Stavanger Bay Warpless

Youth had afforded Smokestep a great number of things. He had, of course, endured the iron fist of his father and the ways of the Cairn brood. He knew, better than most, that life was not easy for any who passed through it. He was determined to ensure that he had used all the time he was granted, though. Still, Smokestep had turned out nothing like his father. Skellige would have surely tossed this wench to the sharks and waited for them to feast on her as an offering to the ocean. The young pirate instead was rather intrigued by what she was saying about the witchdoctors in the wood. He had only known those who lived on the Warsaw Islands, and their ways had been about as unfamiliar to him as a downtown intersection would have been.

“I s'pose not, then,” he remarked to her statement about going in unprepared. The corsair was still royally confused when it came to the matters in which she spoke. He equated them to his own personal memories, but knew that he could have been entirely wrong. There was a chance that she was speaking about something far more sinister in those woods. The fiery woman then mentioned that she would not return to the wood without plenty of backup, to which he scoffed a bit more openly than he should have. Still, it could have been misinterpreted as him scoffing at the absolute gall of the 'necromancers' that she had mentioned before.

The conversation shifted a bit as she mentioned that she had run out of room to run. The girl motioned toward the water and Smokestep cast the waves a sidelong glance before returning his vision to her. “Yer not wrong, lass, unless yer a grand swimmer,” he then agreed with a firm bow of his head. “As much as I'd like ta be rescuin' a damsel in distress, you'd best be scootin' along unless yer aimin' to join me crew,” he remarked after several long moments. Smokestep then fixed her with an expectant expression that suggested she start walking away from the bay or express some interest in being a part of Ironsea.