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I apologize if I have butchered the location.
The temperature had been steadily dropping, and the truth was that it had been a minor reason for returning to Cour des Miracles. Somehow, surviving through a winter alone did not seem remotely like an attractive thing. Being chilled to the bone in some shaky old hut in the middle of the wood was not exactly an ideal New Years. It seemed more like an appropriate tomb, frostbite and all. However, this reason paled in Strel's need for socializing. This youth was certainly not a wall flower. Social butterfly, was it not? The chances of ever meeting new souls was more appealing than being assured a meal, however meager, for every day of his life. Besides, how was he supposed to enjoy life to its fullest while huddling near a small fire against some cold wall?
Though he was supposed to be enjoying his time getting back into the groove of things at Cour, Strel had left the territory again, albeit significantly briefly this time. At least he hoped this would be the case. The mission for his outing was simple; he needed to find an appropriate gift for Jacquez. The redhead had deemed it appropriate to get the King an apologetic present to show the gratefulness of being allowed to return. Naturally, Strel decided alcohol had to be the only proper thing to give the monarch. What else was he honestly going to give that man? A box of chocolates and flowers? Certainly one day to someone, but not to him. What an absurd idea. It had to be booze.
Blinking away some afternoon light, Strelein figured it was high time to actually search well. For the past two hours he had only wandered around, simply taking in the sites of it all. He had been careful to follow the water lest he get lost in the maze of the city. Now, surrounding on one side by an inlet and block buildings on the other, it was probably the best time to 'hop to it'.
It seemed Strelein was struggling to let himself into these complexes for he simple eyed the buildings. He told himself he would go in if something caught his attention or if he could see any alcohol lying around. Wandering further, past some docks, the redhead glimpsed some bigger letters adorning the side of a seemingly average place. Striding down the deserted street, he paused at the edge of the cement parking lot, staring at the sign. It seemed different and maybe they would have booze lying around. Times like this made Strel wish he could understand the written human language better. All he could do was read sheet music. A book with the notes on a piano labeled taught him how to read that, and there had been no need for words when the pictures explained it all. At first he had been agog over it, but after he found that learning sheet music did not mean the world of the humans would open up to him. True, he had been significantly disappointed. In the end he realized his happiness did not depend on the left over scribbles of an almost extinct race.
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as she deceived me i watched and went out of my mind
The silvery werewolf sat on the upper porch of the hotel, gazing down into the empty parking lot. A cigarette burned between his fingers, and he would occasionally lift it to his lips, his icy gaze focused on nothing in particular as his thoughts drifted. His investigation into finding his sons had been fruitless thus far—Gabriel hadn't seen either Zaets nor Zorish in reecent times, and Rurik thought that might have been his best lead right there. Disgusted with himself for the billionth time over their abandonment, the Russian wolf muttered a curse and stood, ruffling his black hair with one silver hand. It was getting too long and he needed to cut it soon.
Sighing heavily, the silver werewolf took a few steps toward the stairs heading down to the lower level and the parking lot, his toes clicking on the cement. It was rather quiet, save for the occasional screech of a bird. The parking lot sprawling before him was overgrown with weeds and scattered with junk, though it was mostly his family's junk. They'd cleared most of the human debris out of the way, pushing it to the side and closing off most of the rooms they weren't using. They had four or five of them downstairs, though two of them were completely filled with junk from the boat and from the city. Rurik was fascinated by many of these human objects, and he often lamented not being born a generation earlier. Other werewolves older than he had already cleared Europe of most of the interesting stuff. Otherwise, he'd be able to root through abandoned human cities a damn sight closer to home.
Though he was disheartened, he was determined to cheer up. He had no idea where Liliya and her brother were off too, though he was rather glad. He was in something of a sour mood and he didn't like for them to see him like this. The soft sounds of footsteps drew the wolf's attention, and his coal-dipped ears flicked to the direction of the sound, his husky's gaze following in short order. He expected to see Silas or his sister standing there, but instead, it was a strange wolf—all vivid and vibrant color, decor hanging from his frame. Cocking an eyebrow, the Russian waved an arm to the stranger, beckoning him closer. He looked like an interesting fellow, and Rurik was always down for company. "Hey," he said in his accented voice, punctuating the statement with a friendly grin.
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Strelein had been so caught up in his own little world that he had never bothered to watch out for others. Truthfully, he never did in Halifax. He felt it was a territory neutral enough to warrant freedom. Well, to a certain degree of course. So the voice, closer than he thought possible, sent a shock through him. Strel's hair on the nape of his neck felt like it was standing up as his body stiffened. He wasn't about to be attacked, but he had been living without such surprises for long enough to become accustomed to the lack of them. Mentally, he reprimanded himself for not remembering a cardinal rule of his youth; always be alert. Not only had he not been alert, but he had clearly been very sloppy. He hadn't even smelled this stranger!
