Hurrdurr, I can't remember which of those is correct or how to spell them. ;P Some double-letter words give me problems for some reason, IDK! ((518))
The silver-furred Russian was always welcoming toward company; he invariably enjoyed such interruptions. It simply didn't occur to Rurik that perhaps someday someone would stumble across him who wasn't quite so happy to interact, and as friendly as Rurik was, he would probably walk right up to the vicious bastard and get a nice scar across his nose. For his muscles and his bravado, Rurik was not a fighter; he was something of a pacifist, even, though he didn't preach such ideals and he did not know the English word for it, even. Even so, the cloudy-furred male did not subscribe to absolute pacifism; he was bound by blood to his children, and he would protect them at any cost. He was now duty-bound to fight for Cour des Miracles, should his King command it. This was a notion that did not particularly sit well with him; in the days since he had joined the Miracles pack he had heard whispers of wartime, things that were disturbing and upsetting—many things that told him he had to visit Inferni as soon as he could.
The ghostly-furred man was exceptionally quiet; he seemed almost withdrawn at first. This didn't put Rurik off any; Gabe was one of his better friends in these lands, and if nothing else, the Infernian Aquila was stoic and withdrawn the vast majority of the time. Even so, as he clambered into the crawlspace, the pale-furred wolf reached out for the bottle, which Rurik gave willingly, of course. He had offered, after all. “Of course! It is nothing, my friend. Plenty to share here. I would be quite the zasranec if I did not share,” he said grinning and waving his hand. Though the word zasranec was more than likely foreign to this man, the unmistakable pejorative tone added clues to its meaning, of course. Human alcohol caverns like this were exceedingly rare on his side of the world; Luperci had already raided those places for everything they were worth years before Rurik was even born. The turquoise-eyed wolf drank, and Rurik grinned. Nothing spurred a friendship faster than a good bottle shared.
An introduction passed the other wolf's lips; Rurik gave a polite nod of his head and smiled still (though, really—when was Rurik not smiling?). “No, no. I vas just taking a long walk today, and I end up here. Good thing, though,” he said, reaching for the bottle and tilting it upwards to indicate that it was indeed a good find. “I am Rurik Russo of Cour des Miracles. Good to meet you,” the pepper-furred man added. Of course, from his accent, it was fairly obvious he wasn't from Cour des Miracles, but as the Miracles pack was his present home and a hell of a lot closer than Sobirat'sya, and therefore, of course more relevant. He was speaking a fair bit, but he generally did this anyway—Rurik was prone to rambling, and especially prone to drunken rambles. Of course, he had grown up with half-hour-long toasts in Arkhangel'sk from his relatives, so perhaps verbosity was simply in the blood.
<style>
.rurik-giftsam b{color:#227c9b;}
.liliya {color:#38B0D9;}
.rurik-giftsam p{margin:0px; padding:0px 0px 10px 0px; text-indent:45px;}
</style>
[/html]