If there was one word that Arutro would use to describe the skeletal state of the world around him, death would have been more than sufficient enough. Beasts still lingered in the barren remains of what had, no doubt aided by imagination, lush and brimming with life: predator and prey alike — yet, despite the faint scent trails he'd picked upon he did not see the scurrying under paw, nor hear the familiar click of joints of larger prey. He assumed, by the littering of bug carcasses underfoot that locusts were to blame for the devastation wrought upon the Wilds, whether it was considered lucky or not part of Arturo was glad that he'd avoided the swarm. The aftermath was a different nightmare all together, he surmised, but he was not in the state as to which worry was a constant annoyance, yet. Sure, there was a rumble in his stomach but he was a survivor by nature. He persevered: that was his skill.

He took to what had likely once been a lush forest, shrugging through the skeletal underbrush and naked limbs, pausing long enough to lower his nose to the ground to inhale the smell of bracken beneath him. The scent of decaying bugs filled his nostrils but beneath that there was a warm aroma of some small woodland creature, relatively fresh at that. Intrigued, he followed it hoping that it had not taken refuge into some place he could not reach.

It became apparent to the Fearghal monarch that he would not eat this morning. The trail was fresh but he realized as it grew poignant in strength that there was the metallic tang of blood heavy in the air and sure enough a smeared blood trail across the bracken and locusts carcasses revealed that he was too late. Something had beaten him to it, left it devoured, little more than gristle, bone and an untouched head remaining. A shake of his head was given and a soft noise of discontent rumbled from deep within his chest moments before a low snort left his black, leathery nostrils. He remained for a few seconds longer, though he knew if there were any other small woodland creatures that had been occupying this little area the sound of this rabbit being devoured would have, no doubt, scared them off.

It was when he turned to head deeper into the forest's heartland that he discerned quickly that he was not as alone as he'd once assumed. Her scent carried faintly upon the wind, yet as she neared he heard the heavy footfalls of her approach, and soon his fiery red-orange gaze touched upon her, an orange-tan with obsidian colored mask, throat, under's and legs. His gaze flickered down, lazily, to the woman's paws, eyes drawn by the heavy scars they bore. For a second, he was contemplative before he shrugged it off. His ears slicked back to rest atop his skull at half mast as he stared at her in a pensive silence, intent not to be the first one to break the silence.

She offered him a greeting, simple and her name soon followed nary a breath after. Her tone was perceived by the bithiúnach as amiable, and the smile she flashed him was warm. Following his silent moments before, the debonair beast contemplated it such a rare thing. His reputation had proceeded him to the neighboring packs of Quicksilver Hollow and it took some reminding that in these Wilds his reputation had yet to follow him. Nevertheless, it clung to him like a parasite and the Fearghal deduced that it would not take long for word to spread. It rarely did. There was some part of Arturo, the very oppressed part of him that considered a simpler life, that considered these Wilds as a fresh start, a chance to find his redemption ark; but such things did not interest the melanistic coywolf and as quickly as the sliver of consideration came Arturo was quick to toss the errant prospect aside, his scoff at the idea contained in, quite literally, the nick of time. He passed it off as a small yawn and stretched as if to put off that he'd just recently awoken from a nap.

“Afternoon, Miss,” The dapper Fearghal monarch offered her, every bit cordial and mannerly. He saw no reason why this couldn't remain cordial. He had half expected the wolves of these Wilds to be driven mad and feral by the skeletal state of their home — and was left pleasantly surprised that it wasn't the case. He was in no mood to fight, not when his energy could be better spent in keeping food in his belly. If his intuition was correct, surviving the pestilence that wracked these lands would take much of his focus, strength and time. “I am Arturo; Arturo Fearghal.” His sire-name was the most important part of his introductions: thus he always included it. He wanted those he came across to remember it — regardless of which side they saw of him.

Her chummy smile did not appeared to be a permanent fixture to her face, the bithiúnach absently considered. He supposed he should be — at the very least — grateful that she did not intend to scuff or pick a fight with him; though picking fights in these hard days was an instigation that the Fearghal would only think as foolish. Perhaps beyond foolish, if there ever was such a thing. Her voice carried her inquiry to Arturo's ears, which cupped forth to let her know that he was paying attention, only to swivel to the sides of his skull as the question processed. “No,” the well-mannered Fearghal responded with honesty. There was little sense in lying and the idea of acting like he knew these lands well enough without his reputation being known was rather unappealing to the vain coywolf.

