It was in the lulling babble of the creek for which the pack was named for - or rather this was what Cutthroat had chosen to assume since it made the most sense to him; despite that where he came from they didn’t name packs after territory names - that Cutthroat allowed his guard to slip, albeit only partially considering his back was to the copse of trees that lined the small little give away of greenery that stretched between the trees and the creek itself, his shoulders taunt as he peered down over the small and gentle slope of the bank, his head resting upon one paw, while the other floated with lazy abandon atop the cool water, splashing it in a sea-like manner as the water rippled beneath his skimming touch. Cutthroat was drawn to the water, being a Pirate as a moth was drawn to a flame. It was not something he cared to attempt to resist, even if it were possible. He missed the soothing, something gentle and sometimes raucous crash of the waves against the cliff face, or if he was below the cliff against the shore, and while the noises between the untamed Sea were quite different then the soothing lullaby sounds of the creek, it was water all the same. Not to mention he was in no position to grumble about it. First, he had chosen to come back to Creek even after what he had been apart of; Second, at least he was alive to enjoy the water.
Cutthroat was often found frequenting the creek, when he wasn’t occupying a section of Fox’s den and not in any way that suggested anything more than he was a prisoner she intended to keep a close eye upon. For all the rapscallion knew she was watching him from somewhere nearby at the very second, though he doubted it. While she did keep a close eye upon him he was certain, he also knew she couldn’t possibly watch him twenty four - seven. Not that he made any attempts to escape since his capturing. He had thought about it, fleetingly, as teenagers were known to do. Just to be a little bit rebellious, just to tease but had ultimately decided against it. This wasn’t a game after all and though his life was secure for the moment he wondered how long it would be before his life became meaningless. Likely when Fox realized that he could not be used as any sort of leverage, a fact that the inky pirate intended to keep a secret for as long as he possibly could. Cutlass and Corsair did not care about him, and even if they had in any teeny, tiny shred as their pack mate it was long burned now since he had broken ranks and proceeded to not only order them about but then turn traitor to them.
There was no where for Cutthroat to go, and atonement for whatever short amount of time he had left was better than doing nothing at all.
After the gathering had dispersed, Njal had pointedly avoided the other wolves even though it marred his image as a new Beta. As soon as the recruits had introduced themselves he had locked upon one particular name, and now he doggedly followed after the man who had caught the warden's attention. To think that Cutthroat roamed the territory without an escort at the very least, bothered him. Then again, there were enough wolves in the territory now - enough loyal followers of Fox - that the prisoner would not get far, regardless of his intentions.
As the man wandered, Njal marched on after him. He was lazy in the way he pursued the enemy, in part because the warden did not want to spook his target. There was enough time to apply stress and pressure if the need arose; Njal thought of this grimly as he moved, following the curve of the creek until Cutthroat finally stopped. The man lingered at the edge of the water as if transfixed, giving Njal an opening to move ahead. Their path intersected with one of his well worn patrol routes, giving him a good reason for being there - even for following the pirate, should the question be posed before him.
It was only at the sound of approaching footfalls, too heavy to belong to Fox or Bazi - Jace or Ferdie maybe? - that Cutthroat was drawn from relaxation and his guard slammed back up, barring up his defenses as he drew his paw back to the earth and rose up, shifting his position into one of submission, though tension sang through his taunt sinew beneath his coat as he turned, golden gaze falling upon who he now knew to be Njal.
For a moment he considered asking Njal if he had been following him but bit it back last minute. What did it matter if the other man had been or not? It wasn’t unexpected that Fox have eyes on him at all times, even if those eyes could not be hers. He was not trusted, he was not to be trusted. Not that Cutthroat could blame them for their weariness. He deserved it and that was what kept him submissive and his witty tongue under check; because he owed it to them for sparing his life even if it was only for what the pirate thought to be a short amount of time.
“Sir,” It would have been more natural to use the pirate term for his position (but Tokio forgot what it was, heh) however he refrained though his accent gave him away even if there was any way to mistake him for someone other than their captive. But everyone (at least almost everyone) knew who and what he was now.
The dark wolf was preoccupied in some manner, which granted Njal some leeway when it came to stalking him. The man wondered briefly about what went through the captive's mind. Did he think about Bones? Did he think about the fallen comrades that the creek wolves had taken from him? Perhaps he felt guilt - but that thought, that specific idealization that this pirate mongrel could feel guilty after such an attack - was quickly dismissed. If he despaired at the thought of his fallen kin, Njal hoped the sensation ran deep. It was a malicious thought of his own, but the warden did not take losing Bones lightly; in fact, he hoped to make Cutthroat's life within the ranks as painful as he could.
