Hope you don’t mind the giganto-posts, I’m trying for SoSuWriMo and I really, really want one of those shiny little skulls, lol.
Herp derp, I spent all night setting up Odysseus's profile and I still manage to post with Finn's account. 
Odysseus’s sharp, blue eyes flicked towards the entrance of the cave; he had chosen this specific spot because it gave him an unobstructed view of the entrance and a back to the wall. Another habit passed down from Ivana like some all-important tenet. Odysseus would grudgingly allow her this one, keeping one’s back protected while simultaneously having the widest field of vision could be crucial in a fight. Not that he was looking for one. In fact, Odysseus rarely started fights. That was the job of the angry and often drunk dog/wolf/coyote who’d had the misfortune to believe they could best him in a game of cards.
The last time that had happened, the man had tried to upturn a table before he realized Odysseus’s hidden little bowie knife was resting on some rather important equipment. The wolf-dog had laughed aloud in his opponents face, and left the place with a sweep of his red cape and a few bottles of alcohol missing from their usual places on the bar. Later that night, the sore loser and some friends tried to break into the room Odyseeus been staying at, but by that point the wolf-dog was already out the window, through the courtyard, and away laughing on a fast horse.
Indeed, it was far too fun fleecing those of lesser intelligence. Odysseus made something of a living out of it, if you could call what he did living. He called it celebrating. Every moment he drew another breath, every word he read, every word he spoke, all went to a greater purpose, namely putting himself somewhere comfortable and important. Odysseus had dreamed of that since before he could remember, all through his youth spent hauling smelly fish this way and that, and his young adulthood wandering with a pack of thieves, murderers, rapists and businessmen.
The lean canine’s ears did a small dance at the sound of native Russian. It was a conflict, a toss up between straightening in interest at a tongue he knew somewhat well, or pulling back in annoyance at the memories of the one who had taught him it. They compromised by each doing a different motion. Unfortunately, Hector took this chance to break into a loud squeal, pawing fitfully at the earth when he caught the scent of another stallion in his nose. He half reared, his size suddenly dwarfing the dimensions of the cave.
"I̱remía , Hector . Na eíste akóma.” Odysseus murmured, low, gravelly voice rumbling like the purr of a cat. He was at his steed’s side in but a second, stroking the beast’s nose in long, soothing motions. Almost immediately the horse quieted, though his pinned ears and beady gaze still indicated his express annoyance. Sensing trouble if he didn’t take some kind of action, Odysseus shifted his horse farther from entrance, and turned him towards the wall, so that the newcomer might have a place to put his own creature.
“No harm is a welcome thing, as are you.” Odysseus said, sitting back down at the fire. He stood quite close, basking in the almost overpowering heat like a flower in the sun. He had come from the north, where every fire quickly became a useless, guttering thing unless you fed it often and well. And if the fire was doing well, it was the wood that was soaked through, or frozen. Or the wind was too strong and your tinder wouldn’t catch. Odysseus did not miss the north in the least. Land of polar bear and seal and caribou. They were welcome to the whole bloody lot of it. Endless miles of ice wasn’t worth much anyway.
“So tell me, tovarishch, how fares Russia these days?” The wolf-dog enquired politely. Ivanna had spoken of her homeland often and to great (and boring) lengths, but the stories the other canines of the travelling market told far more interesting tales. Stories of cannibalism deep in the north, tribes of savages to the southeast, and a population that grew larger every day with only a meagre diet to sustain it. Apparently the winters were even colder there, and that was what dampened Odysseus’s enthusiasm about the place. As equipped as he was for the cold, he didn’t particularly enjoy it. Most of the stoicism Odysseus exhibited while out in the cold, open air was simply an act. If there was a choice between whining about the chill or silently and manfully soldiering on, he’d choose the latter every single time, frostbitten toes be damned.
Sometimes he wondered if he put on too much of a show. After all, around these parts there were only bumpkinish wolves who still ran about in packs and tribes like bloody savages instead of taking an example from their more civilized cousins in Europe. Perhaps some of the nuances went over their empty, furry little heads. Still, showmanship was tightly entwined to Odysseus’s soul, along with the urge to dominate and control. The mask had become a part of him, and to tear it off now would only reveal the skinless muscles, and blood and bone that comprised his real face, in other words, the far less becoming parts of him.
The stranger moved a little closer, and it was at this time that Odysseus finally noticed the wolf’s garb. Curious indeed! His eyes gleamed with greed, not for his valuables, but for his reasons. Why would a wolf require such headgear? To scare, to intimidate, perhaps to hear better? It was certainly an eerie accoutrement, and even the stolid canine felt the slightest of frissons rise up his spine at those dark, empty eyeholes and creamy bone. That was what they all were, in the end. Stripped of names, personalities, and appearances, they were all the same; skeletons who hadn’t yet found their way back to the earth.
And here again Odysseus was reminded that the show must go on, and hopefully never end. Without the scraps of knowledge and superiority and cunning he drew about him like his red cape, he’d be nothing, and if there was anything that Odysseus couldn’t stand more than bad manners, being led on, and his crazy ex-lover, it was nothingness.