Seaside Moors in russia tragedy, everybody die

"You're grey."

He was - to the point of being unrecognizable, and the proud owner of the longest, whitest whiskers in the history of wolfkind. The Fu Manchu walrus from Russia grumbled something behind his bushel of facial hair and sat, slowly, masking his groan with a very long fart. Had he wet himself or was the sand just warm? The troubles of an older wolf were many. He smacked his lips, squinted, and made a few 'old man noises' to stall for time.

Vlad hadn't really planned beyond surviving the journey. Was there meant to be a speech - or some shouting? A fight? Hadn't there been a fight all those years ago? He remembered running from Bleckface, and then he remembered four hard years with the Bratstvo - that was it. 

Here he sat, face to face with a long-since expired opportunity at happiness - one of two, and a third was unlikely - without a plan of any kind.

True to form, Vlad fell back on the trustiest tool in his arsenal: insults and nonsense.

"I comings to here venn hearings you fett," he said, nodding pointedly at her belly. "Who papa? Ees not gud wulf, I smellingz eet. Blersch! Thees wulf meck so shame on Stenderds. I feex for you - so gud deal, I grow bebe as son of Vlad." 

Who could resist free childcare in this economy?