As the silver man drew closer, the dubloon-eyed stranger finally noticed. They shared a brief look of shared animosity (or so Njal figured), and the Beta made himself remain calm in that moment. He wanted to grab the wolf by the collar and force him to grovel at his feet, for Njal's ego had been boosted heartily after his appointment of his new rank. He wanted to pull him in to the deep core of the river and force him to drink from it. Terrible things populated the grizzled man's imagination as he looked upon the shadow now, this taint to his riverside view.
The captive, perhaps sensing the loathsome opinion that Njal carried, remained stoic. He spoke only a single word which was nearly covered up by the bubbling current. Njal watched him for a moment longer, and then stepped closer - not stopping until he was aligned with the sigma next to the water's edge. "Can you fish?" he questioned, his eyes finally upon the river instead of the refuse that sat at his side.
Though Cutthroat was loathe to admit it, the second, second in command’s stare made him uneasy. He would have much rather Bazi had been the one to follow him, but there was little doubt that the older male wanted something from Cutthroat: whether it was this “prisoner labour” that Bazi had volunteered Cutthroat up for, or something else entirely the Captive didn’t know. He only knew that something was wanted because something was always wanted. He watched with cautious eyes as Njal drew closer but then moved to stand at Cutthroat’s side. For a moment, Cutthroat had thought that Njal was going to attack him. He drew in a silent breath, but his body felt like as taunt as a bow string. It was no contest that males made Cutthroat more uneasy than females did, having always favored the opposite sex more than he did his own. The look that was received from Njal only made Cutthroat further perturbed. The question that the Beta male asked was a simple one.
“Aye, I can fish.” Cutthroat responded, simply. Granted it had never been the Captive’s favorite lesson but he had mastered it if only to gain Calypso’s praise.
The order to make this captive a laborer sat in the back of Njal's mind, but he was not keen on it. He hardly trusted this seedy individual - why would he want to touch the food he was potentially providing? But Njal would not go against what Fox desired, he wouldn't even voice these concerns unless it was in private with his wife. For the time being, the mountain man would have to get over it. A silence crept upon them once the captive confirmed what Njal had already assumed. The warden brooded over what to do next, still eager to tear the man's skin clean off of his body strip by strip. A violent shine overtook the usually placid tone of gold within his gaze, becoming sharp and volatile as Njal's eyes took to surveying the ragged shadow's physique once again. "You do not look like you can." Njal turned and brought himself close to the other wolf's pointed face, allowing himself a moment to stare eye-to-eye with the fiend.
"You look like you take, the way a crow pecks at the eyes of a carcass." His rumbling voice turned in to a low and continuous noise, like gravel falling from the edge of a cliff. "Is that why you stole from us-" He scoffed but it sounded more intense than that, somehow. Like Njal was trying very hard to keep from showing his yellowed fangs and following through with the thoughts within his mind. "-because the wolves you run with are so useless that you had to take one of ours?"
Njal withdrew then, but did not wait for the captive to speak. He gave a great shove with his shoulder, attempting to lay contact upon Cutthroat's ribs - to shove him towards the water, to wind him, perhaps both - and then he did it a second time, a third, each harder than the last. When the wolf lay crumpled and half-soaked in the creek's shallows, Njal stood over him with a scowl upon his face.
"Your purpose here is to serve us. I will... Monitor you," that was one word for it, "And should you fail in any of your tasks, I will be forced to use corrective measures. However, should you give me information that can be used, your punishment can be made much easier." At this, Njal moved to place one wide paw atop Cutthroat's back; he placed it square upon the junction between his shoulders and began to lean in, adding a bit of pressure. As Cutthroat's breathing began to become strained, the beast paused and brought his face low - so as to make one final comment.
"So then, pirate, do you have anything to say?"
Survival of the fittest mate, Cutthroat desired to say as Njal continued on to tell Cutthroat what he looked like. A thief. A scavenger. Useless. In a way, he wasn’t really wrong, but there were your occasional honest wolf in the rambunctious mix; and technically, Njal was basically insulting Crossbones too, because while she had been apart of the Creek she was still a native to Tortuga. Despite how badly those words burned and itched to fall off of the Pirate’s lips he held them back, already under the Beta male’s ire and frankly did not deign to lose his life this day.
There wasn’t really time for Cutthroat to get in a word edgewise - not that he planned on saying anything, favoring taking the slicing insults and abuse actions in grave silence. If he was going to speak to anyone he’d much rather it be Bazi or Fox (mostly because he did better when surrounded by females than he did males). There was too much territorial, testosterone instincts that overcame him when he was in the presence of fellow men. The first shove of Njal’s shoulder against Cutthroat’s body caused the Pirate to stumble, having been thoroughly taken off guard, and the second one was met with resistance as Cutthroat, instinctively, tightened his body to better take the blow but then allowed himself to crumble into the creek’s shallows, the cool water lapping around him as he stared harshly up at Njal, breathing forceful as he tried, so very hard, to resist everything in his body that screamed at him to fight back. To not let Njal treat him as if Cutthroat were his bitch. It was a hard thing to allow to happen to him, and harder yet to swallow the crushing blow to his pride the Pirate was left with. There was nothing but shattered pieces that cut him every time he tried to piece them back together.