Cursing slightly, he searched for the source of the greeting. He found a wolf in optime form that looked as though he could easily blend in the city. His coloration certainly fit the grayness that the city, in some parts, was full of. Why humans did things in tones instead of colors, he never understood. At least they sometimes got it right and made colorful lodgings and places of business. Maybe morale would have been better if they had painted more places bright colors? Or perhaps it was a tad too late to question their judgment, especially from his very vibrantly biased point of view.
"H-hey," he stuttered slightly, still a bit bothered. Recovering, he let his look of surprise fall. He even waved back quickly. This time, Strel wouldn't be so distracted. "Way to scare a guy." Sheepishly he grinned back at the caller. A few steps later and the redhead was several feet away from the stranger. "Mind company?" he questioned, asking for permission. For all he knew, he could be stepping in dangerous territory. Strel's over imaginative mind told him there was a possibility that some pack now controlled the city. Even though it made little sense, there was some genuine fear in his voice.
Ugh, what's wrong with me? Me? Worried? Strel was almost disgusted with himself. This was not how he acted! Not at all!
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Rurik was still not absolutely used to some of the canines here, and he had forgotten that their world was an entirely different place from the one from which he had emerged. It would have been common to see canines filtering down the streets of human cities in Europe; here the cities were as deserted as they had been the moment the last human had perished. Rurik could hardly look down his nose at the more feral creatures roaming the globe, though some canines back home certainly did. When he'd first come here, it had been his intent to spread the civilized culture to these creatures. Now, he wasn't quite so presumptuous—he saw the definite benefit in living in a manner closer to their ancestors, and there was something far more visceral and lively on this side of the ocean. To each his own, the Russian wolf figured.
The oddly-colored stranger looked more than a bit frightened, and the silvery wolf's ears folded back against his head apologetically, his bright blue gaze widening just so. He hoped the other wolf wasn't particularly aggressive; being scared would certainly evoke that quality in him. His response was shaky at first, but he quickly seemed to grow more confident, and he wasn't angry that Rurik had scared him. That was good. "Mine apologies! Sure didn't mean it," he said, dipping his head in an apology. "Company is always welcome," the wolf said warmly, grinning broadly at the multicolored wolf. The red across his top didn't seem natural, but it was pretty nonetheless, a deep shade of burgundy-crimson that spread across his head and mane. It was rather intriguing, and coupled with the brightly-colored necklace adorning the wolf's neck, Rurik was certain this stranger would make for interesting company.
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Brows furrowed for a moment at the accent that the voice claimed. It was certainly not one that was familiar to the youth, but it was far from unpleasant. The way this male spoke was difficult to dislike simply because Strel had never really heard many varied accents. He doubted he had his own among other natives to the continent, though the way this one spoke, it was probable he were from wherever Jacquez took his own random phrases. However, the way the King had spoken them seemed far different from the accent that the gray creature had. They did not fit well enough, so that simply confused Strel slightly. What kind of an accent was that?
"No pain, no gain, I guess," he shrugged, smoothing back the fur on his neck. It was not a motto that the redhead remotely supported. The words simply screamed masochist to him. Why suffer to gain? Surely, there were more pleasurable ways to attain things. "I'm Strelein von Rosnete, though Strel is enough if you like not wasting ten seconds of your life," he introduced himself, grinning wryly up at the other. If he were older, he would have jutted his hand up to shake, but in his youth, he thought it silly. If this silver male offered his hand, though, he would have no choice but to shake. He was not rude, he just had less formal ideas of greetings.
The redhead attempted a charming smile, one eyebrow raised higher than the other. "Say, where did you pick up that rather sexy accent? I haven't heard it before, and I wonder if there would be any chance for me to find myself a catch with such a tone of voice." Shifting his gaze briefly to the entrance to the hotel, Strel let his mind wander back to the thought of searching for booze. He wondered if this guy knew where the alcohol was hidden. Or maybe even help?
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The silvery werewolf smiled broadly, glad to see his transgression had not cost him company for the afternoon. He surely hadn't intended to startle the man, but he could certainly understand his fright. This was generally an emptier area, usually devoid of canine life—to find someone alive and kicking was probably relatively rare. Rurik had walked the streets plenty of times, discovering not so much as a fresh scent.
The younger canine uttered a familiar phrase, one that caused a chuckle to erupt from the silver wolf's mouth, nodding in tacit agreement. He didn't often consider such statements (or anything, really) philosophically, so he had no opinion about it, but it was one he'd heard a few times in his life. The multicolored wolf introduced himself, a somewhat foreign sounding name that provoked the werewolf's curiosity. The joke regarding its length elicited another laugh from the silvery werewolf, who introduced himself in turn. "Rurik Russo, pleased to meet you," he said, always courteous. "I think I rather like Strel. If you want to shorten mine name, Ruri is fine," the wolf said with a laugh. Ru was the shortest possible abbreviation of his name, but only his aunt Krasa called him that.
