Ocean's Breath Plateau nocturne in c-sharp minor, b. 49

@Maha maybe?

The corsair ventured to the plateau with the intent to feel the caress of fresh air against his lengthy limbs. The young man had not realized just how difficult it was to raise his crew from the ground up. He had been fortunate to find Raptor again, and to have Sandpiper at his side. Smokestep believed that his sister was the cause of a great deal of his own personal strength. Still, he had done well to recruit, and he had found himself face to face with the beginnings of the Ironsea wolves. They needed more bodies, though – this he was painfully aware of. The group that he had was good, but small, and he desired more blood in his ranks. The pirate wanted his crew to be known across those lands.

Smokestep trekked along the plateau with leonine grace in his steps. His pale form stood out in startling contrast to the night sky that stretched overhead. He could hear the faint howling of the sea breeze as it crashed against the cliffs. Beyond that, the sound of the water and home. Part of him missed Warsaw and the culture that surrounded his father's birthplace. Another part of him – the stronger portion – knew that he was destined for great things and that he had found where he had been intended to be all along. This lit a fire inside of him, and Smokestep turned his crown to look across the stretching land, wondering if Sandpiper felt the same.

Business had been slow and Maha was getting a little peckish. Back at home, there were never lapses in income like this; when she needed something, it was there, and the steps that she had to take were only routine. She marched along with the rhythm of the sea, finding that once she'd given it a chance, it had proven to not be so bad after all. It was a pain in the ass to deal with the cold and the salt and the noisy seagulls, but Maha was (slowly, very slowly) getting used to it.

Up ahead stood a man cloaked in white with a build slightly thinner than Maha had hoped for, but she thought that he would do just fine. After all, desperate times called for desperate measures. She started a slow trot, calling out a soft, Yoo-hoo! and putting her finest smile on display. Hello, there, she cooed, despite the distance still between them.

A husky voice sounded from nearby, causing the brute's flesh to prick with goosebumps that he had not expected. It wasn't familiar, so the pirate whirled to face a young female with a pleasant expression. He watched her for a moment, drawing in her physique with an interested eye. She reminded him of the wenches that the crew neighboring Warsaw had around – wenches that Raptor had inquired about. He had never known what to say in regards to women who were meant purely for pleasure, but he had come across them and he knew that many of them enjoyed their work well. Still, he did not want to presume that he knew what this woman's trades were, so he cast her a crooked grin and watched as she approached.

“Ahoy, lass,” he greeted, once she had gotten closer. The two tones of his gaze roamed over her still, wondering, thinking about all of the times that he had seen them like this. This woman was such a startling contrast to his self-assured and fierce sister. Still, she seemed to hold a power all her own. Smokestep was on his guard, holding himself in a defensive posture with his head held low and his brow furrowed over his gaze.

Although trying to discern his greeting internally, Maha's sleek frame did not flinch. Rather, she embraced his gaze, twisting sideways so that he might get a full view. Because his stature communicated his wariness, Maha did not step as close as she might have liked to, but kept a modest distance instead. I don't think we've met before, mister. There was a childlike curiousity on her face, though her stark lack of innocence was clear.

Maha remembered the tales she had once heard of the seafarers along the coast. They didn't treat their women the way that the landworkers did; there was no power imbalance, but an understanding that each wolf, regardless of trade or lifestyle, was equal. Behind the hierarchical titles, there was respect, something that other wolves lacked.

The unfamiliar woman turned her body and the pirate watched her with a careful eye, trained on each step that she took with an expectant glint. She knew well her own shape, and as she made it known to him, the young lad relaxed a little bit and lowered his skull. The corsair was unfamiliar with the tempting gaze of another, as he was only just over a year and a few months. Still, he knew the stirring that a young lad would feel toward that of the opposite sex. There was very little need for the birds and the bees conversation with Smokestep; he'd figured a great deal of it out on his own. She made a comment about how she did not believe that they had met before, to which he nodded his head.

“Yer right, lass. I'm sure I'd remember a meetin' like that,” he remarked with a smirk. “Me name's Smokestep,” the pirate then introduced himself with a nod of his muzzle toward the earth and a flashing wink – nothing more. Though she seemed friendly enough, he was not certain that he would trust her immediately. There were tails of mermaids that would lure pirates to their death if they weren't careful. Smokestep had learned enough from his sister to know that it wasn't wise to underestimate women.

