He was a wanderer, a vagrant at heart and fortunately proud of it. The snow made his Christmas and the seas was a worthy valentine, the love of his life and his director. Nikolai moved as the tides did; his movement was sporadic, he followed the moon and the wind and whatever scents it carried. He dieted on fish, and fishing was his pasttime, his recreation for relaxation. He was the wayward son of the sea more than of his own father and mother, more befriended to the ocean waves than to his brethren or brothers. He didn't know where his family was. Finding them was not his drive; he was not seeking anyone or anything. He moved like the ocean: always moving, whose purpose had yet to surface.
His direction of wandering often followed the coastline when he had no particular place to be, not that he ever did. He was a stranger in a strange land here; Canada was nothing like Russia, both in creature and habitat. The air was sickening, and the ocean whispered curses instead of blessings. The salt of the sea reeked such a terrible stench that he often sneezed and choked on it, and yet he was still drawn to stepping beside it, even in the coldest of winter. The wind would whip and toss at his thick, season-adjusted fur, and he would step barefooted in the freezing water without even noticing its temperature. He was adjusted to cold.
The Russian-born hadn't been expecting to see another soul out on the beach, considering how furiously the wind nipped at creatures unaccustomed to it. The ocean had a tendency to love the breeze and carry it around like a child; somehow, Nikolai had come to appreciate that. Of course, he found a coyote or something laying around, and the brute stopped and stared at it a while, wondering if it was dead. Folding his arms, he stepped up a few cautious steps closed and peered at empty, ripped piercing holes scattered on the opposite's face, though they were nothing compared to the expertly placed holes and dots on his own face. If he could thank his parents for anything, he supposed he could for how well he'd been pierced. He bent over a little, staring at the creature. "Hey," he muttered, duel eyes watching, "should get holes repierced. Empty holes look seelly."
