Silvertip Mountain Through the big top tent up high

He'd followed the coast again, lingering near the borders of first one sea-faring pack, then another. There were familiar scents at either one, and he recognized the irony in it when he bypassed them both. The first because he was not interested in meeting children who were stranger to him, and the second because he resented the father that'd become a stranger to him.

The bounty hunter roved inland, tracing the path of more of those sea-faring wolves. Kin to him? They all were, in a way, but he had no interest in a family reunion this day. He wanted what he almost always wanted — work.

As he crested the hill, he spotted the other male. A man who had put himself on display — who stood as if they had agreed to meet here before, and he was only patiently waiting for the bounty hunter to make their appointment. Catamaran regarded him for a careful moment, his ears swiveling uncertainly to test their surroundings. Were they truly alone? Was he interrupting something?

Regardless: this looked like a man of some substance. Perhaps he had connections in this land. Perhaps he had problems of his own that needed solving. There was always trouble somewhere if one knew where to look, and Catamaran was adept at finding it.

"Peace be," he called out, his voice rough from disuse and stiff in an effort to combat his Blackmouth accent — he'd smoothed it out over the years into something that better suited the common tongue, though not without some effort. He still tended toward nonverbal communication when possible, but he was bound and determined to approach this man. "Live around here?"