After being surprised by an old Russian birthday tradition, Fyodor gently rubbed his sore ears. He groans quietly in annoyance, remembering the first time his mother played it on him. He mutters the words, a hint of annoyance and genuine surprise in his voice.

“Pull the birthday person's ears by the number of the completed years. What a childish practice, but I suppose I can’t be too mad. At least you are trying, it is the thought that counts.”