Stavanger Bay i have an instinct that can never be reversed

Arturo had no desire to linger too long around what little remained of the desecrated grave, though a thought that came to the forefront of his mind unbidden gave him physical pause, his steps ceasing. There was a slight cant to his head, a furrow to his brow. What if Riptide had taken from the once obviously cared for grave? It was a useless consideration. The skeleton had long since been exhumed but there had once been what appeared to the gangster to be some sort of shrine. He turned back to it with a startling abruptness as if the ghost of the beast it had once belonged to had appeared. Arturo did not believe in such things, though his warrior queen mother's sister had been a “Soothsayer” in the Hollow. Ramblings of a mad woman, Arturo had always believed but had never dared to utter to his mother who believed in her sight infallibly.

His head lowered towards the ground and drunk in the scents that adored the trodden ground, noting that his current scent was the only trail he'd left. There were no older scents that belonged to him and that soothed the irrational anger that had prickled at him at the horrendous consideration. It wasn't as if Arturo paid much attention to Riptide's morbid collection of bones at the back of his den. The only time Arturo had fancied the idea of collecting bones from prey had been when his children had been teething. Bones were useful treats, good for teething and puppies generally enjoyed them as toys. Lest he wanted one as a treat to savor the sweet marrow they held he did not make a habit of keeping them around. His ears, which had slicked back to rest at half mast atop his skull, perked and cupped forth and then swiveled to the sides of his regal crown, alert, at the sound of soft, approaching footfalls upon the earth.

Slowly, Arturo turned curious to see which light footed Depth wolf had approached, his fiery red-orange gaze sweeping the ash trees to land upon a small shadow with grey eyes. She had shrunk back into herself, as if she were afraid of him. He recognized her. Arturo knew not her name but she had stuck close to both Atoll and Szymon at the gathering. So very unlike Chusi who had approached him right off the bat. It caused an ache in his heart — that this small child was trying to hide herself from him; but that was his paternal instincts flaring. She had nothing to fear of him and yet Arturo understood that she did not know this. He was not her father and she did not trust him as a stranger.

He ducked his head, and lowered his posture, settling down, slowly as not to startle her into flight, sunk into an ease, sphinx like position upon the earthen floor. “It's alright, child,” The gangster made an effort to soften his deep, accented voice, as he had with Chusi. “I'm not going to hurt you.” Arturo made an effort to assure her, though whether it worked or not was beyond his abilities to predict. “I am Arturo.” He offered his name, in the hopes that she might do the same.