Wheeling Gull Isle yo ho, it's a pirate's life for me!

The swab had spent his days on the beach, gathering together whatever dead animals and cracked, disappointing shells he could find for the galley and coffers. He had held up his end of the bargain with Ferahgo and showed each of the crew to the grave in the bay, where they had each claimed a bone or two for themselves, their share of the booty. The dead viking king of Stavanger, a name the swabby did not know for the bay, was now less than half a skeleton, and it would be Blurryface's duty to carry the rest of the treasure from the bay to the ship.

He was a third across the plank, which was beginning to sink once more below the waves, when Ferahgo's shanty seemed to erupt from the island. His keen coywolf ears could pick it up easily and the manic rat laughed, a bone-chilling cackle, and cried into the wind, "AYE, ME HEARTIES, WE BE WEIGHIN' ANCHOR SMARTLY." His howl clawed into the air, half yipped and half called, as he skipped across the plank and returned to the grave to pull three more bones free and ferry them back across to the isle.