My post is weiiiiird.
Of course, Rurik much preferred vodka—and it had to be the homebrewed kind, the firewater that the Chezov family had made for so many years now. They had perfected the recipies and techniques of the humans quickly and taken their place in vodka production; now they had made the recipe even stronger, creating swill that burned the bellies of the crustiest drinkers. Rurik ought to know—he was one of them. In fact, he was used to much rougher liquors than what he was presently sipping on; the Russian werewolf wasn't planning on getting drunk here, he still had to meander all the way home, and excessive drunkenness on such ventures was ill-advised, to say the least.
The cacophony of creaking within the old structure told Rurik someone else was on their way in; this was a curious thing. He knew there was a pack nearby—he'd seen their borders once, and he'd actually met two members of the pack prior, Cambria and Savina, and he considered himself friendly with the bunch. As they were the nearest pack, it only made sense that one of their members would be here, but Rurik made no assumptions—on these unclaimed lands, anyone was free to wander, and that was the way Rurik liked it. The smokey-furred man leaned back toward the entrance to the crawlspace, his bright blue eyes looking on similarly shaded ones, though the stranger's held an almost turquoise hue that Rurik had not seen before.
A friendly smile spread across the Russian wolf's strong features. “Allo. The rum's fine, come on in,” Rurik said, punctuating the statement with a laugh and tilting the bottle toward the other man.
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