Arturo had slipped from the borders of Blackrock Depths, merging from Stavanger Bay into the unclaimed Sea Lion Shores. It was the quickest way to Ravensblood Forest — cutting through the sands, skirting around the Gyrfalcon's Keep where the winding serpents tail of the Takoda River would lead him into the dark forest fortified by the tall sentinel of spires along the southern and northern borders of Ravensblood Forest. Soon to be the home of his Teaghlaigh. Making the trek back and forth was not always easy and there were nights where the gangster would spend within the dark confines of the forest. More and more of his time would be spent there in the coming weeks. He would not let this territory be stolen from him as the Isle had been. He would not ask Skellige to shelter him again while he licked his wounds. The next wounds that Arturo would be licking, if there were to be any, they would not be on his pride. He would fight tooth and claw for the forest he intended to make home and abandon all hope ye who dare to steal it from him.

He would not so easily relinquish the territory. It would be his death or the opposer this time around. Arturo gave the sunbathing sea lions a wide berth, careful not to aggravate the large sea dogs. It was then that movement: dark and far too slim and canine in shape to be a sea lion caught his attention. Fiery, orange-red gaze took in the large beast that lay, allowing the waves to splash over his paws. A chuff was given to announce his presence though the gangster had slowed his approach, stopping so there was plenty of respectable distance between the two of them, though now that he was (somewhat) closer he found that he was impressed by the musculature that was present beneath fur weathered clearly by age.

In a land that smelled so full as this one did, pushing his mind to the seams and possibly ruining his nose, there was no chance for a moment alone. In the bellows of sea lions or the hullo chuffs of strangers, there was an ever-present heartbeat of sound and song. For an old man that so valued silence, whether it be in morning patrols or nights spent chasing away phantoms, Karma was slowly realizing that this noisy reality was his to inherit. It didn't make him jump for joy, exactly.

Driven to speak - whether it be the weirdness of a dude soaking his legs in seawater, or what - the soldier can only bring himself to sit so much, a bored flick of his ear the only real recognition given to that chuff as he nudges his nose into a bubbling wound, seafoam seeping down his forelegs. The salt cleans better than I can, he grunts, deep and thick in his throat, and his scarred lips twitch at the sudden prick of pain deep in the ruddy skin. You'd figure he'd be over petty pains like small cuts, but the smaller they were, the more they seemed to hurt. His new company was in his blind spot, and he mocked an itch on his hip to flash the one eye that remained on his dark-masked stranger, an expectant look becoming his face. Here to snap at his heels for trespassing, or sightseeing?

Or both?

The gangster watches the older male as he tends to his wounds, made apparent seconds later by his voice breaching out between the distance, claiming that salt could cleanse them better than he could. An snort left the gangster's black, leathery nostrils: a soft, amused noise. “I've heard that a few times,” Arturo murmured his remark in his deep, accented voice, offering a nod of his head. Perhaps the situation did not call for a reply but the gangster gave one, anyhow. Arturo was no healer by any stretch of the imagination but he knew enough basics to stave off infections. Salt water was not always a viable option but he knew from the Healers of Quicksilver Hollow that it was a practical one and likely one of the best. One did not run The Family without picking up a few useful tips and tricks to encourage and prolong survival, after all.

“I know a few healers if you need,” The gangster offered true to his gentleman disposition. Of course, there was no guarantee if he did need healers that they would help the older man but it was an amicable offer all the same, open for the stranger to accept or deny. Perhaps he, himself was a healer. Arturo didn't know but figured he'd show some common decency all the same. Just because two wolves were strangers did not mean that Arturo could not offer assistance. It did not always come without cost, of course because Arturo was a business man and working in the advantage of The Family was wired to the forefront of his mind but still it was civil. That was his job as Ceannasach after all. To lead them, to cut deals that would put them on top and on the dirtier side to ...tie up loose ends, to clean up messes.

“I am Arturo. Arturo Fearghal.” The name Fearghal meant little in these lands presently, but not for long so long as Arturo had anything to say or do about it; but he was a patient man and knew that to plan well meant he did not have to rush. He didn't believe in half-assing his plans and was willing to let them take as long as they needed.

I don't recall asking. He keeps the thought to himself, offering a little flick of the ear as compensation. "Unnecessary," and he shook the thick weight of his head, pulling his legs from the salt and surf and running a few more digs of his tongue against the sensitive flesh. Healers were a sign of weakness; the small boys were sent off when their limbs broke and their noses bloodied, and you never saw them amongst the barracks again. Healers, reapers - they "healed" mistakes in the army's code, that's all they did. Even though he was quite aware that all cultures differed from his, he'd rather not take the draw and lose the bet, thanks.

