A steady rain had begun to fall, the clouds over head thick as the bithiúnach made his way through the Floodlands, drawn to the water source, even as he sloshed — albeit a tad unhappily — through the muck of the river's banks that had spilled into the marshland, little more than mud and locust carcasses. The tall grasses that Arturo imagined had once dominated the Valley had long since been consumed in the wake of the swarm. Like every other place in the Hinterlands — and likely the entire Wilds — the Floodlands were barren and skeletal echoes of what they'd once been. Arturo paused in his wading, a loud sucking noise echoing through the muddy landscape as he freed his paw from the muck and shook it off with a simmer of disdain tugging at the corners of his lips. He understood the action was very much in vain, for the moment he lowered his mud soaked paw back to the ground it would be covered once more. The rain, he thought, as it lightly pelted his muzzle, his ears slicking back to rest at half mast atop his skull, was something of an irony. The world needed water so sustain itself and all that lived upon it, but it seemed futile in the Wild's current state, Arturo couldn't help but think.

What good was rain when it had nothing to nourish? Perhaps it aided the wolves — like him — but it did not draw the herds that had long since abandoned them. Starvation was a very real threat, and the morbid and stark realization caused an uncomfortable rumble in his stomach. Hunger was not something the Fearghal monarch was inherently used to feeling. At least, not with any sort of consistency. He'd always had food, and when their caches were low he would lead his wolves on a hunt to fill them. Arturo Fearghal was not accustomed to scrounging for mere scraps and meager pickings of food and he wasn't sure how to deal with it aside from a shift in his temperance. As much as he missed his children and his Family, he was decidedly very thankful that they were not enduring this as well, wrongly assuming that he alone came to these Wilds.

Arturo tolerated it simply because there was no other alternative, and hunted whatever hot blooded — and occasionally cold-blooded, in the case of fish — creature that he came across. He was not always successful and some days he went without eating anything at all. It was ...humbling, to say the least. A reminder of where he'd came from, where he'd started from long since forgotten in the corollary of his successes. A noise caught his attention, his ears perking, alert, atop his skull. The small pitter-patter of tiny paws against the hardened earth — where the flooded waters had yet to reach — drew him in and Arturo's fiery red-orange gaze picked the small sand colored rodent from the darkened mud around him where he dug, presumably looking for food. The vole paused, bringing it's tiny front paws up over his ears to clean them before it gave it's coat a shake and resumed it's vigorous digging.

Arturo lurched forward and trapped the rodent, frightened by the sudden appearance of the large coywolf. The Fearghal made quick work of ending the small, fragile woodland creature's life before he studied it, wishing vainly that it was something much larger and substantial.

Droplets fell from overhead, beating softly against the skull of the inky brute. His thick pelt was coated in water, clinging to his form. From his elbows down, the silver-ribbed wolf was plagued by heavy silt that seemed to stick incessantly to his limbs. Skellige was afflicted by the current condition of the land in a sense that his muscles felt weary from trudging through the muck and filth, and his stomach was barren from lack of prey. So filled with his grievances, the dark titan could feel his throat choking him and his limbs quiver. Holding a stationary position, the black mass of sodden fur and sinew leered callously to his surroundings and heaved a haggard sigh. The sooner he found himself beside the sands and waves, the sooner he would feel like the Cairn that he had crafted himself to be. These wetlands and muggy marshes would do him no good; his only option would be to find his way out. But the dreary terrain seemed to stretch on before him for ages, and Skellige did not know that he would be able to see an end.
 
Taking another slopping step forward, the ferine creature’s ears flattened to his skull at the sound of the sucking noise emitted from the earth as he drew his limb from the depths. And before he had a chance to cull another from the muck, his attention was drawn by a far spindlier creature making his way just ahead of the dark Cairn, and off to the right. Already, his poor nature and the persistent weather had forced the lurid beast into a mindset that tugged on the ache in his gut and the hot desire to feed his empty insides. Dark auburn eyes locked savagely with the hybrid; a coywolf, Skellige noted. The stranger seemed to be leaner in body than the wraith, but he moved with a persistence that was mildly admirable. Had it not been for the barbarous nature of the argent-ribbed titan, he would have called out to the other wolf. Far from the water, Skellige was out of his nature in this environment. Even so, the dark beast sucked his leg from the nasty earth and attempted to pick his pace up, hoping to draw himself closer to this stranger in the marsh.
 
