Stavanger Bay splice the mainbrace

Smokestep made a few moves to puff himself up in a display for his comrade. The hair along his back rose and stood rigid as he cast a lip-curling smirk toward his friend. He danced about in place for a moment, moving his spindly limbs like a soldier marching into battle to impress his favorite lass before his ears were pulled forward at the sound of rum. A sad expression replaced the playful one that had played along his lips. Smokestep had been hoping that Raptor would have found a way to make rum for them. A sigh fell from his lips and he frowned thoughtfully. “I was hopin' ye'd have some,” the pirate admitted with a small shrug of his shoulders.

The next question that followed brought a wry and curling snicker from the corsair. “Oi well, these lands are full o' fine lasses te chase after,” he stated with a firm nod. “Not sure where I'd like to plant me flag, if ye know wot I mean.” His brows waggled atop his skull with a flourish before they settled back into place. “An' yerself?” the seafarer inquired. He was interested to know if his companion had found any decent prospects out there in the wilds.