Wheeling Gull Isle stranded

’I don’t smell a pack on you.’
 
The pirate laughed at her with a wide-open mouth and jagged yellow fangs glinting in the sunlight from overhead. His laugh was raspy and wicked sounding, as though it should not have naturally come from within him. As if Smokestep could have been contained and held down by the confines of a simple pack. She was so foolish for having thought that this was what he’d meant. To laugh was all that he could do. There were no words for the humor that he found in that scenario.
 
“The keeper of the trench,” he answered her with a wild glint in his single bloody red optic. “Isn’t that right, Piper?” he then turned to his right, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. It was as though he was talking to someone right beside him, but the only thing that actually occupied that space was a great stretch of beach and sea. He could see her, though. He could see Sandpiper and the keeper of the trench. They were always with him.