and now, we burgle.

POSTED: Fri Mar 26, 2010 8:40 am

Witches' Cauldron @ Shattered Coast. :] ((313))

Tonight had brought onto Rurik the insatiable urge to wander, and though he was only freshly acquainted with the Cour des Miracles packland, he was already on the edge of it, wandering about. He had forgotten that border duty was actually a part of being in a pack, but even so, he would not have been comfortable with greeting a newcomer at the packland's edge. He was but a lowly peon of the Miracles pack, too fresh to be of any use accepting anyone on its outskirts—the silver-furred werewolf might have been more comfortable in Aremys or Syemv doing such things, but both of those areas were different beasts entirely. He actually had a hand in forming the latter of the pair, so he was far more familiar with the customs and traditions associated with it. This was an entirely new pack, and he still had a hell of a lot to learn.

Here he felt rather fresh off the boat, and he wished to learn the ways of his new clan before he went and got in someone's way. Liliya and Anatoliy would also rely on his direction—neither of them had ever lived in a pack before, and while most of the associated behaviors were instinctual, there were also quite a few learned behaviors, as well. The Russian werewolf trotted along the edge of the coast, picking his way carefully along the rocky shore. The waxing gibbous moon overhead cast a fair amount of light over the land, allowing the Seigneur to see quite clearly. Something about drinking the night away on a desolate beach appealed to him, and the lonely stretch of dark-sanded beach up ahead seemed just perfect for that. The bottle of rum clutched beneath the crook of his arm sloshed merrily as he walked, promising for a fun night and an even more fun stumble home.

POSTED: Fri Mar 26, 2010 10:03 am

He was never far from what minimal possessions he dared keep close. A makeshift bag filled with useful objects and not much more, he carried it across his body under normal circumstances, but he was always quick to abandon it in some safe place, hidden in any nook or cranny deemed suitable. Four legs were better than two, and even in his feral form he reached just over seven feet tall when he stood upright. Compared to most wolves he was a giant on all levels, no matter the form he took on. Plus, he simply enjoyed the easy lope his canine form presented—gliding across the black sand in a nearly effortless gait beneath the slowly filling moon. He was a ghost—a shadow moving in the night without sound and leaving behind nothing more than a thin trail of oversized footprints. Only the soft sound of his breathing and the gentle rustle of his bag followed him, drown out by the ocean’s tide as it crept up the beach toward him.

He’d assumed he’d be spending another night alone, but lo’ and behold! He spotted another canine on the beach just as he was, traveling alone in the pale light. Slowing into a stand-still, the gray-furred canine silently regarded his midnight companion, taking in his subtle body language to search for any sort of acknowledgement of his presence. He quelled the desire to wave his tail, knowing the man might just be of the cruelest sort that didn’t appreciate any intrusion to his solitude. Kian himself desired company, but the other remained yet unknown. Seating himself into a regal pose on the sand, he merely watched the wolf’s approach.

“’Alo, Guv,” he attempted, rising his voice on the air and throwing on a friendly expression despite the darkness of the night. Contrary to his impressive size, and thus naturally intimidating appearance, Kian was as gentle as a puppy much of the time. And if bared fangs and snarls were tossed his way he’d simply turn right around and walk away, retreating the way he’d come along the sand without another wasted word.

POSTED: Sat Mar 27, 2010 8:27 am

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LOL BEETCH. Hehe. Word Count: 354.

There was not a single cruel bone in Rurik's body, to be perfectly honest. The capacity for violence did not exist within the cloud-colored man; he was a pacifist in almost every circumstance. The only thing that could drive him to intentionally harm another being would be an immediate, severe threat to his family—he would protect his children, his brothers, and his ancestors with tooth and nail, but that was all. Beyond that, Rurik did not believe in war-making. He did not seek vengeance, and he rather much preferred to forgive and forget. After all, he had lived a rather good life—there was but one great regret, but one thing at which he had failed miserably: mateship and love. He had soured and ruined that for himself, and he had not longed for monogamy since. Kiska was the one, and she was the one who got away, too.

