Upon re-entering the Lore, Sif had managed to skirt around the pack land that had popped up almost as soon as he’d come in. Why anyone would want to live in those murky woods was beyond him, but that was their business he supposed. Thinking logically, perhaps it provided a good means of cover against attack or had a surprising abundance of prey. There certainly seemed to be plenty of nooks and crannies for a fat squirrel or hare to hide in. Still, it didn’t tickle his fancy enough for him to explore and he preferred to stay plenty far away from the possibility of accidentally going over a border. After all, he did have manners which dictated that if you were going to go near someone’s borders you needed to at least notify them. Yet, since he had no real interest in it he’d decided it was best to keep a respectable distance and continue on his way.

Dreary forest had turned into an impressive display of large trees colored brightly by red ferns at nearly every corner. Now this, this he could get into. It seemed the area was plenty large, and the life that teemed in it made him wonder why no one had decided to claim it. Yet, taking a big sniff he soon found the reason why. Coming from upwind blew the scent of another pack, not as strong as the one before but certainly still there. It seemed the Red Fern Forest was smack dab in between two packs, and then it made much more sense. Still, to him it seemed like such a waste.

As he’d been traveling most of the day, Sif thought this area was as good a place to take a pit stop. Have a nice meal and enjoy the scenery, trying to ignore the humidity that was slowly seeping into his thick Russian pelt. He was meant for much colder climates, that much was for certain with his bulky frame. A sigh rumbled from his chest as he prepared for a hunt, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in. YA , Sif Mikhaylovich , vash pokornyy Septon , prizyvayem Kroun vesti menya v etoy okhote . Pozvol'te mne sdelat' pravil'nyy vybor respektabel'nykh , chtoby ya mog s"yest' i prodolzhit' tsikl zhizni . YA prizyvayu Voina , chtoby dat' mne sily , chtoby nachat' i zakonchit' etu okhotu , i ya prizyvayu svyatoy Materi , chtoby derzhat' menya milostivym v moyem ubiystve . Amin'. he prayed. Opening his mismatched gaze, he steeled himself and prepared for the hunt.

The male tilted his head back and drew in the scents around him, trying to pin-point just what, exactly, he wanted to go for. Red Squirrel…no that was too small, Snowshoe Hare…the scent too old, but two white-tail deer…much more promising. The scent of milk was vague within the scent, hinting at one of the two being a juvenile. Bingo, he’d found his match! But, there was something else that he’d caught whilst tracking that he couldn’t quite put his paw on. Something that he felt he should be recognizing. Drawing in another sniff, he realized that he’d make a crucial mistake. He’d been too preoccupied that he’d missed the approach of another. By the time he’d make this connection, a soft voice echoed in the otherwise quiet forest.

"I've never heard that language before," she whispered, and Sif turned roughly to face the woman. She was several inches shorter than he was, though that was normal given the mammoth of a Russian hulk he was, with a tawny pelt of ambers, browns, and creams. Perhaps the most interesting part about her appearance was the pair of tear-like stained that trailed down her muzzle. Taking in her appearance and her soft voice, as he had no idea this was certainly not her natural state, he was able to easily mistake her for a ‘damsel in distress’.

“Not surprise, Russian not very common in this land.” he replied choppily, speaking from past experience. He’d not really had much of a chance to practice his English in his time away from Lore, so it truly wasn’t any better than it had been. “What is name, neznakomets?I am Sif Mikhailovich.”

It seemed, as the conversation went on, that this girl was certainly no damsel in distress. With each moment, the energy she seemed to be emitting increased until he swore she would start physically buzzing with it. She gushed over his name, causing him to raise a brow in surprise. He really didn’t think his name to be anything to be perfectly honest. Back at the Krai it had certainly meant something, being the son of the leader, but that was very likely a part of the reason he had left. To him, his name meant nothing now. The people who held it had ruined it, smashed it to pieces and tried to glue back together a broken crown. The moral standings that had once comprised it were the only things keeping him from throwing out the name all together, embarrassed of the shame he felt when he thought of it at all. The Mikhailovich line had once been strong, respectable, dependable wolves, but corruption could infiltrate even the purest of lines it seemed.

Sif nearly scoffed as the girl tried to say his name, stuttering over the gruff pronunciation it took to say correctly. Then, she fluttered right on flowing from one topic to the next so quickly that he had trouble catching and understanding everything she was saying. He understood bits and pieces, such as her name, and the basics of her question about what he had been doing. He pondered for a moment, thinking on what to say and how to say it with a look of concentration. “Sif fine to say. Rue also fine name, strong name,” he rumbled. “I was praying to 7 Gods, asking for strength on hunt from Mother, Crone, and Warrior. You would like to join, perhaps?” Even though the male was strong, it would take more than just him to take down a deer. Perhaps with her help, they could even take down the doe and get more food in the long run.

Sif watched Rue puff up her chest, reminding him strongly of a male peacock. The birds were boastful and arrogant in his opinion, and while the woman had to yet to strike him as such the comparison still remained. She seemed to gush excitedly over his comment on her name, and with each passing minute the Russian man couldn’t tell if he liked or disliked her. She was rambunctious and easily excitable, the complete opposite of any of the members of the Mountain had been. The pups had had their playtime, but roughly around 6 months of age they would start learning and being integrated into the strict pack law. While not everything and everyone was dry, the atmosphere was never centered around family unless it was to boast upon your name.

The teary-eye’d female gasped, going off on another tangent of quick verbal assault that left the non-native Russian reeling on his feet. It seemed that she’d misunderstood his invitation, as he’d been inviting her to join the hunt not pray to the Gods. But, perhaps it could be a win win for both. Sif was more than willing to pass his religion on to anyone who expressed interest. He knew that there were other beliefs in the world, and while he did not believe in them or their liability if these wolves wanted to remain in their ignorance then he would allow them that. Ignorance was bliss in many aspects. After he was done teaching her, perhaps she would then join him. If not, he supposed it would be smaller prey for the mean time.

“No say wrong thing, Seven ask for respect only. English fine for praying.” he assured her with a rough nod of his head. “Is only one God, but God has seven faces. Each face do different thing, but help all the same. Father is justice, he judge your life and soul when you die. Mother is all things good, very good to females. Help you be merciful and help women in pregnancy and birth. Maiden is all thing love and innocent. Crone help with, how you say, wisdom. She very good for hunt. Warrior is strength and courage, he very important where I from. Smith help with creation, making things. Ideas. Finally, Stranger. Stranger scariest of seven faces. He represent death and unknown, no one pray to him usually. Less you’re dying maybe.”