Word Count: 619
The Russian wolf looked a little distressed at the she-wolf's sudden contemplation of obviously painful subjects. Rurik was not a historical sort of creature; he lived in the here and now. Carpe diem, he always said or thought to himself. It was a quaint little phrase in the dead language of Italy, Latin, and it meant "seize the day." It had seemed quite profound to the silver-furred werewolf when he'd first encountered it, chiseled onto the wall of a bar in old-town Rome, and he'd repeated it many times since that first day. Unscrewing the cap of his flask, the werewolf took a short sip, leaving it half-unscrewed between himself and the creamy-furred female. His coal lips twisted into a drunken grin and he reached out to stroke a lock of her vibrantly red hair, made bold by the alcohol and the marijuana, not realizing the woman was lamenting for a lover and not a friend. "If there's a damsel in distress to be saved, I'm there," he said softly, pulling his hand back and deciding it was better not to prolong his touch. He didn't need to give her too many wrong ideas, after all—as interested as he was, he had no idea if this woman had a man to speak for her. Savina had, after all, and he would've hit that in a heartbeat, given the chance. It was really too bad that she was taken.
The Dahlian wolf inquired about Rurik's family and he offered another of his trademark smiles, nodding his head. "We are many generations, there's a lot of us. I got myself six brothers and four sisters alone," the silver-furred werewolf said proudly. The Russos were not a particularly fierce people, but they had their family pride, to be cetain. "Myself, I don't much enjoy running on four legs too often, to be honest. I did it a short while back and it was, ah, no big deal," he said with a shrug. Truth be told, what had happened while he was four-legged was far more important and intriguing than the shift itself, or even being in his Lupus form. He'd only shifted to make love to Finn Fidh and turn her into a Luperci, bestowing on her one of the greatest gifts their kind could offer, or so he'd thought. She'd run away from him immediately after their liason, however, and Rurik had not seen hide nor hair of the midnight-hued female since that afternoon. It was disappointing; he had really liked her. Of course, the same could be said about almost every woman Rurik met. He wasn't quite so flirtatious with the men, and it was harder for him to find them attractive—but very rarely did one tug at his emotions and his sexual drives, enticing him to do things he'd never imagined himself doing.
Thinking for a moment, the werewolf considered the placed he had seen. Kiev was a city built by Luperci, Amsterdam was a city filled with drugs and debauchery, peace and free love. London was simple hustle and bustle, the gruff New York of the Luperci world. Contemplating, the Russian finally ventured out with the middle choice of the three. "Amsterdam, you would like Amsterdam. My sister Zharkyj and her sons live there, and the drugs flow through the city streets like rain water," the werewolf told her, shaking his head. "Mushrooms and opium and every kind of liquor you could imagine, sections of bud as big as your head," the wolf described, sighing softly as he remembered such lovely things. He couldn't have stayed there forever—as much as Rurik enjoyed dabbling with drugs, he was an explorer and a pirate first and foremost.
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