Rurik made no assumptions about anyone, and he was rather unfamiliar with homosexuality in general—despite dabbling in it quite a bit himself. So, even though Strel was practically waving the rainbow flag, the silvery Russian wolf hardly picked up on. Flamboyant gestures meant little to him, as he simply hadn't the exposure to canines like Strel. So, when the man asked about where to acquire another canine with that sort of accent, Rurik naturally assumed he meant a woman. "I am from Sobirat'sya, Russia. I came over with mine daughter, Liliya, but she's a bit young for runnin' around with boys yet," the wolf said, mock-stern for a moment, punctuating the statement with another soft laugh. Sadly, Liliya and Silas were coming to the ages where they would become sexual creatures, and that frightened Rurik deeply. He didn't want either of them hurt.
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I gotta say, that was one hell of a quote right there 'Practically waving the rainbow flag'. <3
Chuckling slightly back at Rurik, he gave a slight nod as though he were bowing with only his head. "Well better that than Ik, right? Given the chance, I would have called you that from now on." Strel's rather bad joke fell flat from his tongue, and he almost cringed at it himself. That was not up to his old standards, and it needed a remedy, fast. Clearing his throat after his internal shaming, the redhead focused on the way the older wolf spoke. That accent was simply divine and so exotic compared to the common lilt of the beasts he'd always known. Where had this guy been hiding?
The name of the country did not ring any bells, but it sounded different enough to be across the big blue puddle of salty water. All the strangeness was from there, like his own surname. It had been from an older family and Strel always assumed his mother had either claimed it as her own or the redhead was truly descended from European wolves. Strel was strange, no doubt about that, but this bit of historical difference would have made him even more of an outcast in his old home. It seemed significantly less special here. "I have never heard of such a place, I'm sorry."
Then, laughing at Rurik's assumption, Strel rubbed at the bridge of his nose lightly. The very thought of taking a woman to be his mate was something on the verge of hysterical. "Don't fret, I won't be taking daughters any time soon. Just gotta warn mothers to hide their sons," he smirked, eyebrow rising once more. Strelein felt his confidence return in leaps and bounds. It helped that this man seemed to have no issue with his vibrancy.
A second quick glance at the hotel heralded Strel's increased desire to find the gift and be done with it. Sending a pleading look the silver male's way, he questioned, "Say, you wouldn't know where a guy can find some alcohol? I want to make my King a gift." There was no need to lie. This guy seemed fairly trustworthy no matter how Strel looked at it. After all, that country of origin seemed too absurd to be made up and accents like that don't appear overnight.
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Ik? The Russian wolf laughed loudly at this; it had never occurred to him to truncate his name in that fashion before! He was good-natured when it came to jokes, and the one from his canine companion gave him a particular riot since it involved his name and something he'd never thought of before. "I never thought of it that way," the wolf admitted, grinning broadly. The conversation shifted back to his place of birth, and he shrugged. It was a far way a way, and it was not common for those here to know where it was. "No worries. Pretty far over the ocean, it is," he said. It was generally useless to give people more specific directions than that—geography wasn't a topic considered important to many once they were settled into a particular area.
The silver-furred werewolf had struggled with his own issues for as long as he could remember. As a boy, he'd surely been attracted to both sexes. When he settled with Kiska he thought that was the end of it, and he'd never need anyone else... but he'd been proven wrong there, clearly. He couldn't remember what happened with Laruku, true—but he could guess, waking up hungover and smelling like the other man all over. It was a strange and liberating thing to act on impulses that had plagued him since he could remember, but disconcerting and disappointing not to remember a bit of it. He would have about shit himself to learn that one of his brothers was overtly gay—not that he ever would have; Skrom was buried deep within the closet, and he was quite careful to keep up appearances around the family. Still, it was rather doubtful any of the Russos would have given a shit either way. They were a pretty open-minded bunch when it came to just about everything. Zinoviya might have joked about the lack of grandchildren, but other than her playful jesting the issue likely would have gone over without public comment. It certainly would not have been a Brobdignagian subject within the family.
Rurik himself couldn't even pretend to have a problem with liking boys; he was not a hypocrite—or, he tried not to be. It was easy to rage against something if others around you were adamant in their hatred and prejudice, but it was better to be open about it, especially with a kindred soul of sorts. Rurik simply couldn't restrict himself on gender; he simply was attracted to both genders sexually and romantically, though he hadn't had a real relationship with a man, just encounters. "I see. To each his own," the silver-furred wolf said, and he shrugged, showing nonchalance about it. He didn't know if he felt comfortable enough blurting it out like this man did; pretty much the only one who knew about his tendencies was the man he'd slept with, and Rurik figured he was long gone. The conversation shifted again, for which Rurik was rather glad, and he was interested to hear the man talk of liquor. "Oh yes. I got a bit of a stash—good stuff. Irish-brewed whiskey, Chekov-distilled vodka," he added, though the terms were both likely meaningless here. "Are you looking for trade?" the wolf asked politely, figuring he could certainly part with some of his ample stash for the correct price. It was a common conversation on the other side of the world.