The young man's prone to speaking - a talker, like most - and Karma nods stiffly at the admission of his name. He doesn't, of course, offer his own in return; that was one societal convention he'd never understand, but oh well. "Your... pack lands, are they?" Barracks, pack lands, pride lands - the names changed with the seasons, it seemed. His black-spotted tongue laps at the side of his lips, scarred nose wrinkling. "They're near here, I assume." So far, he'd found that very little men wandered freely of their own accord; even over the sting of salt in his nose, he could chance a guess at the stink on Fearghal's hide wasn't just his own. It was casual conversation, sure - but it helped his mapmaking more than anything. A soldier needed to know where everyone was on the map; how else could he plan his own scouts accordingly?

Well, he was a little low on scouts, or soldiers in general. But if age taught him anything, it was that things took time. Patience is key, all that nonsense.

The older male turned down the olive branch the gangster extended him, refusing his help. A smart move, presumably, for it rarely came freely. Any advantage that he could secure for The Family was a chance that Arturo was willing to take. The nameless male made mention of his pack lands, drawing on the assumption that they were near. No doubt the scents upon his coat were quite the mixture: sea brine, Depth wolves, the woodsy musk of the forest and the scent of those he'd recruited to his Teaghlaigh, with a faint wisp of the Donnelaith carried by Chusi's scent. While it was amusing to Arturo that he was tempted to inquire which pack lands the nameless man spoke of, he did not give voice to this question nor draw attention to his internal amusement. “I have begun to lay claim to a forest just east of here.” Arturo informed with a gesture of his muzzle in Ravensblood's direction.

“So yes,” Arturo murmured. “near here.” In fact, he could extend these shores into hunting ground if he so wished but admittedly the gangster was content with keeping to his forest, the Gyrfalcon Keep and the Ridge that touched Ravensblood's borders as far as hunting grounds went. He was not fond of the delicacies of the sea. “And yours?” It was a courtesy question, really. Arturo didn't smell any particular scent of a pack on him and had pinned him as a loner. Arturo was beginning to gauge if it was worth to seize the opportunity, if the stranger was potential recruitment material who would at least hear his pitch or not.

One brow rose over his empty socket, black-spotted tongue still tasting over his own mangled lips. "Have you now?" he chuffed, the thick brogue of his voice lilting as he turned his head to let the remaining eye chance past the sea lions and toward the black-capped trees in the distance. Interesting. "Luck, then," he grunted stiffly, nodding the weight of his head once (as if in agreement that yes, what he said had been polite enough) and dropping his gaze back down to his foaming feet. It would have to do. 

A small chuff of amusement whuffs between his teeth when the other man asks him where his lands are. He could barely picture them in his mind's eye, let alone give any direction. No, he was no longer a man for settling down anywhere; so he thought, anyway. "Lost to time, I imagine," he grunted, flexing his scalded toes in the sand and lifting to his full height and weight in the surf. Questions, though, itched at his mind - questions he was sure the talker wouldn't mind answering, if he excersized some of that "conversational ability" his wives had always chided him about.

"Your Wilds go on forever, Fearghal," the name tastes foreign on his tongue, smoother than the harsh sounds he was used to, "but everyone seems pretty damn uptight about where their borders end and the invisible twenty yards they don't have to piss on to own." His ear flicks, irritated, but the grind in his jaw fades with his words, golden glance sliding sideways to the black-masked face. "What is it - are thieves that common? Fights over resources? Or do your Wilds wolves just have perpetual sticks up their asses?" He couldn't very well get a bearings for the place if every step he took about the perimeter of land equaled imminent death, or something.

Luck? Out of the words the ragged beast had spoken this was the one that Arturo had zeroed in on and though it did not readily give way on his calm and distanced demeanor it insulted him. It left a sour, bad taste in his mouth. Nothing that Arturo had done had anything to do with luck. He didn't even believe in it. Accordingly, he didn't really believe all that much in fate, either. He was a man that forged his own path, tempered and carved it from the vast unknown. There was no such thing as luck, he scoffed mentally. There was only determination and persistence. Hard work, patience and the reap of rewards. “Luck has nothing to do with it.” Arturo disagreed simply, the smoky reticence of his accented voice weaving his disapproval at such a word.

“Would you allow wolves to freely toe your borders and take food from grounds that you consider the pack's hunting grounds?” Arturo asked, ignoring the question at large. The Ceannasach wasn't going to answer it because he, himself, was an extremely territorial beast. Trespassers were taken as the gang's prisoners and their fate was decided by The Family as a whole though more oft than not it ended with death. Territories touching borders were more of a courtesy thing, for him. He was not a fan of having neighbors up his ass. It sparked too much discontent, and cut off migrating herds. They were more like to travel elsewhere than risk getting too close to packs that were too close together. Whether that meant wolves of Teekon Wilds had sticks up their asses or not ...well that was up for the other male to decide for himself.

The conversation did not last long after that and eventually the two males parted ways.