Firestone Hot Springs And it's keeping me up at night, and it's keeping me up, oh

There was a lackadaisical glow that fluttered around Smokestep for a vast majority of his existence. He had always strived to ensure that no one could really know just how he felt. The easiest means of accomplishing such a task was to keep himself from caring for much. He was still young, and there were many things that he had not learned about how the world worked. Try as he might, there was always something that he was particularly drawn to. Wraen was not wrong to judge him as the type not to be crossed; the young Captain was a twenty-sided dice and there was no telling which number would strike an end.
 
In comparison, Wraen was a stunning queen from atop her jutting mountain scape. Smokestep stood beside her as a sea-tossed and cut-from-the-salt ruffian; there was very little that was truly attractive about him, save for the lazy charm that dripped from him with every opportunity it found. He was – of course – smitten by her ability to weave a tale, and to know one without much faltering. There was nothing more attractive than a fellow storyteller.
 
The question met him, and he furrowed his brows thoughtfully at it. “Oh, aye… ye see, we pirate folk have a way o’ findin’ each other,” he assured her with a fleeting grin before settling on a more serious expression. “I got to tell ye, I’ve been polishin’ me storytellin’ skills an’ I’m hopin’ ye’d be interested in a trade o’ tales,” the pallid Captain suggested. Of course, he could not help the wily smirk that crinkled his narrow muzzle.