After a time of trudging, the inky brute noted that the ground was beginning to toughen beneath his paws, and the lugging of his lengthy limbs was not so intolerable. Keeping his chestnut gaze locked on the stranger ahead of him, Skellige watched as the wolf became more focused and precise in his movements. A hunting posture, the swarthy Cairn observed silently. When the coywolf managed to land his catch, Skellige had found solid ground beneath his feet and he felt his heart surge. Free from the muck of the marshes, he could navigate himself out of the detrimental wasteland.
 
But he too was hungry.
 
Skellige’s deep mahogany gaze had not yet left the body of the coywolf male. His breathing was steadying and his body no longer seemed to quiver as he lifted his legs to carry him onward. With a quick breath of air, the dark titan lifted his legs and quickened his pace so that he was carried forward at a steady trot. He knew that if he were to travel to the sea, he would need more strength than his bones carried. Prey was scarce, and he was much larger than this coywolf he had come across. With a cold expression on his soot-colored face, Skellige closed the distance between himself and the stranger. The fur along his neck and spine stood rigid. His muscles swayed beneath his shadowy pelt. Hungry eyes were locked on the small prey animal at the coywolf’s paws.

The vole remained limp betwixt the melanistic coywolf's paws, over-creamed coffee colored toes flexing ever so slightly as he stared at it. It wasn't enough to even consider a snack, he deduced with little more than disdain. In fact, it brought a whole new meaning to the phrase “a bite to eat” for that appeared to be literally what the Vole was: a bite to eat. In the moment that Arturo Fearghal thought himself to be alone he wondered if a time would come when he could look back on these trying times and laugh about them — presumably to his Family. It would be a good life lesson for his future children, no doubt. Surely, this skeletal state could not and would not last forever, and the Fearghal monarch was never a man to choose to sit idle. He had little to offer at the moment — no posh territory brimming with plentiful prey he eyed for a claim. It was hard to choose when he could not effectively determine if it was a wise choice to plant roots or not. All he knew was that he would not be choosing these Floodlands; but he scouted the Tuktu Hinterlands, determined that his new legacy would be given life here. Yet, he had his ideals and his experience and perhaps, for the moment, it would be enough.

Movement, easily discernible by the lack of tall grasses to hide within, finally caught the bithiúnach's attention, his slim muzzle rising to stare across the way at the ink and silver marked male, who had begun to approach. He was tall, but unlike the svelte Arturo the male wolf was bulked with muscle. Arturo understood well enough that in this moment his coywolf genetics placed him at a disadvantage. He wasn't built for brute force, wasn't a brute by any means of the word, but he had speed; and Arturo hadn't earned himself a reputation that proceeded him by being easily intimidated. Fiery orange-red eyes leveled a stare at the beasts' approach, the coywolf's lips curling back to expose his teeth in warning as he rose, scooping the Vole back with his paw as he might have one of his children: the only difference being that this was not a child that needed his protection. It was a bite to eat.

Several thoughts flitted through his mind, always working, always trying to find where he could get his edge: and the question followed: was the Vole worth fighting over? Violence wasn't always necessary, the Fearghal monarch knew: and as a gentleman Arturo prided himself on his ability to negotiate. He'd found long ago that leadership wasn't dictated by the largest wolves. Physical power was a fraction compared to the power of persuasion and knowledge. Words could build or ruin an empire, and his charisma and ambition had built him a Family in the Hollow, even when he remained a subordinate to Boadicea.

The brutish wolf offered no words, only a cold expression and a hungry stare at the vole's carcass. “In my Family, if there is something you want, you ask for it, as opposed to staring at it like a fucking savage.” Despite the vulgar curse he used the coywolf's words were, as always, soft spoken. Arturo might have been morally corrupt (it depended upon who was asked, really) but he had never considered himself savage. There was too much that he thought was civilized about him that prevented such; but that was his opinion. “You look like you're plenty capable,” Of hunting, and of holding his own. Arturo saw the possibility of an opportunity and he'd always held true to the thought that everything worthwhile held a risk. “I'm not an unreasonable man, if you want this morsel, you can have it,” The sovereign offered, moving his paw ever-so-slightly to show a sliver of the vole. “but I have an offer for you to hear, first.” Perhaps Arturo's form of charity was never for the sake of other's, perhaps it couldn't even be considered charity at all. It was less of giving and more of a bribe but the offer he had to make wasn't one he would consider awful. Some bribes worked to the benefit of both as opposed to just one.

