Stavanger Bay Gotta sad life, sad life; go to fuckin' hell

The girl seemed to jump ahead of herself at the start. Smokestep chuckled – a deep sound in the back of his throat – before shaking his head a bit at the dark-coated woman who had introduced herself as Frankie. She had a knack for talking and a knack for patching people up, it seemed. The pallid corsair eyed her for a moment and then closed a single eye so as to peer at her from a crimson orb. The pirate was interested in what she might have to offer, but he thought her a little brash. She, of course, knew nothing about his crew or what they believed in, so it seemed strange to him to want to simply climb aboard and lend a hand.

“Well now, drop yer anchor a moment, lass. We could use a good set o' healin' paws, but ye haven't any idea wot we do or who we are,” the scoundrel told her with a quirked brow and a small smirk. Surely, he was still intrigued by the young miss, but he wanted to know if she would be willing to take the blood oath. To join Ironsea meant to pledge yourself for life, and none would escape such a testimony.