what about the place that we call home?

Rurik Russo · 05-20-2010, 06:13 AM

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Perhaps some of the old free spirit in Rurik had died. It was never meant to wither; the silver-shaded man was supposed to have been the plucky explorer, wandering the wide and wild world. Things had gone terribly wrong five years ago—he had made a terrible mistake, and he had lost his Kiska and his older sons, all for mere jealousy. Something had changed in him, then, and broken-hearted and wary of love, he had proceeded to leave behind him a long and twisted line of broken hearts. He had been close to Phasma, terribly close—rather than plunge into a life with her, he had uprooted abruptly, taking back to the sea and heading home, too frightened to carry on there. He could have loved Verusha, or at least pretended to, for the sake of their children, but he had never forced himself to. Those were his two biggest victims—however many smaller ones he had left behind as well, he did not know.

It was rare for Rurik to contemplate such things; generally he kept his mind focused and forward on the present, as was the case today. The silver-shaded werewolf sat on the front stoop of his house, his back against the doorframe. The front door was wide open the living room, and the silvery werewolf stretched out across the porch, languidly sipping at his flask. It was hot and dry for the first time in a while—storms and bad weather had plagued the first half of April, and the ashen-hued male was enjoying the good sunshine. Soon enough he would complain of the head of summer, but for now the cool of spring was just right. Rurik was a cold-weather wolf, and even these mild summers here were almost unbearable for him.

The sound of his name immediately drew attention, of course—he sat up and peered up the street. Rurik wasn't yet tipsy—he had just settled out here a little under twenty minutes ago, and he hadn't gotten to the serious drinking yet. He set the flask down and watched the figure approaching, recognizing her after a moment. They had barely the time to meet before she had been whisked away again—their prior meeting was merely a discovery of sorts, quick introductions, followed by a good-bye. He brightened visibly upon seeing her now, however, and stood. “Marika! Zhis is so good,” the werewolf said, his tail wagging. “I am so glad you come back so quick,” the man said, extending his arms wide. It was her choice to accept the hug, of course, but he had been separated long enough from this woman's father and her.

Here she was, all grown up—clearly an adult, and yet she was a complete stranger to him. The silver-furred werewolf nodded quickly. “Come, ve veill talk,” the man said, waving his arm wide to indicate she was free to roam where she wanted, inside or outside of the house where he lived and find a spot most comfortable to her. They had so much to discuss—Rurik was not sure where to begin, and so he would allow Marika to lead the way.

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