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

The other dark coated male — though his ebony coat was not broken by the mixture of creams, and varying shades of browns as Arturo's own melanistic coat — returned the chuff and closed the distance between them, though he left ample room between them and for the respect of personal space Arturo was grateful. Upon closer inspection there was light greying in some areas of the other male's physique Arturo noted absently. The assessment did not take long and was quickly shuffled and tucked away when the question was posed. The Fearghal monarch's ears cupped forth, towards the stranger as the words crossed the space between them, before they swiveled back in contemplation. “I've haunted these Hinterlands for three weeks now, perhaps a month,” So consumed with the simple and most important task of surviving there hadn't been much time for Arturo to keep judicial track of how long he'd been in the Tuktu Hinterlands.

“Not a native, but I've been around,” The gangster concluded with a simple shrug of his svelte albeit broad shoulders, canting his head ever so slightly to the side so that he might study the stranger with his fiery orange-red gaze once more. “Why do you ask? Is there something you seek here?” Asked, despite that there wasn't much. Just skeletal remains of what once was — probably just like the rest of the Wilds if Arturo had to guess. Arturo had not been idle and had been scouting the lands — staying clear of the one that was claimed, of course — and thought he knew the Hinterland well enough to be of some assistance.