Arturo stayed as far away from Ravenshook Cliffs as he could. The gangster enjoyed keeping his scouting skills up to par and thus would not be discouraged from making the ventures each time to a different territory, but the Cliffs...they were cursed. He should never have attempted it he knew, but his misfortune upon them had miraculously spared him his life but instead cursed him with Riptide. No, he would never return to them, he was sure of that. Thus, he gave those Cliffs the widest berth he could as he made his way to Gilded Bay. Of course, this made his trip longer than it had to be but to the gangster the extra time spent had been worth it. The sea witch was bad enough — he shuddered to think of what else those damned Cliffs could curse him with if he dared the venture to them again.

Arturo hadn't ever been a man who thought much of the sea, admittedly. Of course the sea witch let out a low scoff in his head as the thought crossed the gangster's mind. It was nice to look at but past that he had no true attachment to it. He preferred woodland, himself. That wasn't to say that tragedy and mother nature couldn't effect woodlands (forest fires were a very real threat) but still, his preferences stood. Yet, he tried to keep his opinions objective, tried to maintain the open mind he had always prided himself upon. He was a scout after all and his trade took him to all different types of territories for him to mentally map out and investigate.

The gangster had admittedly gotten lost in his thoughts, something that had become way too easy since Riptide's collision into his life, and had only been drawn from them at the poignant and metallic scent of blood. His fiery red-orange gaze almost missed her at first, blending into the sands as well as she did, but he saw her soon enough, heard the sounds of her teeth sinking into the flesh of whatever she had in her grasp. From afar, it appeared as if she were missing most of her right ear, though that was the extent of exact details he could make out at the moment. Arturo let out a low chuff to announce his presence, though, unlike her the melanistic coywolf did not blend so easily into the backdrop of the sands.

Arturo could not make out what prompted him to make the greeting, aside from the simple thing that it was what etiquette required of him to do. The sea witch had very little of it which the gangster found to be more disturbing then anything else about his split personality. They could hear one another, sometimes, and sometimes memories remained but most of the time when Arturo attempted to drawn from the sea witch's memories of encounters he drew blanks. There was a small comfort in believing that this also worked the other way. Some things remained private and though this was as disturbing to Arturo as it was comforting there wasn't anything he could do about it. It was easy to believe that the sea witch would deal with the consequences of anything he'd done but there was no guarantee of who he'd be when he woke up. Sometimes it was Riptide for days and others he was himself: Arturo.

She returned his greeting with a simple one of her own and then without offering anything else, or her own name for that matter, she was suddenly demanding his own. Arturo gave her a slow blink, hardly amused by the lack of manners. What was it with the wolves in these Wilds? Thankfully, he was in a fairly good mood, jovial at being free from the sea witch's control. A quiet hum left the gangster as he regarded her, watching as she nudged the bird towards him. A slight shake of his head was given in a gentleman's decline. “A lady should always be first,” Arturo responded with subtle, playful cheek though he was, of course, quite serious.

If she took offense to his choice to entirely ignore her demand for the time being she did a good job at masking it, at not showing it. In truth, Arturo doubted she truly cared one way or another. His name had once been enough to strike fear into hearts but that was in a different, begone era. An era of sanity and stability. When the gangster had his Family at his back and control — over himself and those who had joined the Hollow and thus, by extension his Family. Control was a precarious word these days, and it had become like smoke, slipping so easily and teasingly from betwixt his jaws. That was what the sea witch had done to him. Bowed him to a breaking point in his mind, where his personality had come to resemble a chimera: split in two, governed by two entirely different creatures.

The lady in question offered a shrug and ate her meal, not offering a word even as she polished it off and stood, and simply stared at him. While Arturo found the intensity of her gaze to be rather unnerving, his fiery gaze did not extinguish nor did it leave her. It appeared they had reached a stalemate of sorts and Arturo, being a gentleman, felt inclined to do the gentlemanly thing and respond to her “demand” of his name. “I am Arturo,” He introduced simply giving a soft pause, “Arturo Fearghal.” he added because those old habits died hard.