Vasiliy is by me!

The dark-furred Russian had not spent nearly enough time along Cercatori d'Arte's lovely coasts. Now, though, he had a reason -- fish were a source of food, and he must provide something for his pack. He felt a little displaced by all the artistry surrounding him, and a little intimidated, too -- canines half his age were proficient carvers, and he'd even heard the distinctive noise of more heavy-duty woodworking on some afternoons. Still, though, Vasiliy liked it here, and he though perhaps he'd try his own hand at creating art. What kind of art, he did not know -- his "meat-hands" weren't delicate enough for real creation, he thought, but he could at least try.

He did not have any of the fishing things he'd had in Sobirat'sya: no nets, no fishing lines, no poles. But fishing with hand and mouth and as the wolves used to was not something entirely foreign to Vasiliy, and it was made easy by the coast here. There were a great number of small pools and shallow tidal bays. Fish, trapped when the tide went out, flitted from one side of their enclosures to the other, back and forth in mad panic when he splashed in after them. His jaws snapped through salty water on nothing, and he drew back, leaving the water entirely to prowl along the sands and wait for a better opportunity.

The dark-furred hybrid wore nothing in his lupus form, of course, but his pants and sword belt -- why he'd need a sword, he never knew, but he liked the feel of it at his hip all the same -- were piled well above the tideline, ready for him to shift back. Blue eyes narrowed as the school of fish swam near again, slower now that he was out of the water, and he tensed, waiting. Suddenly, he sprang forward into the pool, sending up a great splash all around him. He was beneath the water entirely for a moment, though he could stand without a problem in the shallow pool. When he exploded upward from the disturbed, frothy water again, a fish was clutched in his jaws.