LOL BEETCH. Hehe. Word Count: 354.
There was not a single cruel bone in Rurik's body, to be perfectly honest. The capacity for violence did not exist within the cloud-colored man; he was a pacifist in almost every circumstance. The only thing that could drive him to intentionally harm another being would be an immediate, severe threat to his family—he would protect his children, his brothers, and his ancestors with tooth and nail, but that was all. Beyond that, Rurik did not believe in war-making. He did not seek vengeance, and he rather much preferred to forgive and forget. After all, he had lived a rather good life—there was but one great regret, but one thing at which he had failed miserably: mateship and love. He had soured and ruined that for himself, and he had not longed for monogamy since. Kiska was the one, and she was the one who got away, too.
He had not noticed the other canine on the beach, though as the silver-furred Russian drew closer, the stranger became far more apparent. He was very, very large—and Rurik was pretty big himself, so it was not often that he was so dwarfed. As the Russian wolf drew closer, he was able to identify the canine more—at least, he was able to say that this was not a wolf. This was a dog if he had ever seen one, though that certainly didn't bother Rurik. The silver-furred man held no prejudice where species was concerned; it was said dogs had descended from wolves, anyhow—whether by human interference or not, it mattered little to Rurik. Of course, there were canines who would have held dogs' domestication against them—Rurik was not such a canine. To do such a thing would have been to hate himself—he knew his mother's lineage held some hint of canis lupus familiaris.
“Allo! I am Rurik Russo, good to meet you! What brings you to zhis fine beetch tonight?” he asked, drawing ever closer to the man. There was, of course, friendliness in the werewolf's gait, the darkened tip of his tail wavering behind him.
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