You can mouse over the Russian to see the translation. I do hope it’s correct, I’m relying on Google translate here. XD
The M rating is just for any language. I seem to swear a lot more when I write for this guy.
The moon was high but the wind was low and cold, tearing across the empty plains like a sharply clawed ghost, tearing at fur, biting at noses and plunging deep into the bone. Odysseus smiled wildly. That might be the case, at least, if he were some thin-furred little stick. The smile grew smugly satisfied. His fur was thick and curly and kept out the winter like a fine, down coat. The long, scarlet cape that tied about his neck and reached all the way to his feet (though at present it spread across his horse’s hindquarters like a blanket) was quite warm in too, made of the thick, though, waterproof wool worn by those who spent their lives on the sea.
So it was quite a handsome he made as Hector strode across the snow, the large stallion taking fine, arcing steps and presenting no difficulty or lack of sureness in the face of the wailing weather. He was a a tall creature, mostly leg, and each limb moved with such passive energy that it was clear to see this horse was meant to run. Odysseus kept him soothed, though, kept him slow. He may be immune to the cold at this time, but a nighttime gallop would be absolutely frigid.
The wolf was in high spirits tonight, both figuratively and literally. Concealed by the folds of his coat, a small but thick glass bottle of whiskey slowly emptied it’s contents as the rider made his way across the expanse. His blood sang with heat, and his pale blue eyes burned in the dark like fox fire. He’d escaped! He was free! That crazed bitch would no longer lead him around on a rope like some pet! It was disgusting how wound up he’d been around one of those delicate little fingers.
Soon enough the pair came to an outcropping of rocks. Odysseus dismounted, but did not tie Hector to anything or hobble his legs. In fact, Odysseus carried no tack at all, his steed staying only through his orders. "Postoĭ, moĭ malʹchik, until I search this place out.” The wolf took up his spear, where before it had been resting across his lap while he rode. The outcropping was large enough that some space beneath the boulders existed. Propped up upon each other, they created a natural cave that seemed to extend to unknown depths.
Odysseus carefully lead his horse inside. The ceiling was close, but it rose even as the ground descended. Perhaps ten feet from the entrance it leveled out fully, with a large, flat space perfect for spending the night. In fact, Odysseus’s keen eyes marked the remains of a previous fire in the centre, and even some spare pieces of wood left behind in good grace. He began to stack the wood, trying to hum the piano concerto he had purloined whilst in Quebec City. The sound wouldn’t come, though, and he found himself unable to imagine the correct pitch and tone.
It must have been marvelous to hear in person. He had read that the humans, before their great empire had crumbled, often went to such things as concerts, sometimes thousands of miles away, just to listen to music being played. Wolves here seemed to have no head for such things, and he’d yet to meet one talented with any instrument, at least in Nova Scotia. The gypsy traders he’d spent some time with at least knew a good tune or two. His voice turned then to one of those, a jaunty, violent piece meant for frenetic dancing and lots of drinking.
He smiled wolfishly then, each tooth gleaming in smooth, pale planes. Those days had been fun, before Ivana had gone full psycho on them all. He’d enjoyed drinking himself to sleep every night, swindling his companions out of their money and possession and fucking any fine piece of tail that came his way. It had been a good way to pass the time. But now, but now he was on his own, in this big empty place. There was no friendly face here, no Hector or Lena, no Achille. The tall wolf sat before his little pyre and struck the flint onto the iron absentmindedly.
The fire was a welcome thing, though small at first, it grew with hungry grace, snapping at the little twigs Odysseus idly tossed it. He fished a packet of tea from the saddlebags across Hector’s withers, along with a tough chunk of dried meat and a packet of spices. Soon enough, he had a very basic stew going, with the small collapsible kettle he had also produced from these nearly miraculous pouches whistling upon the hearth. He fished the meat from the pot, and gulped down the tea, even as it scalded his tongue. He could go a whole day without eating and never grimace, but once he had settled for the night the young wolf ate like a ravenous monster.
Despite all his grace and confidence, Odysseus was indeed a young wolf. Turned two just this past December, his form still held the litheness of youth, even if it was tempered by the leanness of burgeoning adulthood. His eyes were sharp and blue and quite mad, each pupil shrunk to the size of a pinhead even in the relative darkness, but his smile was disarming. It gleamed even now in the dancing shadows like a cheshire cat’s, even though there was no one present to see it.
“Ah that would indeed make the night complete, wouldn’t Hector? A fine meal, a fine drink,” Here he retrieved the bottle and took a large swig, “And perhaps some fine company to share it with.” He spared a glance at the horse. “Unfortunately you are disqualified from this title by dint of your diet, I don’t think smoked venison would be entirely to your taste, old friend.” Hector whiskered in reply through his saddlebag, already groomed and brushed and fed long before Odysseus had even thought to begin his own dinner.