Seaside Moors in russia tragedy, everybody die

Vlad could have hugged her, but he was a wolf and his shoulders didn't rotate that way. It's not a true hug without the ability to squeeze and I will die on that hill.

There was no thank-you or acknowledgement of any kind - at least not out loud. The years had been very hard on Vlad, and though he still said all the vurdz and mekd all zeh gud deals, it was mostly in the service of keeping up appearances - and staying alive. He was tired. The Bratstvo youth were high on testosterone and mean as hell; always yelling and scrapping and taking chunks out of each others faces or ears for that authentic 'hard man' look. It was exhausting. Vlad was 100% ready for snoozing on the beach and teaching babies how to poo or whatever. He would be the best grendpa on their side of the continent, and he would make Rosalyn proud.

"Oh - ees most gud story een VURLD," he roared, bouncing up onto his feet with renewed vigor and following Rosalyn inland. "Vlad tellings."

And the story he told was glorious - drama, betrayal, treachery, battles waged and wars won. There was even a princess, though Vlad was suspiciously vague about what happened to her. It was the life he secretly wished he had led: as a hero, father, and friend.