337.
The silver-furred werewolf was quite used to introducing others to the drink. He was particular fond of sharing his alcohol with others; it often made for a great story. He should've known by now that the first time drinking it rarely ever turned out well; he should've expected the sputtering coughs by now, but Rurik was slow to catch on, and it wasn't as if Strel had come right out and said he was a virgin where alcohol was concerned. Still, he didn't exactly have a canteen handy to hand Strel as he coughed, so the Russian wolf could only look on in sympathy, smiling apologetically at the multi-hued canine.
"Oy, you figure someone hands ya something, usually it don't need a warning label," the werewolf said, laughing. His English pronunciation had improved remarkably the very first time he'd lived on this coast and immersed himself in speakers of the language. Hearing Silas speak now reminded him of himself; it was not so many years ago that Rurik himself had such a voice, laced with rumbles and inconsistencies. No matter how good he got at actually speaking English, though, Rurik doubted he'd ever lose his accent. He didn't want to—there was a certain amount of homeland pride within the Russian wolf, and he felt quite strongly about Sobirat'sya and his family back home.
The other canine took another sip, slower and smaller this time, and he did not react nearly as negatively. Indeed, the other canine seemed to enjoy this second sip, perhaps because the alcohol was taking root in his head. The silver-furred werewolf reached out to the other canine as he extended the flask and took it back, taking another sip before replacing the cap to it, setting it down on the ground, well within reach of the other canine. "It's good though, innit?" the silver-furred wolf responded with a grin. He was enjoying the other canine's company, and he was quite glad Strelein had decided to take a constitutional about the city today.
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