Stavanger Bay Fiddler's green

The air... a wretched stench of salt and sea. As a pirat, one would think such a scent would be pleasing. It wasn't. He could have spent his entire life by the murky waters and it wouldn't have helped.
But onward he moved, closing in on the nearest beach. There was someone here Erwin could swear he knew.
As he got closer, and closer, the assumptions became true. A figure soon came to view. Then a scent — one that he was able to reach over that of the sea to find.
Fauler köter.
Not becoming a deserter now, are we? The behemoth now stood directly behind the other's form. He stood to the brim of height his mass allowed, head hulked over his chest in a prepotent manner. 
The captain prepared for any answer he'd be given. Even for the worst. For Foxtail, anyhow.