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The Russian werewolf grinned and rolled his eyes, stepping fully into the room at last. He eyed the large pile of fabrics approvingly, wondering which of them had gone into the making of his new pair of pants. Rurik was very manly in the keeping of his pants; he rarely retired them, and it was hard to find a pair that was jus tperfect for his purposes. Strel had gotten the size just right, though, and since they were custom made they fit even better than Rurik could have imagined. “Oy, oy. I got a lot of my shit to carry, too, you know? A housewarming geeft would be very very nice, though,” the male hinted, crossing his arms and turning up his nose. It was customary in many parts to give things to people who were freshly moved in—naturally he did not expect this to be the same here and he knew these customs probably weren't the same here, but he could still tease Strel about it, of course.
“Aye. Mine daughter Liliya and mine son Anatoliy. They are downstairs for now, in their own rooms. They are so beeg now, I would think maybe they move out!” he declared. He was happy to still be close with his children, and he missed Silas terribly, but the silver-furred werewolf was not one to whine or complain; he was glad that his children were growing up. They seemed to be developing into fine individuals, too—the silvery Russian loved all of his children deeply, and he was glad to have them along. “I vill probably live by the sea,” he confessed, not knowing much more than that. There was nothing he wanted more than to be near the ocean at all times, able to lean out of his window and smell the salty air. ”Spasiba,” he said, tilting his head. Absently, he closed the door behind him and wandered toward the bed, settling down and then splaying himself across it, crossing his arms behind his head. “Very comfortable,” he remarked. He imagined Strel had done something about the covers. He was quite skilled in the area of fabrics, it would seem.
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