Stavanger Bay if you apologize once you do it again and again and again

the morning sun had just begun it's ascension in the dawn streaked sky painted a myriad of pastel colors. it was a pretty dawn, no doubt, and it draws his eye in the way all aesthetic things tend to do: briefly with a minute glance. his fiery gaze does not linger, instead flickering to the sea. it is calm, the cold water lapping at his toes as he makes his way along the beach, intent on staying far enough removed from the initial collision of the waves upon the shore that he does not find himself unnecessarily soaked. it's been a long time since he's been to this bay and longer since he's called it home. nothing has truly been home since lotte's passing from the world and though arturo knows that the gentlemanly thing would be to attempt to reconcile with his other wife whom is presumably still wandering around out there ...his run-in with his youngest daughter still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; and the gangster is incorrigibly stubborn and dogmatic — never mind that it's occurred to him that reed is a small child and might have been simply acting in the way children are wont to do.

the coywolf tucks those thoughts away. he is here now. he has given his loyalty to the young captain, smokestep and for better or for worse he now calls himself on of ironsea's crew. it felt like a good first step. it was a clean chessboard and arturo's motivation was simple: he was returning to basics. while he could not erase the massive hole in his heart and soul that lotte's death had left in it's wake — and while he has no intentions of moving on from his dearly departed — he craves the hard reset.

a frothy wave brings with it a tangle of seaweed that washes around his legs and tangles up his steps. the gangster pauses in his walk, glaring down at the offensive kelp with little more than disgust ( for a multitude of reasons ) and lets out a low huff as he attempts to shake it free of his leg.

sandpiper wore a churlish expression as she bounded down the dunes, sending sand in thick waves before her. she wanted to spend some time combing the beach by herself, to build up her fitness so she could take back her rightful rank -- but her ambitions were halted by the sight of a form in the water.

INTRUDER!!!

her ears flipped forward and she launched from the slope in quick, hurried strides, running down the wolf with her tail flagged assertively and hackles bristled all the way down to her stiffened rump. she stopped just before the first lap of a wave, a thick clearing of her throat given as she waited for the male to untangle himself from the seaweed around him and explain just what he was doing on her beach.

the subtle and quieted sound of shifting sand is lost in the roar of the waves as they crash continuously upon the shore lulled back and pushed forth in a never ending tug-o-war. the gangster does not realize he's being accosted until the slight and willowy young woman is within his sight range — first seen out of the corner of his eye as his attention is otherwise occupied — giving a clear of her throat. it's a expectant noise, a demand absent of words. as arturo detangles himself from the seaweed he gives it a second of a glimpse to ensure it was swept back out to sea as he smoothly takes a few sidesteps so that he is out of reach of the waves.

content that it will not happen again he turns his fiery gaze to the young woman before him, noting her aggressive posturing and bristled hackles. it is foreign; to submit to another. he has been the forger of laws, the iron fist that rules for so long that it sinking into a submissive posture feels unnatural. yet, the gangster does it. because he is a gentleman and because he seeks to appease her with the desired affect of curbing her hostility so that he does not meet the sharp edges of her teeth.

it does not fall beneath the gangster's consideration that smokestep and ironsea's scent is far too weak upon his pelage ( now obscured by the salt of the sea, no doubt ) for him to be recognized as a newly minted crew member; thus he offers, "i'm apart of the crew." he offers in an attempt to reassure her that he is not, in fact, trespassing.

thank the good gods arturo had not seen her possessive approach as a sign of a challenge - lord knows sandpiper didn't need her ass walloped a second time -- a feat that upon examination of the salt-clad brute, would not be too far-fetched. she was a better instigator than fighter anyway, and as he did the surprising deed of submitting sandpiper suddenly felt like a dick.

maybe that was why rosalyn had overthrown her.

he revealed he was part of their band -- and even used the word 'crew' -- a word that caused sandpiper to instantly take his word for it. "oh." she exhaled, a low swing of her tail given as she mentally back-pedaled. "that's good then." she cleared her throat insufferably and then decided she should probably introduce herself. "i'm sandpiper."

the coywolf's fiery gaze sweeps over her again, slower this time, now that he's (mostly) confident she's not going to attack him. her pelage is an intriguing mixture of creams and golds that compliment the molten gold of her irises. she is pretty, the gangster decides as he diverts his gaze so that it does not linger for longer than is socially acceptable. she appears to take his word for it and for that the gangster is inherently glad and relieved though arturo keeps his expression carefully composed in a well crafted mask of neutrality. he doesn't take her aggression personally and does not expect any sort of apology for it — it's her right to act aggressively towards a possible trespasser. if their positions were to have been switched he would have done the same. trespassing is one of the many transgressions that arturo is keen on forgiving.

the young woman offers him her name then, and arturo's lips part for the first time since reassuring her that he was apart of the crew to speak. "sandpiper." he repeats her name back merely testing to see how it sounds rolling off of his tongue in his accented, smoky timbre. "i'm arturo." the fearghal patriarch offers his own name in return. simple and absent the name of his legacy. the fearghal name has fallen from it's glory — as to which he shoulders plenty of the blame for — and while he picks up it's broken pieces and attempts to mend it back together he is content to simply be known as 'arturo'. the gangster's been alive long enough by now to have learned that anonymity is, at times, better than notoriety and right now he desperately needs the calm that anonymity promises him. it's rare to be able to rebuild something of your own creation after it's fallen to ruin and to have the opportunity to do it not once but twice gives arturo the hope that he's not yet left his better days behind him.

she decided then, in about the three short seconds they had interacted with each other, that she liked him. he didn't challenge or overstep or make her feel bad - not the way rosalyn had (ahem, certain females take note) -- and he hadn't gotten indignant when she got all up in his business. that was two for one, in sandpiper's terribly short book of "who hasn't pissed me off yet". so far, arturo was faring much better than the other members of their crew.

like a child given a lolly after throwing the most inconceivably huge of tantrums, sandpiper's demeanor changed to almost friendly and chipper. "ok, hi arturo." she said, repeating his name back to him the same way he had done for her. "what were you in the water for?"