The attention she was being offered might have once made Maha uncomfortable or queasy, namely when she was first starting out, but after years in her line of work, there was little that phased her. Smokestep, she thought, was a befitting name of such a being; a pale plume of smoke, slim and sleek. I like that, she commented with a twist of her head, It fits you, mister.

With her eyes wide and her stature submissive, she began to speak again, You can call me Maha, if you'd like. Smokestep could have decided to call her whatever he liked, she didn't care; they never stayed long enough for it to matter.

The girl remarked that she approved of his calling. The young pirate could have cursed his father for the nickname that had fallen on him. The sight of his pallid coat at birth had stricken Skellige with a deep-rooted fear, and had cast his eldest boy with the name Smokestep. Regardless, it had suited him well for a vast majority of his life and he was bound and determined to make it well-known. “'Course, it does. It's why it's me name, lass,” he affirmed with a swift nod of his head and a sly smirk.

Maha then introduced herself and he made sure to dramatically bow before her, showing just how a gentleman handled the presence of a good woman. “Maha; that there's a right good name, aye? Is it a nickname er what ye was born wit?” he then inquired of her with a slight canting of his skull. The corsair could never be certain if someone was providing their birth name or if they had procured it on some devilish adventure. He was the only one he'd known who had the common sense to ask.

The dapper of the young man admittedly caught Maha off-gaurd. For a moment, she stepped back, unsure of what he was doing with the strange and seemingly out-of-place bow, but she was quick to find that she quite liked being treated like a lady. Even if it didn't last long, Smokestep seemed to be enjoying her presence and Maha planned to indulge in his. I was born with it, she told him proudly, because of my eyes.

They were large, round eyes, framed with abnormally long lashes. It was more of a nuisance than anything else in regards to everyday life — she was never able to escape the wrath of dust and sand — but it did help with bringing in customers. In her life, Maha had been dealt her share of nicknames, none of which she'd found as funny as their gifters.

The pale pirate listened to her explanation for the name that had been given to her and he frowned thoughtfully, peering intently at her features. The two-toned color of his gaze was intense as he looked into her own optics, studying them for a reason why the moniker 'Maha' would have been offered. The expression on his features stayed stern, but not unpleasant, while he racked his mind for a motivation behind her calling. Nothing came to him, no matter his intensity, and so he released a lung full of air and pulled himself back some ways before canting his head a bit to the left.

“Oi then, missy... I don't get it. Wot say ye tell me the reason? Wot's Maha got to do wit yer eyes?” the pirate inquired with a slight wag of his tail. He wondered if she hailed form a land with another tongue; he'd come across quite a few of them in his travels with Sandpiper. It seemed that they all had their way of making sense, but he didn't grasp this one and was interested to learn.

The remark was insulting and ignorant, but Smokestep would have never been able to tell. There were no signs of anger or annoyance, but a plastered smile and eyes squinted with adoration. It's Arabic, she giggled youthfully, It means 'cow eyes', like those of a moose. They're so big, I can see everything. It was the only benefit to having eyes so abnormally large; nothing ever got past without her knowing it.

I like the way that you speak, mister. It's intriguing. No, it wasn't. Maha hated it, but Smokestep was the customer; whatever it took to appease his ego, she would do it.

The yearling thought about the eyes on a moose and furrowed his brow, trying to imagine if they were abnormally large or if she was painting even his memories. Smokestep didn't know a lot about his prey's eyes, and he hadn't the foggiest clue what Arabic was, but she was mesmerizing in her own right. He found himself growing a little lost in his own thoughts. Finally, blinking once or twice and finding her features again, he swallowed the dryness in his throat and nodded his head as if to signify that he understood what she was saying when he really did not.

“Thanks, lass. Some ain't fond o' the way I talk,” he said as she remarked on his voice and the accent that had warped his speech. “Ye know any more Arabic?” he then asked her, as if this would help him clarify if she was talking about a language or if she was talking about a culture that he had no comprehension of. He'd either make a fool of himself, or he'd have guessed well enough.