Arturo's shoulders stiffened, always assuming that his companions were wild cards because, upon the uncertainty of the beasts they were inside during the first meeting, they were, effectively, wild cards. Either he created intrigue or he'd failed, and Arturo was as ready for both possibilities as he would ever be.

Pleasantries, words… they were all wasted on Skellige. For, if there was one accurate thing that this coywolf stranger had stated, it was that he was a savage. He had been bred for war and battle. His pitch pelt had been crafted by the seas and the ocean waves for bloodshed. When the titan saw something that he needed or wanted, he sought to take it. It was simple, though this wolf had attempted to derail the simplicity of his actions with his words. The first set was easy enough to grasp. The stranger seemed to be somewhat displeased by the nature of Skellige’s attempt to pilfer the morsel. His comments, though quick and sharp, did not necessarily fall on deaf ears.
 
“I am not your family,” Skellige interjected with a yellow-fanged grin. His guttural baritone left his dark lips with a possessive and eerie lilt. “And it does not matter if I am capable of catching my own. I’m just as capable of taking yours.” His dark brows lifted somewhat and he peered at the coywolf with a strange intensity. It was not until the coywolf spoke again that the inky brute seemed to find himself derailed of his goal. The vole had been scooped back protectively so that it was not as easily accessible. A foolish move for the smaller wolf to have made. Thought times were tough, Skellige was not averse to fighting another to quell the hunger that dug inside of his gut… no matter the size of the catch.
 
A proposition seemed to be brewing in their conversation. The eldest Cairn knew it only because this smaller hybrid spoke very much like Ksenia. The thought of the pale she-wolf left a taste of bile in the back of his throat and he swallowed heavily.
 
The stranger’s first step seemed to be that he would offer the catch to Skellige without a fight. Smart, thought the pitch-colored brute. His russet gaze caught sight of the vole and he took a step forward to claim the meal as his own. The Warsaw wolf was halted in his tracks, though, by the final words from the slender coywolf male. An offer; the words echoed in his mind like a ringing bell. Darting his gaze upwards to lock with that of the other wolf’s, Skellige peeled his lips over his vile fangs and snorted. Intrigue was one thing, but the silver-ribbed male would not be made a fool by this foreigner. His vision darted from the catch that was tucked behind the agouti male’s legs, to his face.
 
With a heaving sigh and bristling hackles, Skellige took a step forward. “Speak then, cur before I grow tired of your words,” he snapped through salivated teeth. His patience was wearing thin and the hunger that clawed at the inside of his gut was enough for him to risk attacking the stranger in hopes that he might score something more to feast on. He was no stranger to eating the flesh of other hounds.

The obvious was stated as the other male spoke — that the savage was not Arturo's Family. It wasn't anything that Arturo needed reminded of. Arturo's expression was easy to read and clear with it's message: I know. Arturo could have easily spouted something about “taking what is yours is disrespectful” but he supposed to say something of that sort would simply make him a hypocrite, but he hardly considered himself a petty thief. Stealing wasn't apart of his goals: sometimes it was a necessary and effective tool to get him where he needed to be, but it had hardly ever been a priority of his. “Stealing from me is unwise,” The Fearghal sovereign spoke simply, letting out the only warning he intended to give. The other male might have been bulkier, stronger but the coywolf had brawled his fair share in the past. There would always be times when physical altercations were needed to prove that he wasn't to be fucked with, but habitually he was a man of words and charisma and exploited both until he'd exhausted all other options and nothing remained but utter brutality. It was far from his favorite course, but sometimes proved necessary.

There was a heavy sigh had left the savage's lips, accompanied by the bristle of fur as he stranger drew nearer. Arturo's muscles remained taunt, pper lip curling back to reveal his teeth as his fiery orange-red eyes hardened in warning. There was a threat in the stranger's approach, but it was a threat that Arturo returned. “I am looking to extend the Family, to build an empire. I'm offering you a chance to be apart of that legacy, a pack,” His legacy, his reputation within the territories around the Hollow hadn't his own, at least not fully. But here, he had a chance he had never had in the shadow of Boadicea. “Are you interested?” As to whether the stranger agreed or not, and fruther, whether Arturo left him the Vole regardless remained to be seen.

