He had come to check out this place for himself rather than rely on the vague rumors that had sprung up so suddenly on its origins. A new pack, they said, to the north not far from Dahlia de Mai. Perhaps it was instinct that led him almost instantly on that journey—it had taken him months and months to approach Cour des Miracles for the first time, after all—but the proximity to that once-dangerous pack, as well as the slight proximity to Phoenix Valley itself, stirred about a need for movement. Winter would set in full swing soon enough, and if the brutish male could make that journey before the snow and cold fell, the experience would generally be better for everyone.

Jefferson knew nothing of the pack's direction, leadership, way of life. It was too early for its administrators to venture and make peace with he and his own pack if they sought to do so; the pack had only been formed a number of days before, he believed, and perhaps it was easier for they if he himself was to come and meet them. Would he be the first? The cyclops didn't know, nor care. He sought only to learn of their intentions and at least commit for neutrality, if not a future alliance. He needed to learn the pack's name, too.

The cyclops paused at what he believed to be their borders, straightened his shoulders, and forced a rather authoritative howl into the air. Not one of command, of course, but a sound declaring his own status and presence—and neutrality therein.

The response was prompt. Although he did not admit to it, Jefferson appreciated the speed; not only did it reflect well on the stranger and his pack, but the cyclops hated to waste time standing numb in the cold. The wolf that approached smiled and appeared friendly: a much different way than Jefferson in his border greetings. The cyclops did not smile, did not force friendliness. He was nothing but blunt, to-the-point. A businessman.

"Cercatori D'Arte," the cyclops repeated, his gaze breezing over the territory from whence Shawchert had hastened. Jefferson brutally butchered the name; he repeated it once or twice more with little difference, then left it at that. After a pause, the gimp rolled his shoulders and turned his one-eyed gaze to the leader once more. "Jefferson. I run Phoenix Valley; east of here, a straight shot."

The idiot scratched at a tattered ear leisurely. "I heard something about foundations being laid here. Phoenix Valley is harmless, regardless what I look like. What are you bunch all about?" His eye fixed upon the Cercatori leader, studying him in silence.

The arts? Jefferson had never been much for the arts, he hadn't a sliver of artsiness in his entire body; his members, however, had always been a variable bunch. For the most part, a great lot of them had been entirely average in every form of the word, basic hunters brought up in unfortunate circumstances that led to their banishment or abandonment or whatnot and eventual stumble onto Phoenix Valley territory. He himself was no different. Miriette—his daughter—had a knack for carpentry, or so he'd seen. She'd built a treehouse, which was by far the most creative thing he'd seen constructed on Valley territory. The rest of them swooned for the barn animals or stargazed each night. Loonies and dreamers, all of them, and artists were often the same way.

Shawchert was terribly friendly, yet professionally so. The Cercatori man did not wince beneath the cyclops' gaze, however intimidating Jefferson forced it to be. He always made it a point to present himself threateningly, if just at first, to gauge their reactions. Thus far, Shawchert had proven well. "I'm not exactly... the 'artsy' type," he muttered, a brow raised. Jefferson hoped, if nothing else, that most could guess that simply by looking at him.

"Much of Phoenix Valley in the past has been creative," he added, snorting. "I run a pack of dreamers. They would get along, likely." He paused, twitched an ear, and affixed his eye on the leader once more. "Do you know anything of your neighboring packs?" Had he heard the things of Inferni or the beast Dahlia once housed?

"You will not see much of me come winter," the brute said flatly. He was not the youth he had once been, the youth he could not remember being. While the man was not exactly old just yet, he quietly envied those still possessing the full spark of life, a spark he once again could not remember maintaining himself. Jefferson had lost far more than his memory from whatever altercation had resulted in his throbbing head upon waking that first time: Not only had he lost his eye, somehow, but the gimp had lost his entire childhood as well. As far as he was concerned, he was simply born into the body he now had and given an unsaid duty to compensate for the sins of his past life. He cleared his throat. "The cold is hard on me, but should you need us, come find us. Phoenix Valley and AniWaya are allianced, but we are not fighters. We will not fight for your cause, but we'll aid you if you're in trouble."

"Inferni has been more dangerous in the past," he continued. "Their ways are complicated, so don't fuck around with them. Their leaders are not as far gone as most seem to think, however." His pack and Inferni had multiple collisions in the past—including combat between he and Gabriel on Valley borders—but the clan had since settled and silenced for quite some time. He had a quiet respect for Kaena, one that he would not openly voice, only because of their similarities and experiences. "The rest are safe, as far as I know. My son lives in Cour des Miracles and my nephew runs Dahlia de Mai, but that's all I know about them. Most of us just keep to ourselves, but that doesn't mean you have to." Hell, if anyone suggested a pact between them all somehow, the cyclops might've jumped on that. There was no need for so much distaste between packs.