Stavanger Bay Gotta sad life, sad life; go to fuckin' hell

Sandpiper's looming presence was not what he would have anticipated, but he preferred that she kept a good distance while he handled the formalities. The gold-cloaked sister had never been proficient with handling common folk, but he had developed a knack for it. Oftentimes, he would forget that Piper was typically impolite, but he adored her nonetheless and would have preferred her companionship over anyone else.

The dark woman seemed to catch herself, pulling back into a more comfortable conversation. Smokestep eyed her with some interest, amused that she had fumbled so swiftly into wishing that she could join his ranks. The corsair cast a long glance toward his familial support system before facing Francine again. “Oi, alright then, miss. Yer in the company o' the saltiest an' fiercest crew on the water. These here are the lands o' the Ironsea crew,” he explained to her with a dramatic flair. “An ye think ye've got wot it takes to be apart o' our crew, aye?”

A wry smirk curled his features. “Wot will ye do to prove it, lass?”