The hybrid did not seem pleased with Skellige’s coarse and self-evident words. As was expected; the feral brute’s bedside manner was lacking. It was evident that this stranger was growing weary of the inky brute’s constant barrage in regards to his catch, but the Cairn was not likely to give up on his pursuit. A warning fell from the other’s lips. Stealing from the coywolf would be unwise. Chuckling, Skellige shook his head a bit and took another step forward. His russet gaze caught wind of the notable signs of defense. This slender creature would be willing to fight for the scrap of food. Unwise would be a common trait in their interaction with each other. The hybrid was a man of words – a man who knew how to get what he needed by using charm and witticism – but Skellige had never been such a man. He knew only brutality and force.
 
When the implication began falling from the stranger’s mouth, it did not entirely take Skellige by surprise. Of course he was seeking to expand his own empire. It was not the first time that the silver-ribbed titan had been offered a place within a pack. Others had sought him for his prowess and some still hunted him for his brutishness. They were not fools for wanting to build their own union, and certainly not so for wanting a creature of force on their side. Still, there was a moment of question in the pitch-colored wolf’s mind.
 
Narrowing his brows thoughtfully, Skellige held the gaze of the other male with an intense expression. “You would seek to add a savage thief to your empire,” he prompted with another chuckle. “I am here to build my own dominion. What would bring me to abandon my quest and join you?” he drawled. It should have been a fair question to a man of thought and word. If anything, Skellige felt as though this half-breed should understand the desire that it took to lead a man away from home to build on his own.

For the first time since the titan had made contact with the coywolf Arturo began to feel like they were getting somewhere, for words were the Fearghal monarch's chosen weapon, to dissuade, to inspire, to compromise; but Arturo did not fancy himself a fool and did not let his guard slip, nor did he find comfort in the brief lapse of aggression. He had learned not to underestimate — learning to never abandon his caution even when things appeared to be operating smoothly. Nothing was over until it was over, that was simply how it was, and this wasn't over. The titan met Arturo's fiery orange-red gaze and for a moment the intensity of the wolf's gaze unsettled the coywolf. Having eyes meet his own was not, admittedly, something he was accustomed to but his reputation did not yet exist in these Wilds, and he was not, presently, a leader of any sort — just another loner wandering the skeletal remains of the Teekons. This took some adjusting that Arturo felt himself admittedly struggling with. The Fearghal monarch would always be the Ceannasach of his Family but Arturo understood that here and now that meant little.

Above all this was business, an exchange between two men that would either end well or it wouldn't. “I accept all,” It was the truth: though those who joined the Fearghal monarch (or alternatively that were born Fearghal) were expected to either be apart of operations or look the other way which required a certain degree of callousness. “though admittedly, your manners could use some work.” Words spoken with a twitch of Arturo's lips upwards ever so slightly. For a brief moment, the stranger reminded him of a much larger, much more dangerous version of his children when they'd been babes. They, too, had been savages: taking what they wanted because they could, acting as if the world owed them something, feral little beasts but they had learned — so too could adults.

The wolf spoke that he, too, sought to build his own empire within the Teekon, and posed the question to Arturo: what would convince the titan to drop his own ambitions and join with him? It was a fair question, and when Arturo applied it to himself he knew what would be his response: nothing. “If that is truly your desire then nothing,” Arturo began and then added, “regardless, neither of us are building anything in this fucking wasteland as it is now. There are always benefits from working together, even if you go your way and I go mine.” Even if the Titan would not join the pack that Arturo sought to build and instead built his own — when, or if, life returned to these Wilds — there were always proposals of an alliance, always benefits to be forged in the Fearghal's mind.

The wraith did not pull his gaze away from the other male. He did not find the meeting of their eyes to be unsettling. For as much as Skellige reminded Arturo of his children, there was some honest truth to this. The inky sea-born titan was brute force and rippling muscle packed beneath an intimidating pitch figure. He was sinister and vile, with very little regard for those around him. In a sense, his nature was almost childish. And were it not for the size of Skellige, he would possibly have the mentality of a young pup. Fearless and determined to take on whatever was placed before him. This made him dangerous… it made him a threat.
 
