Word Count: 278
So, the silver-furred werewolf had quite a bit of nervousness bubbling in him today, though his merry, bright-eyed face did not evince this well. He was very close to Inferni, the closest he'd come in a long time, and he knew that might anger the clan. The Russian wolf had absolutely no idea what was going on in the clan these days, and that downright bothered him. He certainly trusted Gabriel to know what was best for Silas, but he still felt that pesky, fatherly need to come and bother his adolescent son and make sure he was getting along alright. That was, after all, what fathers did, and Rurik was quite interested in being a good father to Silas. The boy—no, he was a man now, Rurik was sure—did not deserve to feel abandoned by his father as Rurik's elder children had.
The grizzled wolf plodded closer to the borders, giving respectful distance between himself and the edge of Inferni territory. He wasn't about to go wandering all up and down their coast; just because his son was a member didn't mean a damn thing where he was concerned. Leaning back against one of the trees, the werewolf decided to have a smoke, figuring the scent of burning tobacco might draw an attentive nose as well as a howl might draw an attentive ear. He flicked the match against the pack and tapped lightly at the hand-rolled cigarette, the freshest tobacco spiced with flavorings wrapped up inside. Though it was early afternoon, it was not particularly bright or sunny today; it was as overcast and cloudy as any winter day the Russian had ever seen.
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