The Sentinels if you are the dealer, i'm out of the game

♥

he would have returned to ravensblood, to relive the memories of when life and teaghlaigh had been good and free of bad omens but there is the scent of a foundling pack and he's almost grateful for it — the gangster hopes that the forest is kinder to them then it was to teaghlaigh — because memory lane was painful. he knows he must torment himself, to let it all build to that exacting moment in which he can face lotte's grave and ...grieve. he hadn't been allowed to do so before and coupled with the assumption that chusi had chosen not to return or even say goodbye to her family had driven him to the waiting arms of the madman. it was humiliating and he turns unsavory thought of witchdoctor away. he pays little mind to the sound of approaching footfalls coming in the direction of stavanger bay — a mistake that could be fatal, he knows — but it is hard to discern what is ghost and what is corporeal in these woods. donnelaith had suffered worse than teaghlaigh, by far. at least they'd only lost lotte and that was by freak circumstance alone. how many had donnelaith lost to the wildfire that had stolen across their territory like a greedy bandit?

there was a soft chuff to announce the presence of another and the coywolf peers over a svelte shoulder at the man. he is young, tall and limber with a thick pelage of alabaster and two-toned eyes. "there's nothing to find but ghosts here." hellish red-orange gaze moves back to the burnt remains of defiant sentinels still standing before he turns to face the younger male in full. "you're the one claiming the bay?" the words leave arturo's lips carried upon his deep, smoky timbre as an observation and less of a question. the scent heavy laden upon what will no doubt become borders and the scent that clung heavily to the alabaster boy's pelage is arguably nearly the same and arturo had always been quick at the game of deduction.