The path had led them down and out of the ruined forest, swerving to turn direction for the water. Once they had reached the entrance of the bay, Smokestep turned his head to make sure that his companion was near. He would not admit to having turned around many times in their trek. He was concerned that the mangled leg would have caused travel to be quite difficult on his newest recruit. The pirate did not wish to subject the male to such blatant signs of favor, but it wouldn't have mattered if the young Cairn had lost him to the wood; the journey would have been for nothing. It had seemed that the male and his bird were close at hand, and so he turned to face the bay and motioned for the male to enter.

“Well, here ye have it,” he said with a small smile. He would have said that it wasn't much, but that would have been completely false; the bay where Ironsea made its home was everything he would have hoped for and more. Smokestep could not have imagined anything better. He hoped that the marred male would find it just as suitable for a home, and that the crew would find him and his bird a fitting pair to add to their ranks.

The other male seemed to appraise the territory as he made his way along Smokestep's side. The pale yearling felt a sting of pride that erupted in his chest like fire. The bay was nestled in a tight little guarded speck of land. The sands were beautiful and lush, while the high rocks protected them from many outside visitors that were not considered welcome. Water flowed through various small rivers from the emerald trees that marked a forested area. Within, there were a few caves and caverns that would provide suitable homes for the crew. The waters brought fresh fish and crustaceans to the shore frequently. It was more than enough to sustain those who would live within it. Smokestep had only been surprised that another had not attempted to lay claim to the land before he had returned.

“Oi, yer not wrong. This is yer home, mate; the ship. The rest o' the crew ye'll see mullin' about. If yer a fisher, ye'll find the waters have got all ye need. Yer bird'll like the trees, I'm sure,” he showed each location with a point of his muzzle. Smokestep wondered how much of a tour Brig would need before he'd feel comfortable moving around inside of the pack. There wasn't much more to explain to the place; there were a few tucked away treasures that most were unaware of, but with enough searching would become well-known.

Fate or fortune seemed to have smiled on the both of them, for Brig claimed that he was rather talented at fishing. Offering a toothy smile, Smokestep felt that he would be pleased with the newest recruit. If he was anything like the wolves of Warsaw, he would fit in well on the crew. Really, the biggest test of character would have been to present him to Sandpiper to have her way with. If the brute could walk free from her, he would have been a very capable creature. While he was interested to see an end result to such an encounter, Smokestep opted to help the marred wolf settle in and comfortable. “That's good that ye've got that under ye,” he said confidently. “Ye'll do well to help wit the caches.”

The question that followed was in regards to how much of the land was theirs. The pirate peered in toward the trees and then nodded in that direction with a bob of his skull. “Well, that's tricky that is. Fire took out the nearby forest, but we've got most o' what's left save fer a lil speck that's burnt to bits,” he answered, sporting a thoughtful frown and a squinted crimson eye. Brig would have been safe regardless, as Donnelaith had departed from the woodland long before Smoke's arrival. With no neighbors, it made it easy to expand their hunting grounds to the nearby terrain and unclaimed territory.

The bird seemed eager to make an effort as well, to which the Captain grinned. “Good on ye, mate. Yer welcome 'ere so long as yer helpin' this fella,” the pale corsair mentioned in a teasing tone and nodded toward the wolf with the mangled rear leg. Smokestep didn't see much of an issue with the one-eyed creature keeping an extra pair of optics around the pack; certainly not if the bird was willing to assist. With a small sigh, the marauder fixed his companion with a wily expression and swiveled his ears forward. “Right then, wot do ye know 'bout bein' a pirate?”

Smokestep had not spent enough time around the feathered creatures of the wood to know their use, but he could safely assume that the Jackdaw was helpful to the brute and that was enough reason to allow it to stay within the territory. Smokestep was young and he still believed that the markings on Brig's body were a sign that he was not in the shape he should have been; of course, the yearling had been fortunate enough to never have found himself in similar situations. Though he carried an array of small scars on his lean frame, the pirate did not know if Brig's condition truly put him at a disadvantage or not. Still, he was like a small child staring at a man in a wheelchair; it was almost as though the Captain could not take his eyes from the damaged portions of his companion.

The red-eyed male inquired what was entailed in being a pirate and it snapped the pale marauder from his stupor. “Well, ye'll get to live as ye please. Ye can spend yer days fishin', ye can work to guard the borders... whatever ye like doin' best. Alls we ask is ye put the crew first, eh? Ye'll live an' die by these wolves. If ye don't, ye walk the plank,” he rambled simply. At the mention of walking the plank, the pale creature cast his muzzle in the direction of the jagged cliffs that overlooked the water. It was a sure death; one straight plunge into the rocky depths below and something was bound to snap. “Wot's it ye have a knack fer? Fighter? Fisher? Shark diver?

“Aye, ye heard right. Shark divin',” he assured the other male with a wicked flash of his teeth in a smile. It was then that Brig mentioned he wasn't fond of fighting and that he'd make a fair fisher instead with a knack for stories. It was a weight off of Smoke's shoulders; he didn't want to be the one responsible for having this fellow pursue the life of a Rigger with little interest in the fight. He wouldn't have lasted the week, that was certain, but the marauder thought it would be good to have someone aim to fill their caches. Fishers were hard to train, so it was nice when luck managed to swing one close by.

Of course, most of what fell from the pirate's mouth was out of jest. He'd prefer a good laugh to a good cry any day, but Brig would learn the ups and downs of Smokestep's mood the longer he stuck around. “Ye sound to me like ye'd make a fine Striker,” he remarked in a more serious tone than before. “Hard work but I'd like to see ye do it. I'll be watchin' after all.”