Word Count: 672
The silver-furred werewolf trekked through the city, whistling loudly as he went. Rurik often made noise, singing and whistling as he went along through the city streets, his nails clicking against the asphalt as he walked. He was in a rather jolly mood today, taking off and leaving Liliya alone at home. He wasn't particularly worried about that; they'd been living in this city for damn near two months, and Rurik figured if trouble was coming, it would've already come and gone again. Anyway, Rurik needed to find a place for himself and Liliya to settle down—the silver-furred werewolf had never intended for the city to become their permanent home. He had seen Crimson Dreams' packlands, and though he was a big fan of both Cambria and Savina, he wanted something a fair bit closer to the city and a bit closer to Inferni.
It was sort of depressing for Rurik to figure Silas had gone off to Inferni, but the Russian wolf was not worried about his son. The yearling was in damn good, capable hands with Gabriel de le Poer. Rurik trusted the Aquila with the life of his very son, and he was certain nothing bad would happen to Silas while he was in Inferni. The silvery werewolf had yet to hear of the war; this might have altered his views on Silas remaining with the coyotes, but for now, Inferni was a peaceful clan in the Russian wolf's mind, and it was a good idea for his son to know how his other half lived. Rurik was certainly no expert on coyotes; the closest he came was befriending Gabriel, who was in actuality more wolf than coyote. Still, the golden-furred Aquila had clearly chosen where his loyalties were, and the silvery werewolf could only hope Silas would not decide his wolfish father was unworthy of further notice.
Rurik wasn't particularly worried about that—he had a damn good relationship with his children, and he enjoyed it. The silver-furred werewolf had a purpose in mind for today, anyway—he was headed for Cour des Miracles, checking out the pack. He'd heard through the grapevine that Phoenix Valley had troubles with Inferni in the past, meanwhile no such rumors flew about the pack to the west of the city. The Russian was almost saddened by the idea that Inferni's closest neighbors could not serve as his home; Jantus's description of the place had been serene, indeed. Nonetheless, Rurik couldn't afford to go allying up with anyone who might turn against the coyotes; he wouldn't be able to choose pack loyalty over family, and he would not face his son in battle. The silvery werewolf was certain of that much.
The city began to thin out around Rurik, and the bright afternoon sun illuminated his snowy pathway. There began to be more tracks around this area; it was obviously a very well-used path between Halifax and this pack, so Rurik didn't feel too uncomfortable about approaching. He had someone in mind, anyway—if anyone was willing to show him around, it was Strelein. The silver-furred Russian had immediately considered the other male a friend, and he'd even shared a part of himself with the other canine he'd yet to tell anyone else about. If that wasn't instant friendship, Rurik wasn't sure what was. Even so, the werewolf was difficult to anger, and he did not like to make enemies, so perhaps it was no surprise that he would regard everyone as a possible friend—less of a surprise that it would take only the slightest indication of a smile on the other canine's face to label them "friend" in Rurik's head. Respectfully stopping outside of the foreign pack's official territory, the werewolf threw back his head and unleashed a loud, low howl, his silvery breath clouding upwards from his mouth. He beckoned for Strel, specifically, but he did not expressly exclude anyone else who might hear his call, for he figured it was a breach of manners to do so.
<style type="text/css">
.rurik-bottledrage b{font-weight:bold; color:#BC2B26; letter-spacing:1px; font-family:trebuchet ms, sans-serif; font-size:13px;}
.rurik-bottledrage p{text-indent:35px; padding:0px 15px 15px 15px; margin:0px;}
</style>
[/html]