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It's understandable. Don't worry 
There was just something about that accent that Strel liked to listen to. It was probably just the fascination with the exotic that led him to actually listen to what it was the other male was saying to him rather than half listen and figure out the rest. However, he had not a single desire to find out where the male's hometown, birthplace, what have you, was. It was irrelevant. What was relevant was the now and the here. No preoccupation with the past would do anyone any good at all. They would be stuck in that which had happened already and they would fail to see the future slam into them like an enraged mother bear.
Strel had almost been surprised at the reaction the other gave over his declaration, or rather, lack there of. Sometimes other wolves were simply perplexed by his preferences; sometimes they did not care; and other times, they were simply disgusted and bothered by it. They claimed it unnatural. Well his retort had always been "if you're walking on two legs, then you are an unnatural wolf. I walk on two legs, so I am unnatural. Simple as that". It usually shut them up pretty damn fast. However, here, it seemed to get fewer and fewer strange looks and questioning glances in his vivid direction. It was very nice to know that those who knew did not really care, and if they did, they did not bother to tell him to 'convert' him.
At the mention of the booze, Strel's eyes lit up. He knew it! He knew it was a good idea to have asked! Now he could give his King a proper gift of some foreign brewed alcohol to add to his pile. He practically danced on the spot. "Oh! Well that's great! I don't have to go looking much further for some then," he stated, nodding his head with a smile. Though the look faltered a bit when the other had asked for a trade. Trade? Strel had not brought anything to trade for it, having thought he would simply find the booze. Looking down, thinking, Strel bit his lip slightly. What could I possibly give of equal value? A sigh escaped him and he uttered a few words he hoped would not be turned harshly against him, "I have nothing on me. What would you like for a bottle of each? "
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The wolf grinned broadly. He was always willing to share the good stuff; he certainly didn't mind letting Strel off with a freebie. He had plenty of the stuff anyway, and as he didn't drink nearly as much as he did in the old days, it would hold him over for a long time to come, especially if supplemented with alcohol pillaged from the surrounding city. Rurik was glad they'd chosen a human place to live for the moment, and doubly glad it was in such a good area—the port provided him with an easy way to get the boat up and grounded. Should he wish to return to the far coast, he needn't travel south to the port towns and try to hitch a ride there; he had his own.
"Oy. No worries on the first round," the silver-furred wolf said, laughing at his own little fun. "You want more, then we trade—maybe you make mine daughter a pretty trinket sometime, yeah?" the wolf stated, standing up and heading toward the entrance to what they'd turned into their storage room, disappearing inside and returning a few moments later with a glass bottle, slightly imperfect and warped, evidence of Luperci design, which was rarely as good as human technology. The wolves had learned a lot of human technology and some of their behavior, but they were hardly masters of either, and at heart they were still wild canines.
"Here. You got a way to carry et?" the Russian wolf asked, pondering whether the man would carry it back in his teeth. The issue of Strel's sexuality had tickled the rear of Rurik's mind the entire time he had been grabbing of his liquor stash, lingering vaguely on his brain. It wasn't truly an issue, more of an intriguing curiosity—one the pale-furred wolf wished to explore slightly more. "So—pardon for bein' blunt—you've always just liked guys? I'm just curious, I never met anybody so open 'bout it," the wolf said, punctuating this statement with a smile to indicate the question was friendly in nature, though certainly a bit sheepish for his forwardness. "Don't answer if you don't want to," the silvery werewolf added quickly.
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Lol I saw! So many replies!
Strel rubbed at his neck fur, feeling the trinket Rurik probably assumed he had made. The necklace was not made by him, save for stringing beads through thick string. He smiled, nonetheless, at the comment. "I'm afraid I can't make trinkets too well. I can make decent enough clothes though if you want those in trade instead," he offered, he gestured with his hands, palms up. Strelein followed Rurik a bit, waiting outside of the hotel, trying to be polite. He shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of what kind of etiquette was required for the situation. True, Rurik had said the booze was a freebie, but would he accept the only tangible thing he could make? Keeping his back to the sunlight, Strel peered in, watching for the older wolf.
As soon as he reappeared, the redhead moved back. Taking the bottle into his hands, he grinned. "Oh I have my bag in an old house. I can carry it there by hand and then run home with it in the bag." Strel ran his fingers over the imperfect bottle, marveling at the way the glass swirled and bubbled beneath its surface. He'd seen old, dusty human bottles and their clear, perfect glass. This one seemed thicker and had significantly more imperfect, but it was far more interesting than human ones. It was original, and that was all that mattered. The redhead would have to be careful to not break it so he could return it or keep it on his own shelves after the King was done with it.
