Whitefish River i have what you're looking for

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As Arturo drinks, his salmon pink tongue lapping contentedly at the cool waters he allows his mind to wander. Never too far, of course, for his ears remain splayed to the side of his skull, listening for any sounds that strike him as out of place against the soft babble of the river beneath the thin ice that sheets it, over the smooth stones of it’s bed. He thinks of his nightingale (for in some complicity she is always on his mind) and the children he is confident that grow within her womb. He thinks of the children that grow within Olive’s and feels a swell of resentment. In hindsight, he should not have granted them permission. If he’d have known the events that would unfold the simple fact was that he would not have. It is too little, too late to take it back but his condition runs deep and it hinders on a very thin wire. He is worried that Blackfeather Woods would make their way to Teaghlaigh and because Arturo Fearghal schemes he contemplates what punishment should be, should it come to pass. It has not, yet, but the thought that it could makes Arturo uneasy. Teaghlaigh is woefully unprepared for war of any kind and being away from his borders does little to soothe his concerns despite it’s necessity.

He takes a last lap, his tongue drawing across his jowls to catch any stray droplets of water as they dribble down his chin as he becomes aware of the sound of footfalls. His thirst sated he turns to face the male, his scent as unfamiliar as his face as the chuff breaks the silence. Fiery, red-orange gaze assess the brute with a sharp, keen burn though the coy wolf remains terse, impassive. For a brief moment and a pang of longing for his friend, Arturo is reminded of Skellige. It is almost enough to bring a ghost of a smile to his lips. Almost but not near enough. This male is greyscale and decidedly not the Leviathan. “Yes?” Arturo breaks his silence, deep, accented and smoky timbre polite, as always but there is a steel edged curiosity in the simplicity of his question. Who are you? What is that you seek? For surely, it was something beyond just a drink. After all, the river was wide and there was no need to draw attention to himself otherwise (or so Arturo thought).

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