The Sentinels if you are the dealer, i'm out of the game

arturo lingers at the borders of the burnt sentinels and stavanger bay: the bay's black rocks tainted with the scent of wolves coming and going. it comes as some surprise that a pack is founding here if only because he has come to think of the bay as skellige's territory though his ...friend ( was that what they were? it was hard for arturo to accurately name their strange relationship with one another given the circumstances of how it had came about in the first place ) had long since left the territory. before the shitshow had went down in ravensblood forest at any rate. the melanistic coywolf isn't overly sure why he's came to the sentinels if all he can bring him to do was linger on their outskirts. he remembers finding lotte here, injured and sick from smoke inhalation and there is a sharp pain in his heart. he is not sure if her memory is a festering wound or if it continues to leave him with new wounds small but infinitely more painful then one, large wound. he knows he must let her go so that her memory no longer causes him to bleed — because he must not ever forget her; women like her were not so easily left to dust and ash — but the pain still lingers and it still smarts.

he ventures forth with the thought that revisiting places where memories with her are the strongest are like stepping stones taking him to the alter where he must relinquish his hold upon her. it makes his trip to the strath, to her grave longer and thus is a prolonging of his suffering ( and he feels he rightfully deserves it given the whole witchdoctor debacle the second time around ). he lingers in the edge of the burnt, snow dusted forest — snow that if not for the cool feel of it against his paws would remind him of ash — careful to avoid getting too close to the borders of what he assumes is a newly founding pack.

he does not intend to stay long, there is likely no prey or shelter to be found in the sentinels anymore and he must keep venturing down the southern coast but for the moment he allows himself the respite and the venture down a road of memories that are both good and bad.

It should have meant very little that Kingfisher had finally returned to his home. The pallid hound had been swept away at such an early age, he had very little recollection of the place or what surrounded it. For some, the devastation that had fallen on the Sentinels had been grounding. To him, it was a sad and desolate portion of his landscape... but nothing more. It was true that his father had spoken kindly on the forest and the few wolves within – those who had forged his alliance – and Smokestep was witness to enough of that. Deirdre had been a kindly wolf who had dutifully tended to Skellige. He was the aggressor on a warpath that could likely not be quenched, while she was the ethereal beauty who scarcely touched the ground that she walked upon. There could not have been a more different pair. They had managed to make their lives work, though. This was something that the young pirate could respect. Still, it was not an aspect of his father's life that he wished to experience himself.

The limber youth had left the bay that day in search of those who might have sought out the forest, hoping to relive a past portion of their lives. The stench of ash and dead wood had consumed the terrain, dampened by the thick blanket of snow that had settled over top. The corsair did not believe that anyone could still find the sentinels to hold appeal. Deirdre had spoken of a mystical aura that had filled the woods and brought life to all that came from the earth, taking only what would decay on top of it. She had whispered reverently about her old home, but Smokestep saw nothing like that where he stood.

As the pale hound picked his way carefully over a precariously fallen log, his gaze settles on an unfamiliar figure who stood rigidly in the remains of the forest. It seemed as though the outsider was lost in thought. Naturally, the pirate was curious; he moved further inward and chuffed softly to sound his approach. A set of bi-colored optics was glued to the peculiar beast.

he would have returned to ravensblood, to relive the memories of when life and teaghlaigh had been good and free of bad omens but there is the scent of a foundling pack and he's almost grateful for it — the gangster hopes that the forest is kinder to them then it was to teaghlaigh — because memory lane was painful. he knows he must torment himself, to let it all build to that exacting moment in which he can face lotte's grave and ...grieve. he hadn't been allowed to do so before and coupled with the assumption that chusi had chosen not to return or even say goodbye to her family had driven him to the waiting arms of the madman. it was humiliating and he turns unsavory thought of witchdoctor away. he pays little mind to the sound of approaching footfalls coming in the direction of stavanger bay — a mistake that could be fatal, he knows — but it is hard to discern what is ghost and what is corporeal in these woods. donnelaith had suffered worse than teaghlaigh, by far. at least they'd only lost lotte and that was by freak circumstance alone. how many had donnelaith lost to the wildfire that had stolen across their territory like a greedy bandit?

there was a soft chuff to announce the presence of another and the coywolf peers over a svelte shoulder at the man. he is young, tall and limber with a thick pelage of alabaster and two-toned eyes. "there's nothing to find but ghosts here." hellish red-orange gaze moves back to the burnt remains of defiant sentinels still standing before he turns to face the younger male in full. "you're the one claiming the bay?" the words leave arturo's lips carried upon his deep, smoky timbre as an observation and less of a question. the scent heavy laden upon what will no doubt become borders and the scent that clung heavily to the alabaster boy's pelage is arguably nearly the same and arturo had always been quick at the game of deduction.