The weight of Njal’s paw was felt in the junction between his shoulders, pressing him down into the until his breath became strained from the pressure, and the resilient creature with broken pride was left under the Beta male feeling as pathetic as he probably looked. Cutthroat understood bribes very well, and understood that his “corrective measures” would not be as harsh if he gave Njal information. At this point, Cutthroat struggled with the trepidation that wracked him - also made his thinking process a bit sluggish when he was sort of struggling to breathe - assuming that at this point it was his “information” that was keeping him alive. He did not know he was willing to give it up, yet. Not until he felt he could and had something of a fair shot at extending his life past his first year.
“No,” He responded in a gasp of breath. He closed his eyes then, sure it had been an extremely foolhardy thing to say, but he was out to preserve his own life in that moment.
He wouldn't let it phase him too much. Njal could gut animals just as easily as any other wolf. The thought of doing it to a canine - someone like him - only bothered him for a moment. He thought instead of how the world would be a better place without this stain upon their riverside; of the fate of Bones in the grip of this child's companions; even, and this was the most poignant thought, even the safety of his wife and children. Surely if the pirates had been bold enough to come in and steal away a yearling they would be overjoyed to try and take something like a child. When Njal's mind passed to thoughts of his growing family and the danger they were in, he naturally began to apply more pressure to Cutthroat's spine. His claws slipped through the thick fur there and touched upon flesh, while the full weight of Njal's hefty body was applied. The man snapped out of his thoughts after a few minutes, realizing that the shadow was gasping for breath and being granted little oxygen. He reversed in that moment - removing his bulk from the boy's back, and instead standing over him with a placid expression on his face. As if nothing had happened.
Cutthroat sputtered for breath still, but Njal ignored it as he spoke.
"Who helped you to steal Bones from us." The statement held little inflection, but it was a question - more than that, a seething demand. "Tell me their names and I will let you keep your skin." This was a new level of Njal that had never been exposed before, perhaps had never existed prior to this moment. To think that his family was in danger - even to entertain the thought briefly - brought out a whole new side of the mountain man. He would not let Cutthroat have a moment of rest while he was among them, at least not without a good reason. "Tell me where they went with her, and I will leave you to your task." But he would be sure to appoint someone to keep an eye on him, even if it was from a distance. There was no trusting this vile fiend.
“Her mother,” Cutthroat spat out, breathing still labored though now it was mostly to satisfy what his lungs had temporarily been craving -- or maybe to prove that he was, actually, still alive. “It was her mother.” Cutlass had been wrong, all wrong, to go about it as she had …but in a way could she be blamed for wanting her daughter back? Cutthroat wondered, as he glimpsed up at Njal, to what lengths he would walk the earth, what he would do if he had been in Cutlass’ position. His daughter was suddenly gone (at least this was the story Cutthroat got). Would he not take on the entire earth to get her back? Sacrifice the lives of his crewmates to see her returned? Cutthroat had no misconceptions on what kind of mother Cutlass was but she was a mother, nevertheless. Calypso probably would have done the same for him; but that was all Cutthroat was willing to say for the moment, deciding to let Njal soak that small, but critical tidbit of information in.
It wasn’t much - because Cutthroat wished to extend his life even if Njal threatened it by stating if he didn’t talk he would endure punishment.
He was a patient creature on most days, able to rise before the sun to do his work. To follow the light throughout the morning, return to his den and his wife at specific points throughout the day, and never miss a beat of his patrol. He could sit and wait for hours at the riverside for the perfect catch; rather, the warden used to. Since his appointment to Beta there were other duties that took him away from his most favored of tasks - but he could wait, he could bide his time. What bothered him now was Cutthroat's lack of information. Yes, he eventually caved and sputtered a few words, but it was not enough: just the talk of a mother, but that was no name, and Njal was growing impatient. He wanted to demand more from the black-skinned beast but at the same time, he would not upset the established order to any great extent. Not more than he perhaps already had. So with the boy's words curdling in the air around them, Njal decided to withdraw.
A tense moment slipped by where his teeth, shining and grit tight, aligned with the captive's face - a rumble of irritation slipping out the gaps between them. But the sound did fade, and Njal pulled back from the boy and the river's edge. Without a word he began to march again, taking that tiny morsel of almost information and sticking it somewhere safe within his memory. As much as he loathed the manner in which Cutthroat kept his secrets, Njal knew it would place too much strain on everyone involved if he were to continue.
As he passed from Cutthroat's company and in to the open air of the plains, the warden passed by a few straying subordinates - and pointedly told them to keep an eye on the boy at the river, for he had his own work to do. As the figures swept to take guard of the captive, Njal returned to his patrol route.