Stavanger Bay I prefer to achieve immortality by not dying

Hex followed him with her treasure clasped in her mouth. Smokestep could not help but to smile as he glanced over his shoulder. Somehow, the less verbal he could be with her, the better she seemed to react. He did not want to create a confusing environment for any of his crew. They were the life blood of his pack, of his dream, and he wanted only for them to feel as though they were secure in the bay. The wolves of Ironsea would always be his priority; he was their Captain and he wanted them to know that he was only there to make sure they had as luxurious of a life as possible. Of course, there were those who would counter that his promise of a swift death would deter most from leaving. The corsair was not bothered by this; it was merely in place to prevent those few passersby who would take advantage of their hospitality and free-living ways before striking the next pack that fancied them. Within the walls of the Ironsea crew, loyalty was a prize sought by all.
 
Weaving a bit with his nose toward the sands, he made his way up and inland a short distance before he circled a few times in the same five-foot space and stopped. Craning his neck to make sure that Hex was still hot at his heels, the pallid young Captain reached out with his nose and pushed aside a leafy green lid that gave way to a small cache in the cold of the clay. Underneath the small housing were two hares and a small slew of fish that had been caught. Smokestep peered at the ink-splotched female and nodded his head toward it. “That’s fer ye, lass. Made ye a promise to keep ye fed,” he rattled on with a small shrug.