The easy-going look that had been on his face fell, seriousness in his look now. He wasn't asked that very often, but when he had been back in the unclaimed near his old home, the responses he got were far from polite or understanding. Wary, he eyed Rurik questioningly. The way the other looked was far from threatening. Sighing a bit, he let a grin work its way back onto his lips. "Ever since I found out what girls were for. It never clicked in my mind that I would like to be with one intimately. The girls in my old pack felt like sisters," he said, reminiscing. He had friends that knew, but very few of his old home had known, since they had though it another aspect of unnaturalness. The mutation they could deal with but with mental abnormalities, they were very unwilling to tolerate.
Hands unknowingly rubbed at the bangle on his wrist, remembering his theft of it from the leaders. He had been so angry at them for taking it from him in the first place, he had gone back to get it for himself. He had to hide it, but now that he was away, he could wear it freely. "I don't think it's a big deal. It's just...," he fumbled for his words, sighing, "...Some of them are such hypocrites." Strel did not really know what it was he had meant, since he had no way of explaining himself. Trying to change the subject, he tried something about Rurik, "So you have kids? Who's the mother?" He knew it was not prudent to ask something like that, but he had no mind for prudence.
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The werewolf's assumption was natural, as his icy eyes were drawn to the colorful things strung around the other canine's neck, but he was gently corrected, and apologetically he looked to the other canine, nodding his head. "You patch up stuff?" he asked, curiosity showing on his sharp-featured face. His own cutoff denim shorts had been patched countless times, and these patches showed in random places on them, splotches of pattern or color disgusing larger holes. The silver werewolf lifted them off his hips slightly with two pinched fingers and grinned. "These been mine a long, long time, they needs it sometimes," he explained.
The silver-furred werewolf nodded, finding this suitable. No sense in having the bottle fall and smash open somewhere before it reached its destination and was enjoyed. "Right on. Glass ain't too durable," the wolf said with a grin. The city surrounding them was evidence enough of that; most of the windows of the buildings were smashed to pieces, the bits of shattered glass long swept away by the wind. The tone of the conversation once more went serious, though the Russian wolf listened with clear interest, his coal-dusted ears perking forward to catch the other man's words.
He was not absolutely certain his own affinity for his own sex extended back quite so far. When he was a kid he could remember liking girls, but not boys—yet he did not know if that was because he was afraid of admitting it or he simply ignored the impulses. These things had only flourished when he'd left home and traveled. "Sorry, I am just a curious old man," the wolf said, laughing casually. "It is no big thing. I am not stupid, I know... some people gotta be nasty to you just 'cause what you like, but... ain't no issue of mine what gets your jollies," the ash-colored wolf said gently. He hadn't meant to put the other man on the spot like that, but it was something that had been bothering him for some time, and he hadn't met anyone quite so open as Strel was.
The other man asked a question which Rurik was happy to answer, and he grinned, nodding emphatically as he began to speak of his family. "Aye, I have Silas and Anatoliy, mine young sons, and Liliya, my daughter. Their mother's Verusha. She lives with Anatoliy back near home. There are mine three older sons, Zaets, Zorish, and Vladimir... they lived around here at some point. Maybe you heard of 'em?" the werewolf asked, ever hopeful in the search for his children.
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school = tiring
The redhead shrugged, trying to be modest. "Patch up, fix...make," he confirmed, failing at his attempted modesty. His grin was one of achievement, as though he had done something great. Strel was a bit headstrong over his own skills with the needle and thread, thinking himself superior. It would certainly get him in trouble one day. Meanwhile, his gaze shifted down to the pants on the other male's hips. Crouching, but keeping a good distance away, he examined the lower patches to avoid gazing at Rurik's crotch. It was probably already uncomfortable for the guy to know that Strel was into males. Better to not make it any more awkward than it had to be. He checked the stitches on the lowest patch, nodding at it slightly. At least someone had managed to keep the pants together. "They're patched well. I guess if you ever have more that need fixing, find me," he offered, tinkling out a light laugh.
Raising an eyebrow at the older male, Strel straightened, feeling his knees crack. "You don't seem to be that old," he stated, truthfully. His concept of old was an ancient wolf, fur obviously aging and the look of deterioration evident on them. Rurik seemed far too sturdy to be considered old. Then, glancing down, though still smiling pleasantly, he thanked the Russian, "Good to know, thank you." A twinkle was evident in his eye as he glanced up at Rurik, grin lopsided. "I'll safely assume the girlies get your jollies." He had never used the term 'jollies' before and it sounded odd to him, though it seemed to fit.
At the mention of his family, the older wolf seemed to perk up, as though it was a beloved topic of his. It had caught Strel unawares, who had forgotten that there were people out there that loved their kin. A slightly bitter feeling washed over him briefly alongside envy. It seemed that Rurik had a family to run to, worst comes to worst. Ears fell lower as the redhead shook his head. "No, I have not seen them. I'm sorry. I haven't been here that long, and I'm not sure who's who in the other nearby packs. Sighing, he fingered the top of the bottle, stopped up as it was. The glass was cool under his fingers, as the air around him was cool.
"Is this stuff any good?" he asked, lifting up the bottle slightly and hearing the liquid gently swish inside of it. "Think it'll make my King happy?"
