Stavanger Bay don't ever tame your demons

There was the sound of approaching footfalls that cut over the soothing lull of the sea. For a moment Arturo considered not stopping: after all he had deigned to keep himself busy lest he lose himself to the sea witch. Arturo was unsure how it worked, if there were triggers or if it was a never ending battle of dominance between him and the new personality he'd developed since taking his fall from the Cliffs. It brought to mind something that Skellige had said to him during his initiation: that if he were to climb a cliff and consult the Spirits they would show him his true path — except Arturo hadn't climbed Ravenshook with the intent of communicating with anything. He was merely doing what he did best: scouting, and he was easy to scoff at the belief that him nearly falling to his death counted as “showing him the path”. He shouldn't have attempted it, he thought as he looked back on the memory stopping where he began to draw blanks for the exigent worry that it might be a trigger to calling the sea witch.

Arturo was tall but svelte, his height coming from his warrior queen mother, Boadicea, and at first glance it was almost enough to fool the untrained eye into the impression that he was full blooded wolf, until one drew nearer and the slimmer features of his muzzle, specifically, were what gave him away as a coywolf. Fiery, red-orange gaze settled upon the male, a hulking brute but shorter than the long legged Fearghal draped in pitch black except for the white mask he bore approached with tense movements and bristled hackles. His own hackles bristled in response, not amused. Presumably, they were both intending to aid Skellige in the founding of his pack else neither of them would have been standing in Stavanger Bay alive. There had not been noted aggression in the other's stance but the gangster didn't appreciate the caution, nevertheless. It was fucking insulting.

The scent of Skellige and the others was easily detectable upon Arturo's coat — and the same could be spoken for the stranger though his scent was new and not one that the gangster recognized. A green boy, as far as the Fearghal was determined to care. He was young, Arturo determined, likely no older than the gangster's own children. “I'm Arturo.” He said simply, a soft snort leaving his black, leathery nostrils. “Who are you?” The gangster wasn't amused by the unease, though part of him took pleasure in it. Perhaps he had not lost his touch after all. It was just as important to be feared as it was to be adored — a lesson that the gangster had learned quickly in his youth.