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The silver-furred werewolf might not have been so surprised to hear that Vieira had not met Silas if he had known how big the clan had gotten. Thirty-two members was unheard of; that rivaled the size of his own known family, for sure—and there were a hell of a lot of Russos. The werewolf did not hold any prejudices toward coyotes or their far-continent cousins, the jackal, though he had heard stories of jackals making war on entire cities, overthrowing their wolfen owners. Such things happened far to the south of his own snowy homeland, however, and he doubted Sobirat'sya was under any direct threat. The cold was clearly too much for the warm-weather canines to handle; they were built for the desert life, as their large ears clearly served to evince.
"Ah," he said, disappointment on his grizzled face. It faded quickly, and he offered her another smile. "No matter, perhaps he will come by," he added. He didn't want to seem like a creep, standing around on the borders all by his lonesome, so he thought to start a conversation with the tawny-furred woman, having noticed she hadn't offered her name. "What's your name?" he said, his hands dropping to dawdle around his hips, though he kept his fingers away from Ilya. There was no reason to pull out a sword here and now; such a thing might cause the smaller canine some kind of heart attack or something like that, and that was the absolute last thing Rurik wanted to happen.
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