He had not noticed the other canine on the beach, though as the silver-furred Russian drew closer, the stranger became far more apparent. He was very, very large—and Rurik was pretty big himself, so it was not often that he was so dwarfed. As the Russian wolf drew closer, he was able to identify the canine more—at least, he was able to say that this was not a wolf. This was a dog if he had ever seen one, though that certainly didn't bother Rurik. The silver-furred man held no prejudice where species was concerned; it was said dogs had descended from wolves, anyhow—whether by human interference or not, it mattered little to Rurik. Of course, there were canines who would have held dogs' domestication against them—Rurik was not such a canine. To do such a thing would have been to hate himself—he knew his mother's lineage held some hint of canis lupus familiaris.

“Allo! I am Rurik Russo, good to meet you! What brings you to zhis fine beetch tonight?” he asked, drawing ever closer to the man. There was, of course, friendliness in the werewolf's gait, the darkened tip of his tail wavering behind him.

Table by Erin

POSTED: Sat Mar 27, 2010 9:12 pm

YOU BEETCH. D;

It appeared that this creature was not particularly anti-social, and Kian was pleased. His greeting was met with polite enthusiasm, to which the dog returned with a gracious smile. To an extent he always anticipated less-than-cordial reactions to his presence, though he couldn’t help always hoping for more. Dublin had its wolves and its unkindly generalizations just as any other city on the planet, so the canine didn’t expect this place to be any different. He’d been bred from wolves by humans into an abomination used as nothing more than a personal servant to their purposes. Though he was luckier than certain breeds that had more than likely already died out—dogs that couldn’t even birth their own children, take care of themselves, or breath properly—he still held the mark of humans all over his entire person, even if the two-legged apes were long extinct.

Dogs were supposed to be stupider than wolves, behaving like needy, inappropriate puppies even after they’d physically matured. He knew all of this, and he chose to ignore it. Perhaps his breed did have something to do with his personality, but that didn’t make up all that he was in his entirety. This wolf had an accent just as peculiar as his own, and the dog’s own tail waved slightly on the sand beside him. “Russo” hinted at Russian origins, but of course he couldn’t be sure without further knowledge. A name was only a name, after all, and he was no expert on Russia and its accent or its people.

“Evenin’, Rurik Russo,” he tested, trying the name on his tongue. “I’m Kian Tadhg, if ye wan’ed t’know,” the dog returned, offering up his full name as the stranger had done only moments before. “I’s too fine a nigh’ nae t’spend it on the beach, yeah?” he said, allowing a coy smile to cross his lips. “Wi’h a name like Russo I can only assume yer Russian, yeah?” he asked, attempting to gain finality to his possible perception of the foreign wolf.

table by sie.

POSTED: Mon Mar 29, 2010 9:21 am

355

The silver-furred Russian was oblivious to the purposes of Kian's breed; he could not identify a Wolfhound from a Husky from a German Shepherd. He was not well-versed in the ways of dogs; he had known a few throughout his life here and there, but there were not so many that Rurik had interrogated on their ancestry, and so he was relatively ignorant to the different breeds of dogs. Certainly, there were scholars of wolfish society who studied such things, there always were, but Rurik was not among them. Rurik generally did not worry about malevolence; he approached each creature with the expectation that he would be treated however he chose to interact with them, and that friendly actions always produce friendly reactions. He had been proven wrong once or twice, of course, but by and large, creatures were generally friendly if he was friendly first. Now it seemed like no exception.

“Good to meet you,” the wolf repeated, the same sloppy smile across his face. “Agreed—zhis is good night for ocean waves and day-warm sand,” he added, plunking down unceremoniously to the sand. Night had only fallen an hour or two ago, and the sand was indeed still radiating some warmth from the day's sunlight. “But always better with company,” he said, patting the sand in offering to the other man. The question came as a surprise to Rurik; it wasn't often that people were able to peg his birth land. “Aye, Russia it is! Arkhangel'sk. You have been here?” he asked, excited to hear of one who had visited as much as his entire homeland, let alone his home town. That would have been good—but just familiarity with Russia was a refreshing thing to Rurik. It was not often he encountered such a thing, and it was a good change from the blank stare he usually received in discussing his homeland. He was not familiar enough with Kian's accent to place it, though he assumed the other man would seek an opportunity to discuss it in conjunction with Russia; the accent did suggest familiarity with European areas, to say the least.

