Stavanger Bay if you apologize once you do it again and again and again

the subtle and quieted sound of shifting sand is lost in the roar of the waves as they crash continuously upon the shore lulled back and pushed forth in a never ending tug-o-war. the gangster does not realize he's being accosted until the slight and willowy young woman is within his sight range — first seen out of the corner of his eye as his attention is otherwise occupied — giving a clear of her throat. it's a expectant noise, a demand absent of words. as arturo detangles himself from the seaweed he gives it a second of a glimpse to ensure it was swept back out to sea as he smoothly takes a few sidesteps so that he is out of reach of the waves.

content that it will not happen again he turns his fiery gaze to the young woman before him, noting her aggressive posturing and bristled hackles. it is foreign; to submit to another. he has been the forger of laws, the iron fist that rules for so long that it sinking into a submissive posture feels unnatural. yet, the gangster does it. because he is a gentleman and because he seeks to appease her with the desired affect of curbing her hostility so that he does not meet the sharp edges of her teeth.

it does not fall beneath the gangster's consideration that smokestep and ironsea's scent is far too weak upon his pelage ( now obscured by the salt of the sea, no doubt ) for him to be recognized as a newly minted crew member; thus he offers, "i'm apart of the crew." he offers in an attempt to reassure her that he is not, in fact, trespassing.