The sands clung to his pelt as the pirate made his way along the edges of the water. He preferred if he could touch it – could feel it against his limbs, no matter how cold – so that he knew he had found the right place. For a year, his father had raised him and taught him the way of the sea. For a year, it had been drilled into the young man's skull that he was intended to reclaim the bay and make it his own. The Cairn legacy was to live on! Never did he feel as though he needed to rebel against such demands. He had always had Sandpiper at his side and he did not imagine that he would require much more than her company through the grand excursion that they had planned together. He did not know just how grand it would be.

The brisk sea brushed against the length of his limbs until he had grown numb to the sensation. The seafaring wolf turned his skull inland toward the territory that rested beyond the cape, but it did not hold his interest and so he continued his trek down the coast in search of others who might have hoped to call the ocean their home. If he were to recruit, he would want it to be from the waters.

The brute did not see her for some time. His mind was occupied with his travels and the quiet beating of the ocean against his limbs and toes. The shores were some of the most beautiful that he had ever seen. They were perfectly wild, untamed by anything – even those who claimed them – and he felt almost humbled to find himself in the presence of such a powerful sight. It did not matter how many times he would witness it, the ghost did not know that he could ever leave it behind. Perhaps there was a portion of him that was tied to the waters by his birth, but Smokestep would have vowed otherwise. It had been the blood of the Cairn wolves that flowed through him. Their bond with the waves was mighty and fierce, and for this he carried pride in his chest.

Drawing his gaze upward, the pale seafarer caught sight of her figure. Her coat was patchwork and strange, but she did seem beautiful in her own right. Smokestep drew his tongue across his dark lips and the whiskers along his muzzle before he lowered his skull and began to trek forward. Once he had found himself close enough, the pallid creature lifted his head and chuffed quietly to the woman. After having announced his presence to her, he stepped forward again and his tail wavered behind him softly before it fell between his hocks.

“Ahoy, lass,” he barked. A charming and crinkled smirk settled onto his face, and the pirate peered at her from his crimson optic, squinting the other shut. He had always imagined that it was wisest to find those of like mind in similar places; to belong to the sea, one must be found by her waters.

It had not been until the corsair had closed some of the distance between himself and the female that he noticed just how poor her state of being was. Once he caught wind, the brute slowed his steps and lowered his skull toward the earth. The burning orange of her gaze had latched to him and he felt almost as though she was attempting to singe his insides to nothing. Pulling his two-toned gaze from blazing optics, Smokestep took the opportunity to roam her figure and settled on a deep frown. The dark ink of his lips curled downward and he shook his head a bit before taking a small step forward. She did not look as though she trusted him in the slightest, but that made for a sharp mind and he was anticipating he would be met with a sharper tongue if he pressed his luck.

Wavering his tail behind him, Smokestep bobbed his head in hopes that she might be put at a bit of ease with his presence. “It's okay, miss. Ye alright? Ye hungry?” the hound inquired with a tilt of his crown toward the left. Should she spook and disappear from his vision, Smokestep supposed that it would leave him with nothing more to worry about. Still, he wondered if he could get her to respond in some manner. So, the pallid brute held his ground and settled his tail between his hocks.

The young pirate watched as a wry smile curled her features and he found himself squinting at her with a similar expression on his dark lips. The woman had not yet spoken to him, but her body language was enough to decipher that she found him silly. There was no doubt that the strange female was starved and ragged, but Smokestep was trying to determine his best means of action. His eyes darted to the water for a brief moment before he nodded his head to her and let out a short huff of a sigh. Pulling his gaze back to dance along her frame, he frowned and flicked his tail upward. The water would be cold, but he was certain he could catch a fish.

“Have yerself a seat then, lass. Yer lookin' at the best fisher this side o' the ocean,” he boasted with a prideful stance and wink. Without warning, he bound from where he stood and into the cold grip of the water. His long limbs afforded him enough space so that he would not have to swim entirely, but could watch as the fish drifted closer to the shoreline. The length of his ears stood erect as he watched the water settle around his legs. For all that he knew, the female could have turned and run from him, but Smokestep was always eager to please the women who wandered too close to the edge of the swell.

The outsider was a calculating woman; he could tell as much from the tight-lipped lack of comment and the way her eyes followed his movements with a careful glint. Smokestep did not want to misstep with her, but he imagined that if he did, she would disappear from sight and he would forget all about her. When she did not run, he considered it a successful attempt. Rallying all of his upbringing and knowledge of the ocean, the pirate watched and waited a few long minutes to see if any of the fish were being lured to the edges of the shore. He was not disappointed; after a short time, he caught the glimmer of scales and his head plunged into the frigid water and emerged with a writhing sea creature clasped firmly between his teeth. With a few grunts, he gripped tighter on the fish and it ceased all wiggling.

Wading back to shore, Smokestep shook his coat and staggered back to where the woman waited. The yearling tossed the fish to her feet and nodded his head with a wide grin. “Thar... ye see?” he remarked with heaving sides, desperately attempting to pull air into his lungs while he awaited the sure-to-arrive approval from the silent spectator. After all, it wasn't every day that she had to have been fed by dashing young pirates, was it?