POSTED: Tue Mar 30, 2010 2:49 am

Once, not long after Kian had learned to read and after he’d already begun to find sanctuary within the pages of a book he’d discovered a tome detailing the different species of dogs that’d once existed. He himself was a rarity, for most dogs had bred into the local canine population and could no longer be distinguished individually any longer, but he remained pure and doggish as if the humans had continued selectively breeding his ancestors even after their disappearance. He’d long believed it’d been intentional on their part—perhaps some elitist group that wished to remain as the dogs they were and carefully selected their mates on this ideal alone. He could never be sure though, as he’d never met them. Perhaps he was even a product of incest across the generations, for within a single breed the gene pool quickly diminished, and how many dogs honestly cared about genetics to care this long? The idea revolted him, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He’d never chosen his parents, and obviously they’d never chosen him.

As a child he’d had a perfect Dublin accent, but as he grow and began to travel and met new people his accent began to diminish and evolve, becoming the random mish-mash of different dialects that it was today. His voice was impressionable, and the longer he’d spent in London and on the road, the more it’d taken on the nuances of others around him. Underneath it all, the Irish could still be found, but it was overlain with more than enough to cause the untrained ear to have not a clue where he’d originated from—even if they were familiar with his original accent. It was no surprise that Rurik Russo couldn’t immediately ascertain his nationality—if Kian even considered himself a citizen of Ireland any longer, as it’d been so long since he’d been there. He seated himself on the sand near where the Russian gestured for him to, leaning over and slipping his back off from around his neck.

He yet felt no need to shift despite the other’s two-legged form as he didn’t particularly feel dwarfed by the luperci’s unnatural size. He himself was an abnormality, and so he remained on all four paws like the dog he was. “Always be’er wi’h company, indeed,” he concurred, lips curved into a friendly expression. Kian was a social creature by nature, adoring companionship even if he didn’t immediately seek it out on his own. Yet this wolf had fallen right into his lap and he wasn’t about to push him away with any sort of awkwardness. He was a friendly sort, Kian could tell, and it allowed natural comfort on his part. “’Fraid nae,” he replied, voice taking on the appropriate mournful tone. “I’ve been around on ships and t’like, bu’ I’ve never been t’Russia in this life. I was born in Ireland. Dublin, ac’ually. Is i’ nice where ye come from?” Occasionally, the wolfhound did long for his once home, but there was nothing there for him any longer. It’d been a while since he’d felt that there was.

table by sie.

POSTED: Sun Apr 04, 2010 7:24 am

308

“Ireland, eh? I pass through there once—very green, very nice! Mine homeland is pretty cold, and we have either long days or long nights, depending in the time of year.” Arkhangel'sk found itself shrouded in long darkness or never-breaking day for long months, and strange as it was, Rurik actually missed that about his homeland sometimes. There was nothing like a long, cold Russian night. “What ports you have seen on the other side? Maybe we have seen ourselves at the same places before,” the werewolf said, laughing at the thought. It was always possible they'd passed one another in the street before and not even noticed, though with the other canine's particularly unique appearance, the cloud-colored male doubted it. He thought he would notice and remember someone such as this if he had seen him before—Kian was definitely a rarity, and it was unlikely he enjoyed a whole lot of quiet time if he went out in a busy place. He probably drew looks, though most of them were probably simply impressed with his size. Rurik sure was, after all. The grizzled canine easily towered over the seated Russian even in his Lupus form.

