Arturo was not a sea-faring man. Of course he heard of it and having subjugated himself to Skellige’s rule in the Bay he found his new home very close to it but his interaction with it prior was minimal. Limited to brief glimpses of it upon his scouting missions. Neither was he formidable at navigating sea cliffs either. In fact, he detested heights, much preferring the stability of solid ground beneath his paws as opposed to the crumbling path of sea worn rock. Yet, the gangster was curious and in his assurance that the treacherous terrain could hold him arrogant. From his current elevation a fall would hurt, certainly, but it would not be enough to kill him. Or so he believed.

The morning was warm, if not a bit too muggy for the coywolf’s personal taste but a nice, albeit briny wind off of the ocean breezed through the tendrils of his melanistic colored fur at times like a lover’s caress and at other times like a hurricane in a tunnel, causing Arturo to lean his weight towards the face of the cliff. Toppling down the side of the Ravenshook Cliffs was not something he desired to do, admittedly. His steps were careful and methodical, but he was not adept enough at navigating the treacherous terrain to be able to tell when a piece of path was ready to crumble at even the slightest pressure. Seagulls called out to one another from above, circling and complaining but Arturo paid the lesser creatures little mind as he focused upon the rocky path before him.

Arturo didn’t even realize that he’d step on the unstable part of the cliff until he felt the tremble beneath the weight of his right paw. Quickly, he drew it back as it threw him temporarily off balance. With his heart pounding in his ears, slicked back to his skull as they were he pressed himself against the cliff face, finding a small semblance of relief in the hard press of the uneven rock against his side as he watched part of the cliff give and crumble away to the ground below with trepidation in his fiery red-orange gaze. A deep breath was taken as he collected himself pondering if it was wise to retrace his steps. Except as he made to carefully twist his body so that he was facing the way he had climbed from — the path slick with sea brine and the wet droppings of the gulls — Arturo lost his footing. Though he scrambled to grasp upon the unyielding rock as gravity grasped him and deigned to yank him back down to the earth. He grappled to hoist himself back on the precipice but his claws found minimal purchase and without anything solid to hang on to Arturo lost the battle and fell from the overhang.

The cliff was not kind to Arturo as he crashed into it on his tumble back down to solid ground. Luck, however, appeared to favor the gangster that when he collided with the earth his body would be left sore and bruised but unbroken with shallow scrapes and cuts but nothing too mutilating that would leave scars upon the vain Fearghal. Physically, at least, for Arturo’s head smacked without grace against the hard earth as bits of rock and dust covered his body and the impact knocked him unconscious where he lay, a heap of richly colored fur that would in time mat with sticky blood from where it seeped from his shallow wounds.

The only indication given to the fact that he was still alive was the steady rise and fall of his shoulders with each breath he took perhaps giving the impression that he was sleeping if not for the wounds he bore and the pieces of broken rock around him.

The coywolf's dreams were vivid and mad things moving so fast that if he were to look, to attempt to make sense of the images that bled into one another at a rapid fire pace it might be enough to give him vertigo. Unaware that these strange dreams of vicious tides — an ocean tossing him to and fro as if he were nothing more than a rag doll to it's incredible and inspiring power — came from his distorted equilibrium and the hit to his cranium that he'd taken he fought against them, fought to surface from the depths of the roiling ocean, to wake up but eventually gave in to the will of the sea. Whispers repeated a word over and over in his head like a mantra — a word he'd heard before, perhaps in warning and definitely in passing. Riptide! their whispers became more and more insistent, less suggestive and commanding. His name, he thought. They were telling him his name. When the last of the fight ebbed out of the coywolf he simply let the sea of his dreams carry him to consciousness though the moment he began to become aware of his body he immediately wished that he hadn't.

His paws twitched first, and slowly he regained control of his body in it's entirety, and when he did he became aware of the ache felt in the marrow of his bones. He was not sure what happened but all he knew was he felt like he'd gotten into a head butting contest with a ram and then a herd of deer stampeded his body. Nothing crushed, nothing broken but he was bruised and he felt every one of those bruises with an otherworldly realization of the nerves in his body. There were so many of them and they were all screaming in protest. But that wasn't all he became aware of. It took a few seconds to tune out the palpable hum of soreness he felt before he realized that something very warm, albeit very wet — a tongue — was lavishing against his torn flesh. He tensed and let out a hiss of protest, peeking a fiery red-orange eye open. His vision blurred for a moment and he swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat, letting out a low groan though of pain or the giddy excitement of attention she was giving him he wasn't immediately sure.

Riptide hadn't gotten a good look at her but he could smell her just fine. A hint of Skellige's scent was upon her fur, a name, scent and face he was conveniently aware of, given the selective amnesia and the complex birth of Riptide and what the aspiring Witch Doctor intended to be. A low giggle left Riptide's lips as he regarded her after his vision ceased to blur and distort itself. “A lover, perhaps?” He inquired, unsure of what they were to one another, not even sure if they knew each other at all. On that, the spirits were silent much to his dismay. “What happened?” He inquired shifting his front paws slightly, wincing visibly, as he — slowly — lifted his head to better study her.