The girl jumped back like the sharks were after her toes. Smokestep watched her with a confused cock of his head to the left and frowned a bit at her reaction. He wasn't sure if the lass had ever had a fish hand-delivered to her before. After she bent to sniff it, he wasn't sure if she'd ever had fish at all. The pirate squinted his gaze at her and waited to see if she would turn and leave – disgusted by his offer – or if she would stick it out. It seemed that he was granted the latter, at least temporarily. So, Smokestep offered her a kind sort of half-smile and nodded his head toward the kill in a few confident motions. She seemed skittish and like she might have the tendency of a flight risk creature, but he was intrigued by her.

“Go ahead, lass. Take a bite; I promise it's better than it looks,” he remarked to her in an encouraging tone. If she was half as bad as she looked, he wasn't entirely sure why the girl had not plucked the kill up in a single gulp and spat out the bones. He didn't know where the sudden show of civility and charm were coming from. You could lead a horse to water, they said.

The woman was as feral as he'd seen in some time. She guarded the fish with a quick flash of her fangs and made it clear that he was not to come anywhere near the catch. Smokestep had no intention of taking his kill back; he was confident that he could catch another if he needed the sustenance. The pirate took a single step back to allow her room to eat, and he watched as she scarfed the meal to the bone. It was not the perfect meal for a hungry wolf, but he was certain that it would tide her over until she could rest... and perhaps catch something for herself. There was a pricking at the back of his mind as he wondered how she had survived this long in such a state of well being.

The unnamed woman turned to him and expressed interest in more, to which he frowned softly and looked back to the waters. His limbs were cold and wet still, but he would leap into the sea to catch her another if she needed it. “Say, lass... how are ye survivin' on yer own? Ye have a home?” he inquired, drawing his attention back to her with a slight cant of his head. The crew was growing quickly, but he would have felt far better if she had a place to stay. More than this, the pirate did not want her to attempt to snoop around the Ironsea territory in search of food. He did not know her desperation.

Smokestep was far too young and daft to know whether or not her interest was genuine or feigned. Even the discontented expression that had flashed across her features was ignored in the prospect of pulling her to Ironsea and making her one of the crew. He would not have described himself as desperate, but his actions clearly demonstrated a deep need to recruit others. The pale corsair did not have a desire to watch his crew flounder from the start, and he was eager to get them upright and standing. While she was a quiet thing, Smoke imagined that she would get along well with Piper, and that even his salty sister would not have been able to tear her down. It was a good sign of resilience that she had survived as long as she had, in her state. He wanted that lively blood in his ranks and he wanted it sooner rather than later.

“Well, if yer lookin' fer a place to drop anchor, we're over in the bay. Bunch o' rowdy pirates an' the like, but ye'd fit in well. Ye'd be well fed, if anythin',” he stated with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders and a small smile. “I'd just expect ye to pull yer weight, o' course,” Smokestep then added in a far more somber tone. “There's only one thing; ye join the crew an' yer a member fer life. Once a pirate... always a pirate. If ye think ye can stomach that, then yer welcome aboard.” The statement was simple enough, and he offered it to nearly all of his recruits in hopes that it would spur a desire to linger longer than most. He knew that he would have those who would jump ship, but they wouldn't survive long with the Ironsea crew at their tail.

The woman rose and seemed to accept the terms that he had stated for her. It didn't take a word for him to understand that she was willing to follow. Shaking his pelt, he pointed himself for the bay and motioned for her to follow at a pace that was comfortable. As they made their way through the sand, Smokestep turned to face her and offered a small smile that curled his dark lips just slightly. “Ye got a name, miss? Or am I to fashion ye one?” he inquired. It may very well have been an impolite request, but she had been of few words since he had wandered upon her, and he was not certain if that was a choice or if she simply could not talk. They would find a way, but he would offer her the courtesy of being able to provide a moniker for herself before jumping to the conclusion and creating one for her.

Her mouth parted and he found himself stiffening with anticipation, but he was surprised to find that no noise fell from the dark leather of her lips. With a small frown, Smokestep glanced away, hoping that he would not make her feel uncomfortable with his incessant need to inquire and expect a talkative response in return. If the woman did not have a name that she could offer, he would fashion one for her that would suit her well. Most wolves were not granted a new name until they had earned their sea legs. The Captain decided that hers would be a temporary one.
 
“Right then,” he mused with a playful smirk curling his lips. “I’ll call ye Fishlips.” Of course, Smokestep felt as though he were rather quick witted with his awful conjuring of a name, and he cast her a sidelong glance. He was waiting to see if she would react to the moniker before he granted her one that would suit her better. After a few moments, he winked and shook his head. “Nah, I’m only teasin’ ye. I’m thinkin’ ye’ll be called ‘Hex,’ cause it seems ye got a hex on yer tongue,” the pallid brute told her.