Smokestep peered at this stranger with a curious glint to his gaze. He was an interesting specimen; the pirate would have guessed that he had some amount of coyote in his blood, for his features were moderately tapered and he appeared lean against the backdrop of the burnt wood. When the other wolf looked at him, it was with a pair of burning eyes. The seafaring young brute was intrigued by the stranger, and so his ears swiveled to meet him with a curious expression and a slight cant of his skull to the left. It seemed that when the unknown male spoke, he weaved an image of ghosts and sadness. There was something in his tone that allowed Smokestep to feel far away from the place where they stood; as if his limbs were not firmly rooted to the earth.

The inquiry that followed left the pirate quiet for a moment before he nodded his head toward the stranger and turned his skull in the direction of the bay. He could not see his beloved ocean from where they stood, and it made him anxious and aggressive. Still, the unnamed brute spoke of the territory as if he had known it in another life. Kingfisher swiveled his ears in the direction of the coywolf and he frowned thoughtfully. “Aye. It was me father's pack and I've come to reclaim it in the name of Cairn,” he remarked in a husky voice. Then, a curious glint crossed through his bi-colored optics and he raised his crown upward.

“Ye don't look the type to commune with ghosts, mate. What brings ye to this neck o' the woods?”

arturo's ears perk at the mention of 'father', 'reclaim', and 'cairn'. "you are skellige's son?" it was not a question as it left arturo's lips, rather a simple, assuming statement. of course, he was aware that skellige had brothers but it had been the dark pelaged cairn that had conceived blackrock depths and thus, he is the cairn that arturo's mind naturally maps to. "we were ...friends once," arturo's tone hesitates on the word 'friend' unsure if that's the word he wishes to use or not. they'd had an interesting relationship from the start, skellige and he, and it's not one so easily defined. for now, though, 'friend' suffices. "our packs shared an alliance." the gangster offers the tidbit of information freely, though is ultimately unsure of how much the boy's father had shared of his time in the teekons.

"i don't," the gangster murmurs in quiet agreement. he doesn't believe in ghosts, or anything therefore holy or demonic. the religious and the supernatural are merely convenient ways of explaining things and soothing one's guilty conscious, as far as arturo has ever been concerned ( as blasphemous as it was to his poor mother ). "my wife almost died in the fire that took this forest." lotte hadn't, but she hadn't been alive too much longer afterwords. a handful of short months following and she'd been taken from him too soon. a wound in his heart that will never heal no matter how often he walks this path of memories, no matter how often he prays at her alter — the only goddess he recognizes and willingly worships even after her death. still, he tries. still, there is a piece of him that his pragmatism hasn't entirely eaten away that hopes; but he's gotten so used to the pain that he isn't sure what he'd be without it.

"Aye; me name's Smokestep Cairn."

So, this wolf knew Skellige. The corsair regarded him with a curious gaze as he explained his relation to the inky brute who had once claimed the bay for his own. The coywolf had said that they were friends and while the young Smokestep could not have imagined his father with any sort of relation, he took the other male's word for face value and nodded his head. Recalling the stories that had been shared by the Leviathan, the pale young Cairn could only imagine that this wolf was the Witchdoctor Arturo or one of the wolves from the burned wood. The way that the coywolf spoke about the sentinels, Smokestep was beginning to imagine that it was the latter. It only made sense that he would have wed someone within his own pack, and since there had once been a pack in the wood... well, Smokestep could see this male pairing nicely with Deirdre and her flock.

“Ye belonged to Donnelaith then?” the pirate inquired, canting his head. The forest pack's name felt foreign against his tongue, but he had heard the young pale wood nymph speak it more than a dozen times. Skellige had mentioned that it had been his strongest alliance when he had held his claim on the depths. But, then, his father had also been quite fond of the wolf who had run the other forest pack – the Witchdoctor. Smokestep wondered if the wolf Arturo was still present in the area, or if he had vanished as well.

smokestep cairn. the young man introduces himself as and arturo acknowledges it with a slight cant of his head and tucks the name away. it seems ironic that he keeps bumping into the cairn clan when he'd thought all of the gone from the wilds. if he believed in such things as fate it might not have surprised him all that much. his path was irrevocably meant to cross with skellige's ( and by extension his ilk's ) over and over if due to nothing else than the deal they struck a very long time ago. the coywolf does not give his own name. not yet. he still lingers in the area of anonymity and wonders if it is not better to stay there. but when he has a chance to remain unknown he cannot force himself to tell that lie. he's always been an honest man, accepting of the costs of being ( at times ) brutally honest. "no," he draws on the release of a deep breath. "teaghlaigh. the pack that once called ravensblood forest it's home." there is some new pack there now and while it might have been polite to warn them that there's a curse upon the bleeding sequoias; he doesn't. he avoids the forest. he avoids those memories. the pangs in his heart where he stands currently, thinking about his late wife with warring fondness and crippling sorrow is more than enough.

