave a beat to his every step. Roquefort figures he must've slept in them, he never saw him slip them on. Moments later they'd be scampering down the icy streets, gliding to eurobeat in the Latvian's Audi, squirrels diving for cover in their wake.

"In my country, babe is ready for skates by their second Miķeļi, or else the wolves eat good HahA!" Rence explained sternly to the wide-eyed rodent holding on to his seat. Roque blinked, not understanding.

Making it to the practice facility in record speed, Roquefort could still hear the echo of "oontz-oontz" reverberating in his rodential skull - only to realize that Rence brought his speakers with him and had them on. The party never stops.

"A calf drinks milk, calf grow into bull, bull score many goals!" He said, chugging down a half gallon of cultured buttermilk in his stall. A gentle burp reiterated his point. Roque shrugged in agreement - they really do grow quick.

During the scrimmage, Roque noted Rence's stone cold expression as he handled the puck, as if he were ready to hunt down Sarah Marshall on the ice. He never celebrated his own goals, but whenever a teammate finished the play Rence was always their biggest fan, a true teammate. On the bench, he'd sit and mumble words in his native tongue to the blade of his stick, and he seemed convinced she was listening.

On our way out of the locker room Rence beckoned the rat over to study one more trick. Roque stood witness while Rence hosed himself down in designer colognes, a vetiver so thick that Roque caught himself reliving memories of his last trip to India. As the duo sauntered out of the stadium, a young pair of reporters marched up to his shoulders - trying to get a soundbite for their article. They were quickly turned away by the blinding wall of aroma they faced, the path clearing in front as if Rence was Moses stretching out his hands over the red sea.

They departed practice as Rence began his commute home. He took his daily stop to the designer watch shop, with the employees quickly ushering him to whichever piece he set his gaze upon. Once back in the car, Roquefort wondered if the other rookies were having a similar experience as they shadowed their own comrades.

Finally home, Roquefort followed Rence to his study where he found a humble hand-carved desk with a monster of a PC waiting. As the fire stirred to life Rence booted his computer, which immediately opened to CS:GO. He threw his feet up on a small stool to the left, the flames intensified as they reflected off the metal blades. Roquefort could not believe his large rodent ears as Sykut's Babushka joined his party with a "Global Elite" insignia next to her name. While he couldn't understand a word, he listened endearingly as the Grandmother was brought up to speed about their day. As the stew sputtered and whistled behind him, Roque slowly hunkered out, exhausted by the long day. The comforting scents and creaks of the cabin lulled him to sleep while the veteran climbed the ranks of his online ladder, gently whispering his call-outs to allow the rookie some much needed rest.

"Cat, he's on cat!" He purred while Grandma Sykut clutched up.

Dawn came too soon as the light filtered shyly through the house, rousing it's inhabitants. Roque's nose twitched his eyes awake, with the somehow unsurprising fragrance of spiced sausages reminding him a whole day had passed. He found the veteran in the same spot he did the day before, ready to start anew. As he sliced into a fresh frank, Roquefort began to understand the philosophy by which Rence lived by - his skates still on his feet.

***Ohtaay*** · 03-23-2025, 06:37 PM

Ahahah love this.

TheOPSquid · 03-23-2025, 07:44 PM

this is peak

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