as long as there is whiskey in the world.

Rurik Russo · 07-27-2010, 04:43 AM

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Word Count :: 529

And so here was more evidence of his failure as a man; this was a clearly a Russo here before him. A strangely-shaded one, with more dog's blood than most, but a Russo nonetheless, and Rurik had not even known of his existence. A sad smile graced the man's face, and at once he wished to reach out and hug Mars, though he knew such an imposing and demanding action would cause only friction. He did not know if his attention or affection was needed or even wanted; maybe Mars had a father figure to replace Rurik. The silver-shaded wolf did not yet know, and to impose himself as Daddy so late in the game... well, it was just inappropriate, and Rurik knew it.

The black-and-white hybrid took a cigarette from the case and lit it with his own lighter; the silver-shaded elder closed the case slowly, smiling still, though now it was a happier smile—in everything this stranger did, from his movements and expressions, everything—it reminded him of himself, it reminded him of Toliy, it reminded him of Liliya. Zaets, Zorish, Vladimir, even—though Rurik could not remember them quite so clearly, and he had known them only briefly through adulthood. The silvery werewolf nodded at the other canine's sentiment with an even bigger grin. “Aye,” he said simply, nodding to emphasize the statement.

He did not remember Lyndi so well, but he would not admit this to Mars; hopefully the man might give more hints to his maternal ancestry, and something would spark Rurik's memory. He did not want to directly ask about the woman, not yet anyway. “Aye... I'm sorry I did not stay. I did not know... ah. I could not have known. But I am sorry,” he offered lamely, the smile having disappeared; awkwardness now graced his strong Russian features, and the male's sable-tipped ears folded back against his skull. He shook his head firmly at the young man's apology. “I vill tell you, I am not much of a proper man. I curse, I dreenk, I smoke, and sometimes I downright steenk,” he said, punctuating the statement with a laugh. “Happens vhen you are man, eh?” he added, smiling.

“You vant I help build, fix anyzhing, you tell me. It's is very least I can do for you, and I vould zhink eet es good opportunity to learn about each ozher,” the Russian offered quite seriously. He was always willing to help, and he was even more willing when family was involved—anything to get him started on getting to know this canine, this stranger, his son. He smiled again as the man introduced the horse, and gave the animal a look. “Zhat is fine animal,” he commented, knowing very little about horses, but knowing enough to call a beauty when he saw one. The next sentence was quite revealing and helpful to the Russian—he had seen California only once. “Zhat is vhere you born? Caleeforneea?” the Russian said, greeting the friendly horse with a pat on the shoulder and an appreciative hand along the back. “What a back,” the man said, commenting on the musculature of the equine's back.

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