Stavanger Bay wish we could turn back time

open, but hoping for @Blurryface post thread w blackbeard... also @Gristle is always welcome!

Wednesday moved toward the place where that man who called himself Blackbeard had informed her to head. The name fit for the scraggle of black at his chin... 'Whitey' seemed to fit her just as well, given her own coloration. And so Wednesday-turned-Whitey moved along the shoreline, seeking the very individual Blackbeard had told her of. Along the way she had not noted Gristle, but she was certain the man would find her. He always managed to, and it was never a secret.

In any case, she plowed on along. The sun was falling and she scrutinized the coast. She had never lived beside the sea before. The dry canyon or else a forest was what she was used to, but the sea? This was new.

Blurryface picked his way along the shore, cackling half-madly at a washed up octopus for the fifth time that day. It had been alive when he first found it in the morning, but the "wiggle fish" hadn't lasted long and now it was beginning to stink. "Aye, ye be all washed up," he snorted at it, stamping a paw as if he was the most hilarious thing in the world. Which, clearly, he was. "I bet yer crew be laughin' at ye now, ye scurvy wiggler. Ye ain't even fit eatin' fer bilge rats. Ain't even fit fer grog." He certainly wouldn't be trying to eat it or drink any of the weird black secretions it had left behind.

When the scraggy coywolf lifted his head, he was alarmed to spot a white-haired figure moving down the coastline. It wasn't Ferahgo, nor any of their former crew in Tortuga, and the stench of the rotting octopus drowned out any scent on the breeze. He might not have noticed her until she was on top of him. Unfortunately for Wednesday, he had noticed her, and he cackled, "Avast ye, lass." He took a critical look at her, then with a nod, he declared, "Ye look like ye crawled from me mum's bung hole." It was as true as could be: Wednesday was no looker, that was for sure. She might've been a man for all Blurry knew. "Ye be a righ' buxom wench, ain't ye? 'Ow many lucky lads been on yer poop deck?"

And then he laughed aloud, clearly amused with himself and his oh-so-witty remarks.

Wednesday marched right along. When she caught sight of the being, she squinted. There was something distinct about it that she knew she despised... but then, the wolfish qualities outweighed all else to her. It did not occur to her that wolves might ever breed with a coyote. But the thing was hideous, itself, due to it looking like the things she despised most. 

Less than your mother, she rejoined, deadpan. Looks, or others poking at them, did nothing to her now. She knew that she was ugly; Wednesday lived with that fact every day. Mothers, for others, were often a sore subject. Wednesday didn't know her own. The woman died postpartum, no doubt due to the strange child she had produced. Even as a wee babe Wednesday was no pretty thing. Unknown to her, it could only go downhill. 

She looked at the other wolf, and blinked at it. Not one for social graces or knowing how to communicate and play well with others, she pondered the loopholes of what the captain had said.

"Me mum would be a scurvy wench if'n she didn' bend o'er for sea dogs," Blurry reasoned, proving he had almost no respect for his mother or really any other female crew mate. "Aye, an' a dead one too, deader'n chum." The women were there for the taking, after all. Even Blurryface's mum was naught but a piece of meat in the jaws of wild dogs. The male pirates could do as they pleased with her, just as they would do what they pleased with Wednesday, if any of them were brave enough to touch her with a ten foot mast.

"Me lass," coaxed Blurryface, gesturing to the beach, "might ye be in search o' Cap'n Blackbeard? Thar be booty for any that be joinin' 'is salty crew." There would be booty for the pirates too if Blurryface could drag in any of the female populace, though his wicked and rattish countenance, his yellow teeth and his all-too-chatty manner rarely did much for winning over ladies. Wednesday might yet be a man, though, so the pirate switched gears and asked with one eyebrow cocked and the other eye squinted, "ye prefers to be wench or bucko? Ye ain't got a wee lil mast hidin' in thar, do ye?"

The other spoke nonsense to Wednesday, who had been told she ought to learn the seas tongue. Well, it sounded revolting, though as she looked it the language was a perfect match for her. The other didn't seem offended by her words, but it hadn't meant to be a jibe. More of a distraction, truthfully, and it proved temporarily effective.

He invited me to it, she informed. As for his query, she blinked. What would suit her best? To be considered a man might assist her in the longrun, but then, there was no denying what she was sexed as, even if she identified as nothing. Have you any food? She diverted at last, seemingly unwilling to answer the question.

"Hoho," chortled Blurry when Wednesday failed to answer his question. The little pirate may have been a lot of things, but he was surprisingly keen. It would be his downfall someday, even he was sure of it. "Avoidin', ain't ye? Well, me bucko, ye may no' have a lil mast but yer the savviest corsair I e'er did see," and with that, Blurryface decided that Wednesday was a male. A male with a teeny tiny hidden dick. After all, if he wasn't willing to fuck it, then it was no wench worth calling, and he wouldn't approach Wednesday for that sort of company any day of the week.

"Aye," he said at last, lapsing into some kind of seriousness, though that was never really the case for the swab. "Thar be a galley o'er yonder," and he swung his dirt-caked muzzle toward the sand he had tamped and pissed all over not two days past. "Bu' thar also be booty if'n ye favours treasures," and here the coywolf's eyes lit up with a funny, covetous light.