Stavanger Bay wish we could turn back time

Blurryface picked his way along the shore, cackling half-madly at a washed up octopus for the fifth time that day. It had been alive when he first found it in the morning, but the "wiggle fish" hadn't lasted long and now it was beginning to stink. "Aye, ye be all washed up," he snorted at it, stamping a paw as if he was the most hilarious thing in the world. Which, clearly, he was. "I bet yer crew be laughin' at ye now, ye scurvy wiggler. Ye ain't even fit eatin' fer bilge rats. Ain't even fit fer grog." He certainly wouldn't be trying to eat it or drink any of the weird black secretions it had left behind.

When the scraggy coywolf lifted his head, he was alarmed to spot a white-haired figure moving down the coastline. It wasn't Ferahgo, nor any of their former crew in Tortuga, and the stench of the rotting octopus drowned out any scent on the breeze. He might not have noticed her until she was on top of him. Unfortunately for Wednesday, he had noticed her, and he cackled, "Avast ye, lass." He took a critical look at her, then with a nod, he declared, "Ye look like ye crawled from me mum's bung hole." It was as true as could be: Wednesday was no looker, that was for sure. She might've been a man for all Blurry knew. "Ye be a righ' buxom wench, ain't ye? 'Ow many lucky lads been on yer poop deck?"

And then he laughed aloud, clearly amused with himself and his oh-so-witty remarks.