Stavanger Bay Where is your rider

And there she was, quick with her tongue and share of opinion. Smokestep felt a twinge in his chest at the sound of her concerns, but only because she had not spoken her mind when he had requested it from their meeting. The young boy furrowed his brow and cast his lips downward in a spiraling frown of thoughtfulness.
 
It was difficult for Smokestep to gather himself and to compose a response that would allow her to understand where his reasoning came from. For one, it had always been pirate law to execute those who would abandon their crew and their home. He had learned this from the Fenriver wolves and their ruthless leader. Once, he had shared Roz’s concerns and had known that it lacked some rationale. That had been before he’d learned what it meant to be a deserter – to discard the hospitality of a good Captain and crew – before he had abandoned those Fenriver wolves and sought to create his own pack of wily pirates.
 
“Did I ever tell ye ‘bout the Fenriver crew?” he asked her with a sidelong glance toward the bridge of her muzzle. “They wos the first I’d ever met who practiced the pirate ways. Roughest, toughest, meanest curs ye’d ever meet. Their Captain, he was a right good man an’ the scariest sea dog ye’d ever meet.” There was a solemnness to his voice, and though he tried his best, Smokestep could not hide the envy that he felt toward the leader of that crew. “I wos like ye. Why waste the energy only to prove a point, aye? There ain’t no good in takin’ time to search fer those who ain’t got time fer us,” he trailed, knowing that she had perfectly good reason to question the motives behind hunting deserters.
 
The tall man turned to her with a sharp glint in his eye and a coldness that was not becoming of him. “I’m the result o’ wot happens when ye don’t catch the deserters.”