"i was it's ceannasach," he offers after a slight pause. ceannasach; the cold and cruel and ruthless leader of the family. the devil with a god complex. despite all the terrible adjectives associated with him ( true as they undoubtedly are ) he cannot help but feel pride as he speaks it. it's a nostalgic pride; but it is still pride nevertheless. "arturo. arturo fearghal." he finally introduces himself to the young, pale man before him with a slight lift of his muzzle. a familial pride of a lineage that while muddied by his coyote father is strong at his own dictation. arturo is the first fearghal but he will not be the last and that's all that matters to him now: is that the family lives on and the legacy continues.

“Ahh... yer Arturo then.”

After the coywolf had introduced himself, the young pirate latched his eyes to the wolf with a new interest. The name of his former pack would have been impossible for the Cairn to repeat, so he had not tried. Hearing it from Arturo's mouth was an entirely different experience than hearing it from Skellige's. Granted, it was evident that the forest pack had been dear to the coywolf male. The corsair could not have shared the sentiment that Arturo was destined to cross paths with the Cairn family, for he had never before met the fiery-eyed wolf. In spite of this, Smokestep had heard good tales of the wolf that stood before him, and though he did not seem quite as remarkable as his father had painted him to be, the young wolf knew better than to judge based on appearances.

“Ye were me father's Witchdoctor, aye?” the young wolf inquired with a canting of his head. “I've heard 'bout ye from him.” Not that it was relevant, but Skellige had been fond of Arturo and had thought highly of him. Smokestep wondered what had transpired after Blackrock Depths fell to ruin and the Cairn wolves vanished from the shoreline. It seemed that the coywolf no longer held a claim over the forest that he had referred to, but it was not worth mentioning just yet.

"the one and only." arturo responds in a smoky murmur, a ghost of a smirk curling the edges of his lips upwards. it does not touch his eyes and is not as half as mischievous as it once might've been. there was a lot that wasn't the same. the world was a bleaker place without lotte's light in it. colors faded like an old photograph and the fearghal monarch wondered how long it would be before he stopped seeing colors period. he misses his nightingale in the very depths of his soul and try as he might to move on, to push him to keep enduring and to keep surviving he knows that her death is an irreversible severing of himself. as hard as he tried to convince himself that this journey was a good idea even up to the past few minutes he knows it wasn't. he shouldn't have come here. he sees her ghost in the trees, burnt and hacking up the smoke and ash she'd inhaled. she'd been in pain and clinging to life when he found her and he cringes internally, looking to the boy as if he hoped smokestep would act as a tether between the present and relived memories.

it takes all of arturo's self restraint not to visibly cringe as smokestep mentions that he was skellige's witchdoctor. given the longevity and the fact that arturo can remember the last episode being known as witchdoctor is no longer a compliment as it'd first been. "that's right." the gangster responds. nevertheless, he's been the witchdoctor and there was no sense in pretending otherwise. pretending, the coywolf feels, would not solve anything. arturo doesn't ask whether or not what skellige had told his son was good or bad ....it seemed a bit obvious which was which given that the boy didn't greet him with any sort of hostility or malice. "do you seek to rebuild blackrock depths or are you starting over with something fresh?" arturo inquires, gesturing towards the bay with a slim muzzle, hoping to gently guide the subject away from the witchdoctor.

Arturo did not seem the type to take the mantle of Witchdoctor, even with his burning gaze and cool expression. The yearling had come to believe that his father worked in many a mysterious way. There had to have been a reason for the inky leviathan to keep the coywolf around as long as he did, and furthermore to have him branch out on his own. It meant that the man must have held something of outstanding value in his spirit. The coy flick of his ears and the warm undertone of a seasoned voice said something was amiss within him, but Smokestep was not altogether interested in that. He wanted to see what his father had seen, but as he is not of like mind or soul, he found himself frustrated that he could not conjure it.

