touch my insanity, feel how good it is.

Marishka · 11-11-2009, 09:36 PM

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Arms pumped, her heart thudded as the golden and mahogany auburn Luperci fought the rough currents towards the rocky shore. Though the day was sunny and chilled it was a different story at sea; the waters were choppy and freezing in temperature, Marishka had always been a good swimmer though and fought gallantly against the current to reach a less treacherous part of the rock strewn shore. The strikingly featured and lilac eyed yearling had been at sea for at least a month now, aboard a ship with a less then reputable crew, though that was not the reason she had jumped ship. Marishka had always been random and almost dangerously fearless in her ways and after setting sight of this new and intriguing land from aboard the ship had decided to leave life at sea behind and explore the unknowns beyond.

So without a backwards glance she had left her new friends behind, jumping ship the moment she had caught sight of land without even a warning or goodbye. Now she had reached the shallows and delved beneath the water when ever a wave crashed over her, pushing her way through the bone chilling waters only to resurface with a strangled, teeth chattering gasp around the dagger she had placed firmly in her jaws, flipping her drenched mahogany locks back from her face as she now walked onto shore. Her black tank-top and jean short-shorts clung to the slight curve of her form, and damp golden-auburn fur as she shook from head to toe, nipples erect beneath the flimsy fabric of her top.

Marishka walked further onto the beach before wringing out her hair and flinging it back over her shoulder, gently grabbing her dagger from between her lips and placing it securely back into its hilt after she had drained it of sea water, turning as she did so to look back over the ocean and the receding silhouette of an unmarked ship. “Справедливые ветры и после морей, мои товарищи.” The Russian girl whispered into the wind, the beginnings of a smile twisting up the corners of her lips. Now she was as far as she could get from the memory of the man-she-would-not-name or at least as safe as her mind could be beyond the vast expanse of the sea.

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Rurik Russo · 11-13-2009, 06:51 AM

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Sorry for the draaaaag in reply. D:

    Ah, the inlet. Rurik definitely enjoyed the Halifax port and the docks; that area was great. However, it was almost industrial—there were no sandy beaches, just manmade walls meant to keep the ocean back. Rurik craved the sand between his toes on this particular day, even if it was particularly windy and a little bit cold. He was built for these temperatures, and his thick winter coat protected him from the bite of the wind. Humming to himself as he walked, the Russian contemplated his day. It was still relatively early, and though he knew he ought to hunt now, he could not help but feel entitled to a little bit of relaxation first.

    While in Lisbon, Rurik had managed to trade off a particularly expensive bottle of Chekov-made vodka for a rather large portion of marijuana, and he had been itching to smoke some again since his encounter with Lolita. The silvery male had rolled up a joint the night prior, though he did not feel proper smoking around the children. He didn't know how much they knew about this stuff, and he didn't want to be the one to introduce it to them, though if they asked, he'd certainly share his past with the stuff. Sighing heavily, the blue-eyed wolf reminisced on times before parenthood, when he hadn't had to worry about what his children were getting into—true, he should have been around to worry about what Zaets, Zor, and Vlad were getting into, but he'd failed miserably on that end, hadn't he?

    The ash-colored wolf paused briefly to strike a match and take it to the end of his joint, puffing heartily to goad the smoke from the end of it. Inhaling sharply, the wolf held it in as he continued to walk. The beach breeze kept it lit for his second hit, and by the third he was already starting to feel a bit dizzy. The wolf had a higher tolerance for these things than many he knew, so he was still walking slowly and puffing his smoke when he saw her; golden-furred and all kinds of wet. Concerned, for the Russian knew the waters were a bit cold for a recreational swim, he increased pace, tapping out the joint on his finger as he drew closer. "Hello," he said boldly, his accented voice rumbling from his chest, tilting his big head to the side as he looked the female over with his ice-colored eyes. She was rather pretty, all tawny-gold eyes and striking lavender fur, womanly curves with girlish resilience. Appreciative, the Russian raised an eyebrow, the beginnings of a grin showing at the corners of his coal lips.

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Marishka · 11-13-2009, 06:03 PM

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S'okay

      Her smile soon faded as a chill began to creep down her spine and settle deep within her. She would have to build a fire and dry off soon or a sickness would settle itself inside her. Though while she thought this small piece of wisdom an all to familiar smell floated past her followed by a similarly familiar accent. Scolding herself for not being more vigilant of these unfamiliar surroundings Marishka turned suddenly, flipping her mahogany hair around so it trailed over her muzzle as she crouched, the Russian girl pulling out her dagger in one fluid, practiced motion as the beginnings of a snarl sharpened her youthful features.
      Never fond of being caught off guard or by surprise the tawny-golden girl had quite a blunt approach to these kinds of situations; attack first, ask questions later. Though seeing as she had not been offered violence and only her pride had been hurt she lowered her weapon and offered the stranger only the sharp edge of her lavender gaze instead. The sickly sweet smell of marijuana clung to him as smoke drifted up from the joint between his fingers, causing her to inhale so she could savor the feel of it at the back of her throat. She was no stranger to its effects or smell for she had been among a crew who favored it morning, noon and night. Marishka then let her gaze flick from his face, downward then back up again, taking him all in in a casual manner, appreciative of his rugged appearance; the scars across his chest, the tattoos and piercings as well. She had been among a crew of pirates who liked to similarly adorn themselves and she had come to find the look almost natural to her. His messy black hair, gray toned fur and light blue eyes suited him well, as well as the rugged pair of jeans he wore to cover himself, which she appreciated greatly.
      By the end of her long and appreciative look a small smile had wormed its way onto her lips and she had straightened her posture, displaying her chest to its best advantage as well as her hips beneath the clinging cloth of her top and tight shorts, her tail swaying in one slow motion behind her. “Tell me your business here, if not sneaking up on girls,” she said in her heavily accented and broken English, the chill she had been experiencing forgotten for now in her attempt to get what she wished from this man, an art she knew all to well about, her hand going up so she could rub the finger bone she wore around her neck with her thumb. An old and impulsive movement, a tender caress of her horror filled past.

