Cerulean Cape i just want to occupy your mind

 the forest is quiet, something normally samothes desires; today it feels oppressive and he finds himself wandering out to the coast. samaantine's sudden appearance has shaken him more than he'd care to admit. what is the good of turning over a new leaf if the old one comes right along with you? although she'd seemed no more interest in communicating with him than he is with her, still a part of him wonders. it was easy not to worry about back home when the good child was there to steer them all into prosperity and peace or what have you. it is harder when she is here for some reason and will not tell you why. 

troublesome witch. with a huff he settles himself in the sand, one paw folded elegantly over the other, and lays his chin upon his feet. the breeze is cold but refreshing against the perpetual gloom of ravensblood, and he finds himself drifting without thought after a short while.

the coast, arturo has come to learn through his errant travels has become quite popular. drageda still remains, another pack has cropped up in the sound — and though he thinks he smells chusi he avoids it and her as if she/they were some sort of pestilence. arturo is content to consider his once daughter estranged and leave it at that — but even so he is innately curious about the state of the teekons. he knows simply that these packs were not here during his second rollercoaster ride as witchdoctor. the growth and recession of the wilds and it's packs is always in flux, he has come to realize. it rises and ebbs like the tide; natural progression. nothing can be forever. it's what he told the wolves of quicksilver hollow when he disbanded a legacy at least ten years old. arturo had done it pragmatically and without any true remorse. he would not lead them. it dies with boadicea and that was that.

the coywolf wanders the cape, taking in what vague information he can about the coastal packs. even feeling as lost and heartbroken as he does, he cannot help his mobster's nature. he needs to know ( even vaguely ). his pursuit of information is a pursuit of power. rebuilding will indefinitely take time and even then he is not sure he is deigned to resurrect teaghlaigh. some things were better left in their grave ...but that does not mean he cannot make himself useful as a spymaster.

arturo almost doesn't notice the pale grey male resting in the sand and when he does the gangster ponders if he's dead or not; though the slight rise and fall of his flanks assures arturo that he did not stumble across a corpse. the fearghal monarch lets out a chuff to announce his presence, low but designed to be heard over the lull of the tide as it crashes upon the shore of the cape. "a penny for your thoughts?" the gangster inquires, his deep, smoky timbre light, communicating that he will not pry.

the open space of the beach is not the best place for a nap. it is unsecure and leaves him vulnerable, and so samothes does not let himself be lulled fully into sleep. the low chuff of another rouses him. the sound is unthreatening and so he lifts his head lazily and turns to find the source as he speaks. 

he does not recognize the slender man, but he is handsome. something mischevious creeps into samothes' honey-rose gaze as he rises to his feet, stretching his body out fluidly, nearly languorous in his movements. "i was thinking of a friend who wandered out of my life recently," the scholar murmurs, "and someone else who wandered back in." though frankly, he'd rather thelxiope than samaantine. "yourself?" he returns the question, the edges of his lips turned up into a slight smile.