Wolf RPG

"Arr!" Exclaimed Ferahgo. He had found himself a proper Captain's quarters. Struck into the northern rock of the island's stony hill was a quaint little cave. It was tall enough for him to stand in comfortably, and deep enough that he could tuck himself completely out of sight into the dark.

The pirate cocked a leg at the entrance. Mine. He would leave no doubt that this cave belonged to him and him alone. He scuffed his body along the rough walls, and dug at the earth and sand where the shadows met the daylight.

Mighty satisfied, he sat outside and thought of the proud skull he had stashed back inland.

After meeting the wench and filling his empty stomach, the Habit went about his way to explore the rest of the territory.  Initially, he weaved though the coniferous forest, but was eventually drawn to the squat and rocky hillside that gave the small island rise. Guided forward by an unabashed sense of curisosity, the Habit scaled it's rocky surface until he reached it's peak.

From here, he smelled the Captain (or whatever he had called himself when they met in the morning), fresh.  Decending the rocky hillside's northernmost end, the Habit found his Captain marking what he could only assume to be his own private quarters.  

"Oi, Cap!" he chimed as he descended a precarious ledge.  Looking around, the Habit finally asked, "This your place? ...Spacious."

He would have to fetch that skull soon. It would be the centerpiece — and perhaps more — of his coffer, which would exist at the back of his quarters, along with his private stock of rum and grub.

He was hailed by Mr. Flotsam. From above. The Captain tipped his snout up, watching as the dark-coated wolf made his way down the hillside. "Aye," answered Ferahgo, "and ye be keepin' yer nose out of it if ye fancies keepin' it on the end of yer snout." It was not an idle thread, he narrowed his eyes and flicked his tail as he stared unwaveringly at his new crewwolf.

But after a moment his countenance resumed it's normal, relaxed by rascally look. "What do ye think of the ship, eh?"

After making one final leap down and finding level ground with the Captain, the Habit now faced him man to man. His gaze, however, remained respectfully planted at the ground around the Captain's forepaws in deference. The salt-licked captain had shown him kindness on the beach by allowing the Habit a place among his crew; his kindness would be repayed with kindness in turn. An eye for an eye.  

The Habit shot Ferahgo a wire-thin grin in the face of his territorial threats. He was a possesive man himself, it was a trait he could admire.  "You won't have to worry about me Cap— Cave's all yours," he spoke with a flat and matter-of-fact intonation. The quarters he eventually picked to hang his head was a non-issue. The Habit wasn't one to be picky.

With the captains intensity disarmed, the Habit considered his question for a moment before returning, "It ain't bad. There's enough muscles in the Tidal Flats to keep me fed for years. So, I think I'm gonna do fine here."

The Captain took immense pride in his ship, as if his own claws had dug out the caves, as if he had lapped up the sea to create the tidal flats, as if he had planted the trees and stacked the stones that made up the hillsides. His crewwolf referred to it only as 'not bad', to which Ferahgo responded first with a pursed mouth, and then a firm correction. "It is the finest ship ye ever clapped eyes on." His penetrating stare left no room for question, so he was quick to move on. "The tidal flats be rich indeed, me bucko. But don't ye be forgettin' to contribute to the galley. Did ye find yerself a bunk yet?"

The king of poor timing as always, the ship's swabby came tearing up the hill, panting heavily and with no shame, and inserted himself directly between the crew mate and his captain. "Ahoy, Cap'n!" called the swab, practically right in the man's face, though with a wrinkle of his nose he turned his head to view Habit at last. "Oi, matey, ye smells like ripe chum," he commented as his piggish eyes swept over the black wolf. The smell of mussels was both disgusting and alluring, for he was a pirate whose livelihood depended on fish, and yet the stench of a dead one was enough to make your eyes water. "Ye be eatin' sea grub? Ye bring any for ye ol' swabby?" He smacked his lips expectantly, then with a start, swung his attention back to Blackbeard.

"Cap'n, the booty's been brought aboard." By this, he meant the bones from the bay. Blurryface had moved every last remaining scrap, including a tooth that had fallen out of the skull.

With the captains correction lingering for a moment, the Habit was quick to amend his response. "Mhm," he responded with an affirming nod. The Habit was a headstrong creature, but it was far too early in his stay to carelessly step on any toes or ruffle any feathers. "Best ship I ever saw." In fact, he didn't quite know what ship even was. These pirate types had words for everything. Nevertheless he could assume it meant the the territory they had take occupancy in.  He certainly wasn't lying... as it was only territory he could remember after the sea had so kindly spit him back to life.  

Before he could respond further to the captain's questions, they were joined by a slack-jawed, small, and boisterous fellow who saw fit to butt himself rather tactlessly into the conversation. The swabby turned his attention to the Habit and as he spoke, Habit could feel small dropplets of spittle landing on his face.  A deep scowl settled across the Habit's features before gumbling, "You don' smell so great yourself, halfbreed." Lesser creatures, the lot of them.

Thankfully, the swabby's attention turned his attention away and the Habit's temper was abated. For now.

The salty wolf curled a lip over his fang as his swab came barrelling in between himself and his new recruit. It was a wonder, not only to those around him but to him himself, that the Captain tolerated him the way that he did; any other wolf would have found theirself dead at his feet. Instead, all Blurry received was a clout across the snout with one of Ferahgo's paws. "Good, now get out'a me way, Scurvyface!" He did not wait for his orders to be carried out, he ensured it by shoving his swab off to the side as he returned his attention to Habit.

"Pay no heed to he, he's useful, but irritating." Perhaps that was an understatement. His swab was a total urchin. He lived under the protection that fear of the Captain's wrath granted him. Ferahgo would never extend a hair on his hide to save the daft creature; but he threatened all not to touch him in the first place.

"Now, flotsam, tell me of your life before you joined me crew, eh?"

"Aye aye, Cap'n," snorted the wiry coywolf through a smarting snout. It served to accentuate his already nasally voice. He shot Habit a toothsome grin, as though he hadn't heard what the man had said—and anyway, he wasn't exactly ashamed nor proud of his heritage—and curtsied in whatever awkward manner a canine could manage. "Enjoy ye chum, sharkbait," he teased before skipping off down the hill, scraggly tail flying, in search of some other pleasure.