Wheeling Gull Isle The Bagman's Gambit

In a way, the Habit felt held captive by the wench who beckoned him down the beach. But, by her word he would be released as soon as their task was done. Among the company of pirates, word meant little, but the Habit felt a primal draw to this insufferable woman, so he followed without notable fuss. 

"You've got yourself a deal Freckles," he spoke, taking notice of the faint, tan spots that adorned her eyes.

It seeemed she wouldn't let him leave without some sort of fortune within his jaws and the Habit was determined to return to his lunch as soon as possible, so he kept his eyes pealed on the beach in search of any object the wench would deem treasure-worthy. As a strict utilitarian, the Habit saw no use for bits or bobs or adornments, instead he persued pleasures of the flesh— bodily gratification was much more fulfilling than a full coffer. These pirates he had taken residence with, however, seemed to respect a balance between the material and the consumable rewards of plunder. 

With the promise of a better place to find food hanging in the balance, Habit took to the beach and pressed his nose to the sand, waiting for anything shiny or strange to catch his attention. A few meters away, by some cosmic luck, he noticed a slight nub pointing upward in the sand; the point of a medium sized conch shell. He approaced with curiosity before unearthing it with his jaws.

Mouth full of sand and shell, the Habit spit his bounty in front of him and grimaced.  The shell rolled to it side; it's occupant, long gone. "Will this do? Can I eat now?"