“I come from a place South of these Wilds,” He admitted, albeit he kept it vague. He wasn't intentionally trying to hide: but he saw little need to name his natal pack. Where he came from ceased to matter in these Wilds. The past would always remain relevant but he did not live in his past. Instead, the Fearghal monarch and sovereign kept his gaze and focus steady upon the horizon and what the future he would make for himself here. He had detected the mingling scent of others upon her fur, deducing that she was a pack wolf but he wondered how far from home she'd traversed. He hadn't scented any packs nearby upon his arrival. “And you?” He offered in return.

It would seem as their sparse conversation continued on that Ambrosia seemed less forthcoming towards Arturo as she'd been in the very beginning. Whether this new hesitancy was a wise choice or a not was not for him to decide. The truth was straightforward: if Arturo had wanted to do her harm he'd have done it by now and for whatever it was worth she could take a small comfort from that if she wished. She hadn't done anything to warrant him to do her ill, and if there was one thing he prided himself upon it was being the ever dapper gentleman. Still, she offered him more information than she'd needed to — whether she'd intended to or not. She was as vague as he was about her home, indicating what mountains she spoke of with a gesture of her muzzle but informed him that she'd traveled with her daughter.

He was a parent himself, but he'd long since ceased controlling their lives. Bowie, his middle son, had left the Hollow a few months prior to Arturo's own departure, though to the Fearghal monarch's best knowledge his other children: Bain and his daughters, Cearney and Devin had remained behind with their mother and grandmother; but what they chose to do with their lives was no longer his place to decide. As much as it pained Arturo, he'd settled himself to accept the knowledge that he would likely never see them again. Despite being grown: they still meant the world to him, and they always would. For a moment, the coywolf allowed his vagueness to drop like a veil as he spoke, “For now, my children and I have gone our own ways, I envy that your daughter has remained with you.” but if it would last past that was not for him to say. Just because Arturo would never tell them they couldn't venture out and find themselves in the same way he'd done didn't mean he didn't feel their absence.

Arturo did not fail to notice the grin that had pulled the corners of Ambrosia's lips upwards, but, stoic as he was he did not return it. It'd been some time since Arturo Fearghal could say he'd smiled...he couldn't remember. Perhaps when his children had been young — full of such innocent love and wide-eyed awe of the world. Leading the Family had always been his ambition, ever since he began to build it but Arturo would have lied if he said that he didn't find an altruistic joy in being a father. In fact, he would be quick to say it was when he'd been the happiest. Watching his children grow and integrate themselves into the Family, but mostly he missed them in their younger months. Of course they were little devils (could he expect any less; he deserved everything they gave him and then some) and he'd had to lay down the law and force him to place action behind his words but he realized he would give anything to have those days back. For his eldest children that was no longer a possibility, but he could have more.

He would have more children.

“I have four,” Arturo admitted, taking a quick second to marvel over how, seconds ago they'd been ...not hostile but certainly not overly warm towards one another, and now they'd found something they had in common. “Two boys and two girls.” It was ...admirable Arturo considered: her raising her daughter by herself. That had to have been extremely hard. It had be hard raising four and he'd had an entire pack at his disposal to assist him and his lover. “They grow up fast.” Luckily, he had not waited too late to discover the joys of fatherhood and was still plenty young to see numerous Fearghal children into the world yet.

A silence had settled over the pair of them, Arturo not deigning to break it, and it seemed that his companion had a similar thought. Perhaps she, like him, was lost in the memories of what had once been. An almost perfect life. If not for the shadow that loomed over him, cutting him down even as he strove to rise above her over and over he had nearly had everything. A brief moment of confusion followed as the woman broke the silence they'd ordained between them, but quickly remembered the topic of their briefly trailed off conversation: their children. Ambrosia admitted to the Fearghal sovereign that her daughter was her only surviving child of her only litter. Perhaps the coywolf felt a brief stab of pity in his blackened heart for her. He'd known the love of four children, but he did not imagine that she would have felt any less love from her daughter, then he did from four. As she spoke it, Arturo was left to assume that things were well between them and that always struck Arturo as a good sign; a sign he drew from his own complicated relationships and standings with Cynbel and Boadicea. “They were handfuls even with a pack to help my lover and I raise them.” Arturo rather thought that Ambrosia was lucky her daughter had lived as it was. He very rarely heard of children of loners living longer than a few months, at most. It took a pack to raise pups, after all, and there would never be anything to convince him otherwise.

“Perhaps,” Was all the coywolf spoke to her, out of teachings to be the epitome of debonair. With that Arturo watched Ambrosia take her leave. He lingered until she was out of sight, giving a soft shake of his head before he turned and headed in the opposite direction of her, intent to explore more of the skeletal forest he'd taken brief refuge in.