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.

SCREAMS IN ALL PLACES

Their numbers dwindled, but a few had joined, so perhaps all was not completely lost.  Rosalyn had yet to meet these newcomers - she tired quickly, and most of her movements involved food and function.

This is the last year.  She thought, and while it was mostly because her back was killing her today (fuck this), something instinctual told her she wasn't wrong.

  Hunting was out of the question right now, but occasionally Rosalyn could find something to scavenge nearer the shore.  Ocean delivery of whatever miserable creature had tested it and found themselves wanting.  She was poking about when she saw a stranger appear in eyeline, and she immediately stopped, her ears tilting back.  This wasn't a state she wanted to be caught in alone.

But he was at their borders...  and they needed crew.  Aye, you!  What do you want?  If he breathes a word about Caiaphas, I swear to fucking... It had been a few weeks, but seemed everyone came here looking for one thing and one thing only.  She held back a bit, leaving plenty of space between them - she didn't trust her ability to run if he was some crazed loner, not with this unweidly body.

Stenderds had seen better days. The weight of pregnancies had bowed her back and a summer coat had no hope in hell of masking the scars, broad and numerous as they were. Two perfectly formed ears had been reduced to one and some kind of shredded third, and 6 years of scowling had elevated said scowl to something beyond sour.

But Vlad recognized her immediately, warts and all, and felt warm.

He didn't say that, of course - Vlad was a man on a mission. He sat, crinkled his face like a bad smell had wafted in on the ocean breeze, and announced: "You fett." 

Rosalyn didn't recognize him until he spoke, and even then, for a second she thought she misheard.  But that accent was unmistakeable and unforgettable.

Vlad!?  She immediately took a step forward, then stopped again.  This was a turn.  It was good to see him, but that good was mixed with a whole lot of what the fuck.  He'd left without a single word and then, what?  

You're grey, she answered, but the sharp edge wasn't there.  All she really had right now was shock and confusion.  What the hell are you doing here?

"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?

Rosalyn blew out a breath in a huffed laugh as he went on about Rosencrantz.  She might have been annoyed, but that name.  Stenderds.  For the first time in a while she felt a bit self conscious of what she'd become now.  A lifetime ago she'd been prettier... and a few other things too.

Really?  Because I think you'd like him. She finally moved, closing the distance so that she was standing right in front of him.  But these children will have two mothers.  What would you do with them?  

Years ago he'd been her best friend, and then years ago he'd disappeared without a word.  Before Erzulie, before Drageda, before any of it.  She half expected him to disappear right now and just be a trick or some strange dream.  But no dream would have painted him with those whiskers. 

You can't disappear on kids.  They disappear on you, she added silently.  But her good eye judged his reaction, waiting.

"You can't disappear on kids."

He parked the lady-love segue and nodded sagely, whiskers bouncing in the breeze. The resident crabs held their collective breaths - was Vlad about to say something repentant, perhaps even sweet? No, of course not.

"Thees gud - you meck learnings," he praised, as though Rosalyn had been reciting a lesson. What a relief - the gross-father-weird-lady-love-situation hadn't warped her mind beyond the capabilities of a strong, handsome, experienced mentor - an advanced expert in all things child-rearing (having raised exactly zero children). 

"I meck menny learnins on bebe. I stay," a decision made, not a question. Vlad leaned to the side to address her belly, flattened his ears and shouted into the waters of the womb: "I GREND-PA NOW." His yellow eyes flashed up to hers, soft, pleading that she would not make him ask.

Old habits died hard, and a piece of her was tempted to hold her grudge.  That small part was silenced by the larger, more expansive truth of these past few years.  She'd lost so many, and if fate for some reason saw fit to bring him striding back in now, she'd take it.  She was too tired not to, and it was too good to hear his stupid voice.

She smiled, and then laughed.  The release of it felt good, and she shook her head.  You haven't changed a bit.  Welcome back.  Briefly she thought perhaps she should call for Aningan... but no.  She knew her call was enough, and if she said it, Vlad would be allowed to stay.  Just one condition, grendpa.  I want to hear where you've been. She took a step back, inviting him to follow at a walk.

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.

Rosalyn listened, and while she didn't know what of it was true, she enjoyed the tale thoroughly.  A princess... if she felt anything over that, she didn't know.  It was too hard to equate the salted wench she was now with the wolf she'd been then, at a time when she might have striven for such a label.  For Rosalyn's story to be told, Vlad would need to meet Erzulie... since she was in essence the entirety of it.

She didn't press for details or truth, there was no need to yet.  She just took him for a short walk about the moors, showing him the place where she hoped he'd stay.