Stavanger Bay splice the mainbrace

Smokestep – truthfully – had not yet found any lasses that drew his eye. He was awfully fond of searching, but none had struck him as being worth hitting and keeping around. It seemed, though, that Raptor was not doing entirely too well in that department either. Still, Smokestep knew that his second hand mate would find something in someone that would occupy his every thought and effort. As long as he found someone who could deal with his denseness and the occasional whip-like crack of his tongue, they would be just fine for each other. Still, they had only just arrived in those lands. Both of the boys had plenty of time before they would need to plant their flags and settle down. Smokestep intended to occupy as much of that time as possible.

Another subject came up and the pale brute canted his head a bit, wondering how best to approach the subject of wenches in his crew. Smokestep had grown up with his sister. He had only known her constant companionship for his entire life, and so he had settled on his reasoning for the answer that was to come. “No, mate,” he responded with a stern shake of his head. The sincere tone was something that did not quite suit the Captain well. He was standard issue with a crooked smirk and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “The crew will be free to behave as they wish fer the most part, but we shant be keepin' wenches in Ironsea. We will need all hands on deck.” He did not think that he could degrade any woman to the singular occupation of tending to the lads needs. If Sandpiper had been subjected to the same treatment, he knew that she would have cut the throat of the man who tried.

“Why do ye ask?”