Sun Mote Copse You can stand me up at the gates of hell

Arturo had yet to stray from the Tuktu Hinterlands since his arrival into them weeks ago but he understood that these Wilds were probably more than the Hinterlands and while the famine pushed the melanistic coywolf to his boundaries he would have to reascend and humble himself to the role of subordinate once more. His instinct to preserve his life weighed more than his pride, even if the idea of taking orders like he was some common street rat was enough to make the Ceannasach cringe. He'd played a similar sort of role within his ascension to adulthood but Boadecia had not been a gangster. The Warrior Queen of Quicksilver Hollow had only adopted the idea after Arturo had begun to display it and gather his following. It wasn't quite the same but no doubt the adjustment would serve to be a struggle for the Fearghal monarch. It had never truly been the power — only the exertion of control. Power happened to be a particularly enjoyable bonus; but for now those days were withheld from him. For now, he would endure lowering himself to the life he had once lived and thought himself to be free from.

The Copse was just as hideously skeletal as the rest of the Hinterlands, Arturo saw as he trudged through it, pausing every so often to lower his muzzle towards the ground and sniff at the dirt and remaining carcasses of the locusts in the hopes of catching the warm aroma of a small woodland creature he could attempt to hunt. His hunts were not always successful, and Arturo understood and accepted that the odds would not remain in his favor for too much longer. Woodland creatures were too small to sate his hunger to any true capacity — but for now they were enough to keep him from starving; but it wasn't enough. It wasn't ever enough.

Movement was caught out of the corner of Arturo's fiery orange-red eyes and the coywolf froze, the dark brown fur of at his nape bristled with caution as his muzzle lifted ever so slightly, black, leathery nostrils flaring as he breathed in the shadow's scent. A low chuff left Arturo's lips to announce his presence, though the coywolf did not move from his spot, contended to watch the other male's reaction, the muscles pulling taunt along his svelte shoulders, though Arturo's expression remained calm, philosophical. He habitually anticipated the worst, feeling that it helped to keep him as prepared as he could ever be.