The first thing that Nikolai felt from his position was the fact that he wasn't wearing pants. Or a shirt. Or, more importantly, a blanket.

Confusion flickered for a moment as Nikolai tried to make sense of the previous night's events. He didn't think that he'd tried to kill himself with the drink, so his wicked headache wasn't explained. Nor was the thick and overpowering scent of blood, and the sound of foreign tongues alongside the din of metal on metal. Those definitely weren't commonplace as he woke up. The only thing that really made sense was the comforting weight of his trusty handgun, which he stuffed down the back of his pants every night before he went to sleep. 

The Russian gave up trying to guess where he was, and sat upright. He didn't recognize any of the people or the corpses, and his pants were nowhere in sight. That left only one course of action. He stood, pulling out the pistol from the back of his underwear. His threadbare underwear left nearly nothing to the imagination, and displayed the absolutely massive coils of muscle that ran the entire length of the Russian's legs that bulged and stretched as he stalked up toward the chimney, gun in hand. Piercing blue eyes bored into the back of the woman who appeared to be quavering by the chimney. He spoke three words in a deep, rumbling voice that sounded like it belonged to some sort of great and vengeful beast: [color=navy]"Где мои пушки?"[/color]