Seaside Moors in russia tragedy, everybody die

Velcome beeing to Vled story. I tell you most vorsst day een life. Ees day go beck to saltyveenter. 

Vlad had totally, definitely, most assuredly moved on from his  glorious brief and unforgettable extremely ordinary life as a Saltwinter wolf. Caiaphas and crab dinners were a thing of the past - Rosalyn WHO, you know? Bunch of cyka blyat (words he had picked up from the hip and happening Bratstvo youth - they axed it from their vernacular with immediate effect).

The problem was, the wolves and crabs in question didn't know how unimportant they were. Sending a scout to deliver the message simply would not do - they didn't have the flair of an older wolf, one that had aged like fine freakin' wine (left open for 4 years in a BIG bowl but u know whatevs).

Em hendsome. I remindings wulfs.

The season was kind on Vlad's arthritis. He had taken the road less travelled in a generally southward direction, not so much by choice as by chance - neither his sense of smell nor direction had survived the years unscathed. Walking was a chore. Running downright hurt. Existing with dignity was a little harder than it had been - or would have been, if dignity was a concern. Vlad was not above Simba-style grub dinners and offering whatever he had available in exchange for the essentials.

And so it was that Vlad's four paws found sand - a lot more grey, a little more wonky, but just as hendsome.

You seeing? Narrate wulf theenk hendsome.