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The ash-furred werewolf settled back onto a chair and offered one to Strel, figuring to crack open one of his own bottles and kick it in for the night. He did just that, turning his coal ears to the other werewolf while he cracked open his flask. It was filled with clear liquid, some of the very same Chekov-brewed vodka that he'd given the man in the bottle. He held it in his hand for a moment, speaking with the other man before he drank any. "Seven years old is kinda old," he admitted with a shrug. "Gotta be light about getting older, though," he said casually. The man's next question gave him definite pause, and Rurik looked over at him sheepishly, and finally: "I don't mind either way, actually." That was as close as he could get, and even that made him laugh aloud, a giddy sort of feeling flooding through him. "That'll be the first time I've even said somethin' like that aloud," he added, kicking the ground with a still-sheepish grin.
The wolf nodded his head, a frown crossing his face. He worried about his children, and he still wanted to find them, though it would seem the search would end soon. They were not here, he was realizing with a dimming hope. He would have smelled them or seen them or heard of them. "Thanks anyways, my friend," the Russian wolf said with a shake of his head. The conversation shifted once more and the werewolf grinned broadly, tossing back a little of the strong liquor in the flask, passing it over to the other wolf immediately after. "Have a sample now?" he offered. "Tastes like it was brewed at home," he said nostalgically, finding no other way to describe the liquor.
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500+
Sorry i took my damn sweet time replying
"Cour des Miracles. It's some fancy foreign words the King decided to use. I still don't quite understand him sometimes," he shrugged, careful of the bottle. Honestly, he was not close to the leader of his pack at all. He was just barely an acquaintance. Just a subordinate in a pack that was mostly equal in rank. Mostly. The respect still was there but there seemed to be fewer distinctions between the different ranks. Whatever. Strel was not afraid to overstep his boundaries. He enjoyed it, truth be told. "If you just call at the border or somewhere, someone should find you if I don't." The redhead grinned, glad to have a potential 'customer' for his skills. He wanted to assure the pack he was useful in some where, and not just some free loader.
A quick word of thanks and the younger wolf settled into the offered chair, relishing it. After walking around all day, he was glad for the seat. "You still seem to be far from hitting that wall the old folk crash into," he observed, trying to remember the elders in his birthplace. There had only been one, and it was one of the first Luperci in the pack. She died at the age of 14, or that was what they had been told. She had only ever transformed twice in her life and afterward she was watched. They did not care for the humanoid things that she could become. There had been rumors the Alpha at the time had found a way to poison her, but that was nothing but a story that was told to Luperci children. Of course she passed away before he himself had been born so he did not know for sure if any of it was true.
Strelein grinned at Rurik, chuckling slightly at his confession. "One step starts a journey. One step." He said nothing else on the matter, hoping to keep the mood from getting awkward. If it could stay away from that, then there could be a good friendship in the making here. The younger wolf tapped his temple a few times, smiling reassuringly. "I'll remember their names, and if they wander out here, I'll be sure to send them your way."
Rurik seemed to miss his home a little, referring to the drink as that of his home. It would have been rude to say no, so Strel gladly took the flask. "Thanks! I hope it's as good as you say." He stared at the flask, then back at Rurik. "Bottoms up." He put the canister to his lips and took a decent sized swallow. Immediately, he regretted taking that large of a gulp as the liquid burned down his throat and gave him a fit of coughing. That was some strong stuff he had been given. It took him a few moments to let the coughing die down before he glanced back at the silver wolf. "Wow, that's strong! How can you drink that repeatedly?" Strel rubbed a hand to his throat, wondering if he had missed some directions in drinking vodka.
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[html] Shush, you are a dear for dealing with my slow butt. ;____; <3
Rurik would have enjoyed the laid-back attitude of Cour des Miracles. His own home in Sobirat'sya did not think too much of rank, though his grandmother Zinoviya was unquestionably their leader, and she received a great deal of respect, her position was not exactly an alphaship or a monarchy over the rest of the Russo family, for although she held the position of the most respect as the eldest woman of the family, she did not make the decisions regarding their finances, nor did she decide anything based on other clans or families aggressions, if they ever came. Rurik was born into a time of peace, but his grandparents certainly remembered the early years in Sobirat'sya, anarchy reigning supreme over the streets and permeating all folds of their society. There were surreptitious sources of danger, too—Rurik had recalled a story his grandfather told him once, that one of his very cousins had fought on an opposing side of the strife that had crippled the area long before Rurik's parents were even born.