Snorting at the response that was issued from his present company, Skellige parted his jaws to gape at the other wolf, froth forming around his lips and drizzling from his upper canines to the lower rack of teeth. “Manners,” he echoed after a moment and chuckled once more, as though the concept of such a thing was fanciful. “A waste of time and breath,” he remarked finally with a small shrug of his broad shoulders. The corners of his lips flashed downward in a quick frown before returning to a neutral state.
 
Skellige was growing tired with talk. His stomach ached with a lack of sustenance and his mind was weary with all of the words passed between the two. It seemed that the coywolf understood that there was no claim to make on Skellige; he was as unbridled as the ocean itself. Before the dark beast was able to take another step forward, however, the hybrid made a remark that caught his attention.
 
Drawing his brows together in a tight formation, the dark titan leered at the other wolf for the longest time. “An alliance?” he rasped after a moment. “Yes, I am familiar with such bonds,” he then added with a solemn nod of his skull. The silver-ribbed beast had seen many alliances attempt to form on Warsaw… only to be broken by those who made them. The concept was smart, and the inky male knew that if he was to be a better leader than his cunt mother, he would have to forge worthy alliances. This moment was important.

They did not share a similar opinion on manners, a suspicion the stranger had given confirmation with as he spoke calling them “a waste of time and breath”. The Fearghal monarch gave a simple. contemplative shrug of indifference mentally acknowledging that there was no use in disputing what the titan thought. The contempt in the titan's gaze did not go unnoticed — nor ignored — by the coywolf who stared back, unafraid. Arturo Fearghal did not back down and had built his reputation on giving the impression that feared nothing even though that was, of course, far from the truth. Did he fear the titan in front of him? No; but he did fear death, he feared losing his children and his Family. A brawl with a stranger larger and no doubt stronger than him was not something Arturo had ever feared. Yet still, he attempted to dissuade with his words. Words were powerful, this Arturo knew. This Arutro counted upon.

“That's right,” Arturo agreed with a sage nod when the titan rasped what Arturo had offered him: an alliance, in so few words. Alliances were shaky things, risks ...but Arturo held fast to his belief if there were no risks then it wasn't truly worth having. “My reputation does not proceed me in these Wilds, yet, but an alliance with me and my Family is not one that you will regret. I'm a man of my word,” And he had so many of them: words, that was. “An alliance to me is like an extension of my Family ...and my Family is everything. Everything I do, I do for them and the same iron clad promise and commitment would, if you accept, be extended to you and yours.” Arturo knew when to make enemies and he knew when to make friends and this moment was pivotal, he could feel it in the marrow of his bones.

The offer was made, now all the coywolf had to do was wait for the titan's response.

The wraith had found this man an interesting companion to have come across. His eyes roamed the body of the other male once more, noting the smaller figure and the sharper angles of his features, and when he had finished, Skellige found himself feeling as though words were a means of survival. There was no doubt that the hybrid would have been able to hold his own in a battle, though in a matter of strength and simple fortitude, the inky sea king would have probably found success. In a battle of wit and word, there would have been no competition. Though the silver-ribbed brute was smart enough to gather those around him and even maintain them, his greatest forms of persuasion were in the thickness of his body and the sharp anger in his gaze.
 
The stranger went on to speak of alliances and the benefits of forging one with him in particular. Diplomacy was a strong rule to running a pack and most certainly if he was to turn it into a successful venture. Curling his dark lips downward and frowning, the dark titan thought on these words for a moment and came to a conclusion. “I will accept an alliance with you then, halfling. Should you need my force and strength, I will lend it to you. The wolves who will enter my rank will also answer to such a call. In turn, I should expect the same,” he rumbled carefully. The dark creature then realized that this man knew very little about who he was or where he would be able to find him.
 
“I seek to make my home on the shores. I am a man of the water,” he explained with furrowed brows over the dark mahogany of his gaze. “Do you know of where you seek to claim your land?”

Arturo, swept in the delicacies of politics as he was, almost forgot why they were even having this conversation in the first place: the small vole he hovered protectively over, still. Oh, he planned to give it to the titan: as a token of good will, a settlement on the deal they were coming to, but not until their discussions were done. Halfling, too close to the derogatory uttered by the wolves of Quicksilver Hollow. As it had as a child, it worked it's way under his skin and Arturo realized that for as far as he had came in the Hollow it meant little in the here and now. His desire to start anew and rebuild his empire from the ground up, out of Boadicea's shadow meant that he would have to start everything over. Including, to build up the fear and awe to keep them from calling him derogatory names such as “halfling” and it's equivalents. The advantage was that Arturo was not the brash and reckless boy of his youth anymore. He'd developed a tolerance and temperance for his ire, for the most part.

