Wheeling Gull Isle The Bagman's Gambit

For a moment, the newly named Habit wondered if all the wolves around these parts spoke in such peculiar ways. With no prior recollection to fall back on to judge the social norm, perhaps he was the strange one; speaking in unfloureshed and disjointed sentances while the others weaved proper poetry in their prose. Either way, she was right. He didn't sound anything like a pirate.  

"Guess not," spoke the Habit after plucking yet another muscle from the tide pool. Like it's brethren who came before, the muscle shared the same fate and met it's bitter end between the vicegrip that was the Habit's pressing bite. One by one, they fell to his calm cruelly.  

If the stranger wanted him to move from the spot and postpone his necessary lunch, she was going to need to try harder. If the Captain wanted treasure, he could find it himself. The stranger turned and beconed the Habit to follow, but he remained firmly rooted to the spot. "What's in it for me? he called out with a simper before fishing for his next unsuspecting victim.