"Cour des Miracles," the Russian repeated, nodding his silvery head and memorizing the words. He'd be sure to check that place out; if the rest of them were as nice as Strel he would have to. "Sounds maybe French to me," the werewolf said with a grin, though he didn't know for certain. It was pronounced strangely, perhaps because it had been filtered through the more Cajun-type dialects of the southern part of the country, and then through Strelein's voice. Strel didn't seem particularly interested in what it meant, and though Rurik was intrigued, he didn't comment further on the pack's name, instead nodding at the other wolf's notice to call at the borders. He'd almost forgotten; the wolves of these lands were generally protective of a whole area as their territory, rather than an individual dwelling as in his homeland. In Sobirat'sya, the Russo family owned a "square" of the city, and they were rather like humans in that the individual homes in the square were off-limits to outsiders without invitation, but the open territory between the houses was open to outsiders passing through for a visit.
"Aye, I'd hope I still got a few good years left in me," the werewolf said with a broad grin. The other canine commented again, but Rurik did not respond, instead letting his smile sit there a little longer instead, expressing agreement and approval of the statement without continuing the conversation. Relieving as it was to admit to another living being that he was attracted to men, it was still an uncomfortable subject for the Russian wolf, and he was glad when the conversation moved onto another subject, the alcohol. Rurik grinned as the other took a sip, immediately launching into a fit of coughing. "Apologies, I shoulda warned you first," the wolf said with a sheepish smile, shaking his head. It was easy for him to forget that others were not so used to drinking liquor. "Sip little bits, slow," the wolf advised. To the question, the werewolf smiled once again, shrugging his shoulders. "I grew up sippin' on this, I guess," he mused, figuring a lifetime of becoming acclimated to liquor had helped him immensely.
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Oh no way I can't not put up with you <3 You're so awesome
"No, no, I should have asked," he choked out with a slightly rasping voice. His fingers kept kneading the flesh on his neck, hoping to sooth the irritation. Strel had not enjoyed that first taste of vodka, painful as it was. It dissipated fast enough, but the younger wolf continued to whine like a pup. He knew better now, but still, it was typical of him to draw out his grievances for the attention. What an attention whore he was, always eager to be in the spotlight or in the eyes of others. Of course, there was a limit to it. He would never parade himself about like a slut, giddy to ride another. He'd seen the consequences of such a person back in Michigan and he used the lesson well.
A female had attempted to join their pack back when he was only six months old. She had seemed old, but back then, anyone over one was old. She had probably been four or so. The leader was happy to let her join, a non-Luperci. She showed her colors soon enough as a nympho, alarming the conservatives. They proceeded to eject her from their number and she wondered further. It warned the young pup that some things simply were not tolerated, ever. One would think he'd have learned that things were different here, that some things were acceptable to a certain extent. But the prospect of removal was a big enough deterrent for the redhead to watch himself well.
Taking up the silver wolf on his advice, he took a small sip of the vodka, careful for the pain of it going down his throat. It was better this time, not hurting him remotely the same. Even then, it had not really been the pain; it was more the shock of the strength of the alcohol for it had no real taste. It was just the feel of it going down into his belly, which seemed to burn from the heat of the drink. He shook his head a bit, having forgotten to breath before downing his small sip. Strel blinked a bit as air rushed back into his lungs, which were definitely grateful for. How had he forgotten something so vital as breathing? Though truth be told, it had not hurt to swallow then. Maybe he was on to something.
"Wow," he stated simply, mind fumbling for something else to say. The drink was already affecting his mind, clouding it up. Strelein did not drink very often, or really ever, so this time, it rushed to his head almost immediately. The buzzed feeling was nice; he felt more loose. All from almost no alcohol. "That's some strong stuff there." Passing the flask back to its owner, the redhead rubbed at his bangle out of habit. "That was interesting." The experience was making him curious as to what else this older wolf knew. The man seemed to have more alcohol that was far different from the timid things the redhead had tried ages ago.
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The silver-furred werewolf was quite used to introducing others to the drink. He was particular fond of sharing his alcohol with others; it often made for a great story. He should've known by now that the first time drinking it rarely ever turned out well; he should've expected the sputtering coughs by now, but Rurik was slow to catch on, and it wasn't as if Strel had come right out and said he was a virgin where alcohol was concerned. Still, he didn't exactly have a canteen handy to hand Strel as he coughed, so the Russian wolf could only look on in sympathy, smiling apologetically at the multi-hued canine.
"Oy, you figure someone hands ya something, usually it don't need a warning label," the werewolf said, laughing. His English pronunciation had improved remarkably the very first time he'd lived on this coast and immersed himself in speakers of the language. Hearing Silas speak now reminded him of himself; it was not so many years ago that Rurik himself had such a voice, laced with rumbles and inconsistencies. No matter how good he got at actually speaking English, though, Rurik doubted he'd ever lose his accent. He didn't want to—there was a certain amount of homeland pride within the Russian wolf, and he felt quite strongly about Sobirat'sya and his family back home.
The other canine took another sip, slower and smaller this time, and he did not react nearly as negatively. Indeed, the other canine seemed to enjoy this second sip, perhaps because the alcohol was taking root in his head. The silver-furred werewolf reached out to the other canine as he extended the flask and took it back, taking another sip before replacing the cap to it, setting it down on the ground, well within reach of the other canine. "It's good though, innit?" the silver-furred wolf responded with a grin. He was enjoying the other canine's company, and he was quite glad Strelein had decided to take a constitutional about the city today.