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Rurik Russo · 11-15-2009, 09:43 PM

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    The woman was rather pretty—young, he knew this, but pretty nonetheless. Her hair was long and silky, an auburn-cinnamon shade which shone and shimmered in the light. Even as a feral snarl crossed her face and momentary anger burned in her brilliant purple gaze, Rurik could not help but find her attractive. Her body was all womanly curves mixed with youthful vibrance, and even in the face of her anger Rurik did not falter, though he halted his approach immediately, holding up both hands, empty of anything but the smoking joint. His sword was strapped to his side, and he kept his hands far, far from the hilt, plastering a broad grin on his face.

    He was hardly afraid, but he was not a violent man and he did not wish to encounter a fight here today. Her anger was quick to fade, though, and the Russian's grin broadened and became more genuine. He dipped his head in thanks, and both of the canines took a moment to eye each other further. She spoke, and Rurik was surprised at the familiar accent. There was something about it he could not quite place; Russia was a large country with as many dialects and different accents as it had square miles within in it, and the silver wolf could not immediately place her as one of his own country. "Oh, I am just out for stroll, myself—I am Rurik Russo. I live in the city, back that way," he said, indicating the area with a jerk of his thumb.

    The pretty girl did look a bit bedraggled, as if she had just washed up on shore, but Rurik knew she might have just been going for a swim. He made no assumptions, and simply continued to stand a few feet away from her, stealing the occasional glance up at her face. He cocked his head to the side, and it occurred to him perhaps she considered this part of the beach her own. A frown played on his coal-colored lips briefly. "Do you live here?" he asked, suddenly aware that his very presence here might be offensive.

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Marishka · 12-03-2009, 11:59 PM

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I'm horrible. D:

Holding up his hands in a harmless gesture, keeping them far from the hilt at his side, won an even broader smile from Marishka. She was appreciative when someone understood the finer mechanics of a trade such as theirs. A trade bred from violence or necessity, a trade that required steel and strong wills. Though her blade was meager in comparison, it was deadly none the less, especially in her able hands. As the older man spoke Marishka cocked forth an ear, tilting her head to the side at his familiar accent. She had heard many Russian accents in her youth, the man, her dark master—well he brought in customers from all walks of life.
“Если Вы говорите так,” she chided in her native tongue, knowing full well now that he would understand. She even pronounced it in a dialect she was sure he would be familiar with for she was quite versed, a master of tongue, even for her young age. When he spoke next though, a question, he caught her off guard, causing Marishka to turn her gaze out toward the ocean and the now miniature dot that was the ship she had called home the past couple months. It brought her back to the present and reminded her of her still wet fur and clothes, a chill creeping up her spine and causing her to gasp as it ended with a sharp pain at the back of her skull. Gripping her dagger tighter, for she had been distracted from the man that was before her for far to long and he was much to dangerous to be distracted from. Not from how he had acted towards her, he had been quite companionable, but from the fact he was armed and was perhaps twice her size. Flicking her gaze back to him she answered his question with a strangled voice around her now chattering teeth, simply “no.”

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Rurik Russo · 12-29-2009, 05:29 AM

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Aaaah. I am worse, apparently. :/ I am so sorry for the delay.

Rurik was not a fighter; he did not believe in violence unless it was pushed onto him first. He would not hesitate to protect his family and himself, if need be, but he was unskilled and untested in true combat. He did not enjoy spilling blood, and he derived no pleasure from inflicting pain on others, though he did not speak out against others that chose to do so. Rurik's philosophy was simple; he lived his life and he left everyone else the hell alone unless he was trying to be a friend, and he was always trying to be a friend. The silver-furred werewolf was a social creature, and he enjoyed the company of others. There were so many different types of canines and personalities to encounter—sure, Rurik didn't like all of the people he met, but he could cajole most of them to be civil with his charismatic ways.

His ears shot up in shock as he recognized the language she spoke, his bright eyes sharply regarding her, though his grizzled mouth split into a broad grin. "Aha! Русский язык?! Откуда Вы, товарищ?" Normally the Russian werewolf would have attributed some other nickname to the woman, something far girlier—Savina was printsyessa, Cambria was dyevooska, Lolita was chica. Finn, though he didn't like to think of her too often, was dorogaya. He still thought of her running off, and it still hurt him to think of her running off. He'd truly gotten to like her in the short time that he'd gotten to know her, and maybe they could have had something between them, maybe.

The Russo noticed the other wolf seemed to be rather cold and he frowned, his coal-dipped ears folding backwards as he peered over at her. "Вы вероятно сделали бы хороший, чтобы получить outta холод некоторое время, по крайней мере пока Вы не сушитесь. Хотели бы Вы строить огонь?" The transition to his home language was natural, flowing from the desire to speak it. He did not often get the opportunity to converse in the mother tongue with anyone other than his children, and it was a refreshing change of pace to hear that language spill from the lips of a beautiful—and clearly deadly—woman.

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