The question hung against the air for a short while and the pirate was not sure how to answer it. Instructions had stated that he recreate the fallen pack – Blackrock Depths – to return it to glory. Spirited and young, he had turned away from the thought once he had crossed the Fenriver crew, he abandoned the idea his father had created and found himself within his own. Splaying a single ear, Smokestep looked to the male and cast a crooked grin. “Somethin' of me own. Found me callin' when we crossed a crew o' pirate folk. Taught us how to live right, ye see,” he answered in a confident tone. The corsair had not backed down since he had parted ways with the Fenriver crew. “Ye interested?” Always confident.

arturo's fiery gaze takes in the boy's crooked grin with a knowing sort of smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. his suspicions that form the moment he see's the pale boy's crooked grin on the answer to his question are confirmed in the next words that smokestep speaks. "good," arturo murmurs with a nod of satisfaction. "i've learned that it's unlikely children will ever grow up to be exactly like their parents. they should be allowed to do their own thing when they're old enough to decide their fates and their parent's guidance becomes less heavy handed." even knowing that ...it doesn't mean that parents don't try to fit their kids into boxes of what they want them to be. arturo, himself, is guilty of this. and look where it's gotten him. his oldest children are off doing god knows what, his middle litter was ...well he believes two of them to be dead and assumes that the other two and his youngest two children were still with hemlock. somewhere out there.

arturo takes a moment to weigh the options. though he's ever been one to allow others to have control of the reigns for too long he knows that he will never attempt to reform teaghlaigh. the family is dead; it's a cold, hard fact. this time, it will stay dead. perhaps being a nobody but another grunt worker was exactly the kind of vacation that arturo fearghal needed. "very interested." the coywolf responds.

The coywolf cracked the smallest of smiles and Smokestep felt relieved to have found a like-minded fellow. It surprised him that Arturo would have followed his father for so long. Skellige was unyielding in his beliefs, but this gangster seemed more attune to bending rules. It showed promise beyond anything he had stated before, and the yearling felt at ease with having extended an invitation to the crew. It was soft, subtle, but it was an invitation. The pale corsair was only waiting for his fiery-eyed companion to claim it.

It seemed as though Arturo was willing, at least, to humor the pirate for a few short minutes. Smokestep cocked a brow and his teeth gleamed in a wide smile. “Aye, good then,” he agreed genuinely. Casting his mismatched gaze over the other male’s figure, he felt pleased with the results and gestured with his head for them to walk. “It’s pretty well a life o’ freedom. We’ve a code, of course, an’ ye’ll be expected to take the vow to stay fer the rest o’ yer life. Ye’d live and die by the crew, but if ye want to fuck the rest o’ the world, then ye’ve got a wild crew to back ye up,” he explained in a lengthy breath. Casting his gaze on the coywolf, he smirked.

“What say ye?”

the information that smokestep gives on him on the crew: freedom, a code to live and die by, but generally the ability to fuck the world ...well that didn't sound all that different from teaghlaigh. of course it would be far from the same but arturo craves that organized lawlessness. the coywolf's always been one to live by his own law and thus does not fail to strike him as ironic of the gravitational pull he feels. it appears to arturo that ironsea falls within the very broad grey in a world that has, otherwise, always been starkly black and white to him; and that grey is where arturo has always thrived, toeing the delicate line between anti-hero and villain for quite some time. a smirk had begun to slowly form upon his muzzle as he listens to the young man's words and as arturo considers the offer laid out before him in full his smirk comes to full bloom as his fiery, resolute gaze settles upon the young captain. "i'll join your crew." the gangster rasps decisively.

The quiet that hung in the air seemed to last far too long for the young man’s liking. When the coywolf responded, it was with a confirmation. Smokestep felt a swell in his chest; he’d not only gained a recruit to the crew, but one who had laid a solid foundation even with his dark father. Arturo would have been a perfect addition to the Ironsea wolves, and the pallid corsair could not have been anymore enthused about it. While he was not certain they would have much in common, the little bits they had shared with each other were enough for him to feel sound in his offering. “Good,” he said in a confident voice. “We’re glad to have ye.” It wasn’t said with a tone that would reflect a condescending nature, but one of genuine belief.

“Yer welcome to come in when ye’d like. I’ll get ye introduced to the crew once ye do,” he explained carefully, offering the other male to make his way to the bay when he would feel most comfortable. It was a difficult challenge to throw one’s life away and take on the mantle of a pirate, but to commit the remainder of his time on earth to that cause… that was asking for an awful lot. Smokestep was always grateful when they did.