Sea Lion Shores like the day before

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.