It appeared, to Riptide, as if his companion whose features were undoubtedly slimmer than that of a wolf's — coywolf like him — wasn't quite sure what they were to one another, either. She had ceased her ministrations upon his wounds and a lofty sigh left the witch doctor's lips causing him to visibly wince again as the action pulled at all of his sore muscles. It took her a while to respond but when she did it was not a clarifying “yes” or “no” to his question. Instead, she spoke that Skellige was their lord but no, no! That wasn't right. The titan was king yes, but the sea, the sea! was their lord. A low scoff left Riptide's lips, almost afraid that the spirits would take those words back to the sea and that she would extract her revenge upon them. “Skellige is the Sea King but She is herself the divine,” His words were a simper, humbled and full of praise for the sea. Brother. This was the word she'd used to describe what he was to her. Was he? Riptide drew a long and decisive blank. When he attempted to delve into the murky thoughts of his mind he was met with a seething ire that appeared to come from the disheveled wraith of the gangster chained while Riptide had his control. Another giggle left Riptide's lips as he focused his eyes as they opened back to her, having closed for a few moments.

“No,” Riptide corrected her in a hushed tone, meant to soothe while also remaining matter of fact. “I have no siblings.” This resounded right to him and thus Riptide saw no further reason to question it. “You know Skellige? You are one of us?” He had no idea how he knew Skellige, could not call the specifics to his mind and so Riptide was left to assume that the Sea and spirits brought him to the Sea King. She offered him a casual lick to his nose and a low purl rumbled in the strong column of his throat. A sound of appreciation, subtly laced with that of pleasure. The spirits' let out a chorus of giggles, an ethereal noise that if rose in pitch might have caused the hairs on the nape of his neck to stand. Slowly, as to test his aching body's limits he rose as she hovered over him. For some reason that he couldn't place (a strong bought of Arturo's influence, no doubt) Riptide didn't like it. He found no pleasure nor comfort in this natural dominant and submissive roles her hovering inspired despite that he did not detect anything challenging or hostile in her posture.

He understood the simple truth that she was only trying to continue in helping him and thus he aimed to draw no attention to his displeasure as to not insult the lovely stranger. She answered his inquiry as to what had happened simply and he glimpsed up at the cliffs that he'd taken a plummet from, a wave of vertigo washing over him so that he suddenly dry heaved at his paws. Note to self, Riptide thought sourly, cliffs are bad. Stay off of them. “Nothing feels broken,” Riptide murmured as he fixated her in his gaze of twin fiery sunsets, though he took a moment to shift which paw he put pressure on, and rolled his shoulders. The give and pull of muscle and sinew left him with an unwelcome ache but nothing unbearable. “I can walk,” He determined a few seconds later after his personal inspection was complete. “though it will be slow. I feel like I head butted a ram and then a herd stampeded me afterwords.” The very same analogy he'd considered to himself but thus far it was the best way for him to describe to her how he felt and thus worth speaking aloud.

She was weary, Riptide noted from the shift in her posture though what he could have possibly said to make her so — seemingly as confused as he himself — he didn't know and deigned not to ask. She gave a name, or a duty; perhaps for her it was both. Doctor. Simple. Easy for him to remember (which was by and far the best thing). She'd taken a few steps back from him, creating space that had not been there when she'd been tending to his wounds. This fascinated the Riptide. His head canted to the side in a curious fashion, studying her, trying to determine what about him unsettled her so. He would analyze how he felt about it later for there were more pressing concerns to tend to. “I am called Riptide,” Though there was only a minuscule hesitation, his lips parted as if he did not think that was quite right. But of course that was silly. There was no other name to associate with himself...and Riptide was what the spirits had violently whispered to him like a mantra while he had been dreaming. Thus, of course, it was his name.

“I won't hurt you Doctor,” Riptide promised in a softened purr as she approached, each of her steps and movements weary, cautious. It was fair for her to assume that it was a possibility — everything she said and indication thus far suggested that they'd never met before. “A poultice,” Riptide repeated. “Of what? For what?” He fired off the questions, knowing that he would oversee the creation of the poultice: for as weary as she was of him, he felt a creep of suspicion towards her. He had to be sure she was not creating a poison to give him, after all.

“The top?” Riptide asked her, his steps halting, peering over a svelte shoulder to set his fiery gaze upon her. “Surely you don't mean the cliff?” In case it hadn't been clear by the fact that he'd fallen down it (though he only known this by what she told him) he was not exactly thrilled, or truthfully, all that eager to climb it. Or anything with any sort of elevation for that matter. He refused to move, contemplating that there had to be a way around the damned thing.

She explained what she would make her poultice out of, what it was intended to do and assured him that it would not even sting his abrasions, and then confirmed that she had no intentions of hurting him either. Doctor was insistent that the cliffs were their only option and Riptide let out a shallow sigh, peering up at the looming cliff through his lashes, his muzzle wrinkling back in distaste. “And if we both fall?” He didn't remember the fall, thankfully, but he did not doubt her words. Something had caused the pain in his body, in his head, something had caused the shallow scrapes that blood oozed out of, matting and drying in his earthen colored fur. “We should be able to skirt around the Plateau to the south of here and make our way through the Weald, skirting the borders of the pack to the Bay's left.” Riptide suggested with a surprising moment of clarity though he was not sure how he knew that other than he was pretty sure that was the way he'd found himself to the Cliffs in the first place. He just knew that it sounded like a viable plan that would avoid them having to attempt to climb the cliff. His brows furrowed for a moment as he struggled to re-find some type of bearing, looking down from the cliff so that his gaze settled upon her once more. “It's a much safer option.”

Doctor saw his point, though admittedly, Riptide had not been subtle about pressing it. He did not want to climb the beast of the cliff lest it attack him again, this time with the intent of claiming his life. He was dazed, confused but he knew with a fundamental cohesiveness that he wasn't willing to risk his life twice in one day. With her acceptance of his chosen path Arturo took the lead, knowing that it would take them some time to reach Stavanger Bay — especially given his slow movements — but that they would get there and in one piece and that was clearly the most important thing.