OM NOM NOM

The silver-furred man certainly understood the urge to wander; it had surfaced in him years ago, and it would continue to drive him along throughout the rest of his life. Someday he would leave this place and someday he would return—someday he'd even see home again. He knew these things would happen; it was all a part of being a wanderer. “Oh yes. The whole world, all of it is different and wonderful,” he said, agreeing with her completely. Each different place in the world had its unique and lovely qualities about it, and Rurik had never really been somewhere he didn't truly enjoy. Eventually every place got old and he wanted to move on to see the next, but that could be a matter of days or a matter of months, he knew from experience. He had remained in the same places for more than a year at times, but never more than a year and a half—maybe he was just destined to wander until he dropped dead. Not that it bothered him any, though.

“That is closer! Maybe you get it, maybe you don't. No worries!” he said cheerily, shrugging his coal-dusted shoulders. Some were anal about the pronunciation of their homeland and considered it insulting; Rurik knew from experience the wide array of accents and differences in language sometimes made it impossible. Some sounds just didn't exist in some languages. “Aye! The Atlantic Ocean is big sea between zhis land and our homeland. They call land over there Europe, Asia and Africa. Zhis land is Nort' America and Sout' America,” the werewolf explained, quickly breaking down the world's geography in common terms for her. It might be easier for Cerridwyn to explain to others that she was from a part of the world called Europe, specifically Bhaile. He generally had to simplify it to Sobirat'sya, Russia—and even then he often had to explain that Russia was across the Atlantic and over land (or through the frigid Arctic Seas) in order to be understood.

The silver-furred man placed a hand on his chin, stroking the thicker black hairs there. They grew into a vaguely beardlike pattern, fur growth which was absent from his Lupus form save for a darker coloration along his muzzle—not that he ever bothered to use that four-legged form. He had done so only once recently, and that was to provide “comfort” to another four-legged woman—and bequeath to her the gift of Lupercism. His sky-colored eyes surveyed their surroundings; most of the buildings were time-dilapidated, their fronts showing considerable damage—some even had vegetation taking root. The windows had been blasted from some of the building-fronts, allowing dirt and grime from the outside world to pile up, eventually allowing for the hardy weeds and tiny plants to survive. “Well, maybe we just walk along street here—you see something interesting, we check it out,” he said, baring his pearly whites in a grin.

Lmfao, I want to hear Cerri say she is from Europe or Africa or Asia to someone, ahahahahaha. They will O_o if they have any idea what she's talking about. XD Also I think I got the building right uh just punt me if I didn't. >___> Also, I don't know why, but imagine a BEAR shows up at the end of my post and how much more interesting it would be or something. ((335))

The silver-furred male was quite content to pad around the city for a while; he hadn't come here with any purpose but to make friends and learn a little about the pack, but he was perfectly willing to entertain the multi-hued woman. He wasn't about to turn around and wander off on her or anything—that was just plain rude, and he knew from personal experience what it felt like when a woman wandered off. Finn had run practically screaming away from him, and he still didn't know what he'd done wrong there. The pale-furred Russian felt a light touch on his arm, and he paused, peering over at Cerri and following her dark eyes. He had noticed the bit of discomfort from her, of course—if Rurik excelled in nothing else, it was the women. But prior to this, he had seen no interest from the hybrid woman, and so he remained quiet about it. Normally he might have offered a little grin or a smile, something—but the silver-furred werewolf didn't quite know what to make of Cerri yet.

“Oho! Zhat is a good one. It es a church,” he explained. “The humans use zhis building for worship. Not so good for living, really, but some in old country were very pretty,” he said, remembering some of the tall, sprawling buildings he had seen in his time. The gray-furred man hesitated a moment, but he placed his own hand on her back gently, though it was in a perfectly respectable area, right about in the middle. Rurik wasn't one for random groping unless he was really, really smashed, and he more or less wanted to gauge her reaction here—but he made as if it was a move to get her to head for the church. He took a few steps ahead of her after a moment, stealing a glance at her as he turned to open the door. It was unlocked—what luck. He held it open and waved his hand, smiling.

BEEBLES. XD I should just not write Rurik's accent ever because I'm terrible at it, but then you get gems like "feesh" and "beebles." >___> (300)

Rurik didn't understand the human's worship any more than Cerridwyn seemed to—but at least he knew more about the actual procedure. As they entered the church, the bright blue gaze of the man peered about, eager to drink in the dusty interior of the building. It was in a relatively good state; there didn't seem to be any huge holes in the roof or anything like that. The pews were still somewhat orderly, though they were of course overlaid with a layer of dust and grime, and the brilliant crimson carpet had several stains across its surface. The altar still stood, but whatever had been on it at one point had been knocked away. In all, it wasn't the worst building the silver-furred Russian had the pleasure of exploring.

“Well... I don't get it, eizher. But they come here, and someone vould talk to zhem and read from zheir books... zhey are called beebles, maybe?” he said, the word sounding funny coming from his Russian muzzle. “I don't know why that's worship,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. The hybrid woman meandered up the aisle, and Rurik watched her go, following her movements with his sky-colored eyes. At her invitation he sauntered forward, settling down next to her. Of course, his posture was entirely unbefitting for a church—his long silver-furred legs were splayed out in front of him, his arms crossed behind his head. “Zhey used to have vine for vorshiping, too, I zhink,” he said, grinning and unstrapping the little flask from his side. “I do not have zhat, but vodka vill do better anyway,” he said, unscrewing the top from it. He was always parched, always down for a drink—and it seemed appropriate, seeing as the humans used to do the very same in this place.