Wheeling Gull Isle pinkie pie's party cannon

After making one final leap down and finding level ground with the Captain, the Habit now faced him man to man. His gaze, however, remained respectfully planted at the ground around the Captain's forepaws in deference. The salt-licked captain had shown him kindness on the beach by allowing the Habit a place among his crew; his kindness would be repayed with kindness in turn. An eye for an eye.  

The Habit shot Ferahgo a wire-thin grin in the face of his territorial threats. He was a possesive man himself, it was a trait he could admire.  "You won't have to worry about me Cap— Cave's all yours," he spoke with a flat and matter-of-fact intonation. The quarters he eventually picked to hang his head was a non-issue. The Habit wasn't one to be picky.

With the captains intensity disarmed, the Habit considered his question for a moment before returning, "It ain't bad. There's enough muscles in the Tidal Flats to keep me fed for years. So, I think I'm gonna do fine here."