“Should you and yours need it, my wolves, will answer the call to arms,” Arturo reiterated, with a sage nod of agreement. It wasn't an unfair deal: so long as they both expected it of one another and understood what it meant if they did not hold to their end of the bargain. They had yet to work those specifics out but part of Arturo suspected they didn't need to. “Respect. Our wolves will respect one another's authority under all circumstances: whether it's a call to arms or just a friendly visit.” Arturo was all about respect of authority, though primarily his own, naturally this was included to the titan, especially if they were to be...partners of sorts. It was a good term to set Arturo thought: for both of them. The last thing they needed was trouble stirred between their packs when they'd set an agreement for an alliance due to unruly members. An unruly member, in Arturo's mind, shouldn't ever come between an alliance made between leaders, and if they did then strict consequences would follow: this was how Arturo ran his gang, at least.

“The territory just north of here, Two Rivers Isle. I've got my eye on it. It's not too far from the shore,” A few vast territories stood between them, but whether he claimed it or not depended upon if the territories around it went before he could make his claim official. “but I don't particularly want anyone on my doorstep, so I'm going to keep scouting, keep my options open. Regardless, I will claim a territory somewhere in these Hinterlands.” Arturo had taken a liking to them and did not deign nor much care to venture out of them. As of the moment: he had no reason to. “Here,” The vole was presented to the titan then. “I'm a man of my word,” Arturo took a step back. Truly, the vole was a meager and unworthy thing but for now that was all he had to offer the titan. “I am Arturo. Arturo Fearghal.” Since it was important that two allies knew the other's names, at the very least.

The wraith was uncouth on even the best of days. The words that fell from his dark lips were rarely ever composed of niceties. This very well could have been the reason behind the coywolf’s suggestion for manners from the brute. Nevertheless, Skellige had managed to get along well enough without them. The comment on his blood had not been intended insultingly, but simply stated as a fact that had been observed by his eye. Were it not for the shape of his figure and the sly light of his eye, the inky sea king would have settled for something that could have been deemed worse to be called. Those around him very rarely got the words that they deserved from his mouth. But the diplomat seemed to brush it off well enough and so it did not register as a thought in the titan’s mind.
 
The man extended the same offer as Skellige had with a nod of his skull, and the brute watched him with a careful gaze. Flicking the tip of his tail, the man listened as another deal was placed on the drafting table; one of respect. This was something that the sea wolf could understand. Feeling it necessary at this point, the salty wraith dropped his head just slightly and peered at the face of the other. “Agreed,” he confirmed with the rumble of his voice. “I will offer this to you as well; should your ambitions not prove as fruitful as you anticipated, my shores and ranks will be welcome to you. Since you were kind enough to offer the same to me,” he spoke in a level voice. There was no need to suggest this other would fail in his endeavor; he seemed ambitious enough to accomplish the task he had set for himself. After the extension of his home was made, the wraith shrugged his broad shoulders as if to say that it did not matter if the coywolf accepted the offer or not – it would still stand.
 
Once he continued to explain where he imagined he would stake his claim, the brute followed his gaze toward some distant territory that he could not see. An isle would make for a fine location for a pack, should no one else seek to claim the territory. The halfling seemed to be open to the thought of relocating if need be, which was admirable, and somewhat humbling. It was not an emotion that had frequently struck the sea wolf. Once he had finished speaking of his aspirations, the smaller wolf gestured for the vole to be given to the brute. A moderate expression of surprise flashed across the titan’s face and he held the gaze of the man before him for only a fraction of a second, before lunging his crown toward the earth and swallowing the vole in a serpent-like manner.
 
The man was then introduced as Arturo Fearghal. The ink-cloaked wraith drew his pink tongue along his lips and muzzle and bobbed his skull once. “I am Skellige Cairn,” he returned, drawing his lengthy ears forward. “You have honor… a rare trait. Come and seek me at the bay if you should need me, Arturo. My legion will be your aid.” And though honor was not something that the wolves of Warsaw had ever found to be a necessity in the wolves of their leadership, Skellige was intrigued by it. With a final bow of his skull, the shadow of a beast turned from his new ally and sauntered on toward the sea.