The silver-furred Russian was something of a free spirit—he certainly hated being tied down too long, and he knew even this venture on the present continent was only temporary. Home called, far and distant cities beckoned. Rurik had never stopped moving, really—the five years since he'd turned two were spent in various places, his time scattered about the globe. He didn't know that he could ever really settle; it seemed against every instinct in his body. At least it had been unexpectedly didactic; he had learned more about life and culture on his journeying than he'd ever imagined.
Though the other canine didn't appear to have the same outgoing quality as he did, such a thing had never stopped the silver-furred werewolf before—and as soon as she spoke, it was his turn to be surprised. It was rare that others were able to peg his accent or even surmise where he was from at all, and he could not help but appear pleased. “Oh, I am from Russia, but East Europe is nice, too,” he said, his tone completely lacking in boastfulness. He was not one to brag, generally. “How do you know mine motherland?” he asked eagerly. She didn't sound very Russian to him; he thought she was from right around here by her own accent, but such a thing certainly didn't exclude her from having visited Russia in her lifetime.
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