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I saw your posts for today and seriously....wanted to cry. 19k+words already?! YOU'RE NUTS
"Yeah but still!" he whined, complaining after his second attempt at the drink. "Normally you would still say 'don't try to down it in one go'." Strelein rolled his eyes as the flask left his hands. "But yes, it was good. I'm sure my liege will enjoy it, though I figure any booze will give him some joy." He chuckled slightly, violet eyes watching the flask descend onto the ground. The redhead himself was feeling the alcohol working quite fast, and quite strongly, on him already. His mind was fogging up a bit, but there was still enough clarity for him to know what not to do. Sure that would probably go aware the longer he sat there, letting the second drink filter into his brain, or if Rurik were kind enough to offer more.
Licking his lips a bit, wondering if being drunk were some severe form of this feeling he was having. "You must know a lot about alcohol, old as you are." Strelein lowered himself to the ground, giving up halfway down to fall on his rump with a slight thump and a groan escaping him briefly. Grumbling for a moment, he glanced back up at Rurik. "I think I am suddenly very uncoordinated." The ground was colder than he had imagined it to be at first, for his feet had not told him just how it felt. Though, thankfully, the asphalt had warmed up from the day's sun in the time it had been out. Strel flattened his palms on the bumpy surface, feeling the edges lightly dig into tender flesh.
"Do you know anything about other drinks? Or.. or other places for that matter." Rubbing at his head as though it would clear it up a bit, the redhead crossed his legs beneath his body. "How'd you get here anyway?" Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that the question was superbly vague and that there were so many connotations that could be taken from that. That little voice in his head managed to pipe through the growing mist, "Or rather, how'd you get from Sob....Russia to here? I guess a boat, right?"
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[html] This one or the next one will put me at 30k. XD Don't cry, though! Use it as fuel! SIE WILL INSPIRE YOU TO DO EEET. <3 Word Count: 635
The silver-furred werewolf's grin broaded at the other's slight whine, and he rolled his shoulders in a shrug. He couldn't help his own amusement; it did not arise from cruelty and enjoyment of seeing another canine suffer, certainly not. He didn't ever mean to hurt anybody—that was the basic thing in being (mostly) a pacifist. The ash-furred canine wouldn't have ever described himself in such a way, for certainly he wouldn't have hesitated to protect and defend where necessary, but he was very much against violence. "Aye, aye—I'm sorry. You won't feel it in a minute, I promise," the pale-furred wolf said, a playful smile appearing on his lips. "Your king sounds like somebody I could get along with," the Russian wolf added, thinking perhaps he ought to consider this Cour des Miracles place as somewhere to settle down. From what Strelein told him, Rurik gathered it was not terribly far away. It would be good to still have close access to the city and the sea, both very important things to the grizzled werewolf.
The liquor was beginning to take effect on both of him, and Rurik felt the world begin to slow, the slight fuzziness setting in around the edges of his vision. The Russian werewolf did not drink to excess anymore, and he did not drink to drown away his pain—now liquor was a far purer pleasure to him. The other wolf spoke again, and the werewolf's head swung over to look at him, mock indignation on his face. "Oy, I am not that old," he said, giving the red-haired wolf a big smile to show his anger was fake. "I could still keep up with you. Right now I could, anyway," he joked as the other wolf attempted to stand, promptly reclining back on his rear. "Comes with the territory, aye," he said in response to the wolf's comment about his balance. It did tend to go out the window with alcohol involved.
The werewolf smiled at the other canine's question. "There are plenty of different drinks in the world, more than even I've seen. This would be called vodka. I have a darker, brown liquor that is called rum. There is also wine—that is specifically a type made from grapes," the Russian wolf said. He wasn't a particularly big fan of wine, but he did know where it came from. Canines in France were particularly fond of that stuff, as their land was pristine for growing grapes. "Other places around the world?" the silvery wolf asked, grinning broadly. "I been lots of places. London, Rome, Budapest... what would you like to know?" he asked. Rurik liked talking about the many different places he'd been, but without a clear starting point he could ramble on forever and bore the hell out of the other wolf, something he certainly didn't wish to do.
The Miracles wolf asked another question, finding it to be too vague, elaborating a fair bit. Rurik had understood what he meant the first time, and it was almost cute the way the other wolf held his liquor—which was probably not very well. Still smiling, the werewolf indicated the docks down the street, the ocean beyond the buildings just barely visible there. The edge of the water could just be seen between a two-story building and a low-slung warehouse. "I walked from Sobirat'sya and ended up in Lisbon, and we set off from there on a boat. It was many weeks on the ocean, but I do love the sea," the werewolf confessed, sighing softly as he thought of the ocean. There was nothing quite like the steady rolling of the waves beneath his feet, the sea breeze in his fur, the smell of salt on the air. His maritime memories were invariably positive.
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