Rurik's voice would always have that peculiar quality, the one that declared him a Russian, perhaps upkept by his continual trips to return home to the motherland. He had spent many months there speaking Russian almost exclusively, using his English only where he educated his children in it. The silver-furred man tilted his head to the side, grinning at the other canine's statement. He found himself in complete agreement, of course. The Russian tapped open his bottle of rum, taking a short swig of it. Though the other man was not shifted, he still felt compelled to offer over the bottle sheepishly. “I dunno if y'got hands or what,” he murmured.

POSTED: Tue Apr 06, 2010 3:44 pm

The length of the days and nights always shifted depending on the season regardless of one’s position on the planet, but Kian knew what Rurik had meant by his words. Russia had parts far north, where it was always colder, and where the seasons knew dramatic weather and lighting compared to the rest of the world. “Green, yeah, bu’ lo’s o’ rain,” he replied, snorting softly. As the Russian missed his dark, perpetual nights Kian missed his rain—simply for the familiarity more than anything else. “Qui’e a few,” he said, searching his memory. He’d traveled a lot, though Dublin and London were where he’d spent the most of his time thus far. “Dublin, Liverpool, London—though nae a por’, bu’ large enough o’ a ci’y t’ma’er, yeah? Lisbon, Barbados,” he listed, knowing he wasn’t including every single city he’d ever visited. But Rurik had specified ports, and thus Kian had obliged.

He didn’t need to rattle off every single place he’d ever been, after all—that would bore the poor bastard to death within minutes. This was nothing more than light conversation to pass away the time. He’d long since grown accustomed to any interest in his unique appearance and choose to ignore it. Other than his body he was nothing special, and he knew this well enough. He’d prefer humility over showiness anytime, and he’d prefer a nice, comfortable conversation on the beach with a friend to being the center of attention in the city before a curious crowd of strangers. It was the wilderness that held his adoration, and the solitude there, despite his affinity for company. “I can,” he murmured, once the wolf had taken his drink of the rum. Swiftly, he repositioned himself into a crouch where he began to shift.

His body grew even larger, taking on more muscle and bulk and his hair grew even longer and wilder. Always, he was svelte, but now his body held a different kind of weight, redistributed across his bone structure. He was a beast, towering over many other wolves regardless of the form they took, though his features remained soft and puppyish. “There!” he said, plopping his rear back onto the ground. He took the offered bottle, grinning sheepishly as he did so. “Sláinte mhaith!” he toasted, before taking a quick drink of the rum. He grimaced from the burn, feeling it creep steadily down the inside of his chest as he returned the drink to its rightful owner. It’d been a while, as he truly preferred to drink only in the presence of others—never alone.

table by sie.

POSTED: Wed Apr 07, 2010 1:19 pm

307

“Aha. We have lots of snow, like rain but colder,” he said, laughing at the absurdity and obviousness of his statement. He was likening their homelands, as he felt a particular kinship with creatures from the other side of the world—they were strangers on this feral land. Listening to the other canine rattling off the names of ports, the werewolf nodded and made murmurs of approval several times, having definitely seen London before. He had passed through Liverpool once or twice, of course, but he had never stayed—the silver-furred werewolf was either eager to head on toward London or eager to get away from it, heading back into the relative wild of mainland Europe. There was claustrophobia in cities after a while, and Rurik was always eventually eager to leave them again.

“London, of course—everybody's seen London. Ain't lived if you haven't,” he responded, nodding. “I have not been as far south as Barbados, myself—I sail, so I chose where we land,” he explained, giving reasoning for why he avoided most of the more major ports between this continent and the far one. As the man began to shift, the silver-furred werewolf watched with interest as the grizzled man grew even larger, his stature even more intimidating. “Oy, I bet you'd take down loads of cash fighting in the cities,” he said, tapping the man on a muscular arm. ”Half the guys you set out to fight'd shit themseles and run from the ring,” the werewolf said, grinning broadly. He certainly wasn't about to take on Kian—he pitied the person who did.

“What's that mean?” the werewolf asked, clearly interested in the language. He did not recognize it, which was a strange thing—usually he could guess at least a similar language, but this one was entirely unfamiliar to him was rare.

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