Stavanger Bay if you apologize once you do it again and again and again

the morning sun had just begun it's ascension in the dawn streaked sky painted a myriad of pastel colors. it was a pretty dawn, no doubt, and it draws his eye in the way all aesthetic things tend to do: briefly with a minute glance. his fiery gaze does not linger, instead flickering to the sea. it is calm, the cold water lapping at his toes as he makes his way along the beach, intent on staying far enough removed from the initial collision of the waves upon the shore that he does not find himself unnecessarily soaked. it's been a long time since he's been to this bay and longer since he's called it home. nothing has truly been home since lotte's passing from the world and though arturo knows that the gentlemanly thing would be to attempt to reconcile with his other wife whom is presumably still wandering around out there ...his run-in with his youngest daughter still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; and the gangster is incorrigibly stubborn and dogmatic — never mind that it's occurred to him that reed is a small child and might have been simply acting in the way children are wont to do.

the coywolf tucks those thoughts away. he is here now. he has given his loyalty to the young captain, smokestep and for better or for worse he now calls himself on of ironsea's crew. it felt like a good first step. it was a clean chessboard and arturo's motivation was simple: he was returning to basics. while he could not erase the massive hole in his heart and soul that lotte's death had left in it's wake — and while he has no intentions of moving on from his dearly departed — he craves the hard reset.

a frothy wave brings with it a tangle of seaweed that washes around his legs and tangles up his steps. the gangster pauses in his walk, glaring down at the offensive kelp with little more than disgust ( for a multitude of reasons ) and lets out a low huff as he attempts to shake it free of his leg.