Stavanger Bay splice the mainbrace

@Smokestep

Raptor was not inclined to be dutiful (though he benefitted from being tasked — it kept him from becoming bored and therefore kept him out of [most] trouble) but he earned his keep nonetheless. No prey, no pay. He patrolled the gunwales¹ and sprinkled his urine between the cursory marks that Smoke had set to further define and strengthen their claim. He did so in classic Raptor fashion: he made a game of it by trying to hit higher on each tree and attempting to make patterns on boulders. He enjoyed this but patrolling was not his preferred line of work and he hurried to complete it.

The corsair steered himself back toward to the shore when he had finished the loop, where he stood in the middle of the bay and wondered where the best place for a keg² would be. Raptor grumped at the thought, flattening his ears and crinkling his nose. It had been a long time since he had a drop of rum, and it would be a while yet before he had another. He was a master crafter but his skills did him no good without proper ingredients, and the winter season bore no such fruit (literally).

"Baw!" Raptor exclaimed, swatting the sand with his paw.

¹ borders
² a place where rum is made and stored

The bay was growing on him; the more that he patrolled the edges of the territory, the closer he felt to it being his home. He had noted Sandpiper's efforts to make the place their own. She had even made an effort to grow closer to Raptor. Smokestep was proud to have found their home together, but he itched to bring a crew into the bay and establish the Ironsea. His youth made him impatient, but he knew that it would not be long before he would be able to gather others; the thought caused his chest to heave and his heart to thrum wildly. Soon, he would have to venture out into the wilds to find those who would fit his ranks.

But first, he scoped out the bay in search of Raptor. It didn't take him long to find the dark-furred beast, casting his paw into the sand with frustration and an outcry that caused Smokestep to snicker under his breath. Upon closing the distance between himself and the wily brute, he furrowed his brows in false aggression and smirked wildly. “Oi, Raptor... ye flea ridden sluggard,” he barked. “What are ye doin'?”

"Smokie, ye dirty bilge rat," Raptor riposted, casting his ears forward in a false challenge as he faced his fellow thief. "I was wondering where I'll put the rum," he confessed. "Damn shame I ain't got none now." He welcomed the pale beasts' company even if it would have been better over a drop of the good stuff. He ducked his head and started to circle the soon-to-be-captain as if to size him up before a fight.

"What about you, eh? What have you been up to? Find yerself a bit'a tail yet?"

Smokestep made a few moves to puff himself up in a display for his comrade. The hair along his back rose and stood rigid as he cast a lip-curling smirk toward his friend. He danced about in place for a moment, moving his spindly limbs like a soldier marching into battle to impress his favorite lass before his ears were pulled forward at the sound of rum. A sad expression replaced the playful one that had played along his lips. Smokestep had been hoping that Raptor would have found a way to make rum for them. A sigh fell from his lips and he frowned thoughtfully. “I was hopin' ye'd have some,” the pirate admitted with a small shrug of his shoulders.

The next question that followed brought a wry and curling snicker from the corsair. “Oi well, these lands are full o' fine lasses te chase after,” he stated with a firm nod. “Not sure where I'd like to plant me flag, if ye know wot I mean.” His brows waggled atop his skull with a flourish before they settled back into place. “An' yerself?” the seafarer inquired. He was interested to know if his companion had found any decent prospects out there in the wilds.

If there had been a way to make rum, Raptor would have made some. He felt a lance of frustration at Smoke's comment that was borne of some deeper and more fragile part of his soul. It had nothing to do with the simple honesty his comrade had shared and had even less to do with this precise moment in time. It had everything to do with a desperate insecurity and inadequacy that he dared not admit to. But there it was, brief and burning, until he metaphorically shook it off.

Raptor hummed contemplatively for a moment. Could rum, or some palatable substitute, be made in winter he wondered. He thought of what he had on paw, or what was close enough to be had. He thought of burying a bunch of crabs and kelp but then immediately recalled what became of dead crabs... and it was not rum. Finding the same dead end down other various thought trails, he abandoned his pondering. Rum needed fruits, berries, and honey, and he had none.

"Oh I catch yer drift," Raptor winked, grinning toothily at his fellow thief. Smoke was quick to bounce the question back at him and his mind immediately went to a certain she wolf... but the sable pirate quickly snatched that bit of mail and stamped return to sender on it before sending it back on its way to whatever corner of his skull it came from.

"Nawww," he answered. "But I'm sure a nice ass will come along someday that I can charm and court," he snickered. "Say, on the topic of tail..." Raptor searched his friend's face, his joking expression taking a more sober appearance. "Do ye plan to keep wenches? Ye know what I mean... to keep the lads happy an' all..."

Smokestep – truthfully – had not yet found any lasses that drew his eye. He was awfully fond of searching, but none had struck him as being worth hitting and keeping around. It seemed, though, that Raptor was not doing entirely too well in that department either. Still, Smokestep knew that his second hand mate would find something in someone that would occupy his every thought and effort. As long as he found someone who could deal with his denseness and the occasional whip-like crack of his tongue, they would be just fine for each other. Still, they had only just arrived in those lands. Both of the boys had plenty of time before they would need to plant their flags and settle down. Smokestep intended to occupy as much of that time as possible.

Another subject came up and the pale brute canted his head a bit, wondering how best to approach the subject of wenches in his crew. Smokestep had grown up with his sister. He had only known her constant companionship for his entire life, and so he had settled on his reasoning for the answer that was to come. “No, mate,” he responded with a stern shake of his head. The sincere tone was something that did not quite suit the Captain well. He was standard issue with a crooked smirk and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “The crew will be free to behave as they wish fer the most part, but we shant be keepin' wenches in Ironsea. We will need all hands on deck.” He did not think that he could degrade any woman to the singular occupation of tending to the lads needs. If Sandpiper had been subjected to the same treatment, he knew that she would have cut the throat of the man who tried.

“Why do ye ask?”

The crew that Raptor had been raised in was a coarse one that could be defined by every malignant pirate stereotype. Wenches therefore had been a normal part of life. These were slaves. Young females who had been captured from other crews or packs and held and made compliant by threat of death and worse. They subsided on minimal rations and served only as an outlet for the needs of the males. Their service, like a share of the rum, kept the men orderly, or so it was believed. Wenches were widely accepted by everyone except Raptor. But no one of his old crew knew that and he assumed it would be a charade he'd have to keep up here.

He was wrong.

To the sable wolf's surprise, Smokestep firmly stated that there would be no wenches. Raptor lifted his brows and assessed his companion's face for hint of a ruse... he could not detect one. He slowly nodded his head as his fellow thief explained, burying his relief behind a facade of acceptance and indifference. "Just wanted to know yer policies, Cap'n." Raptor answered with a toothy grin and a wink. It was a truthful answer even if he did not speak the real reason for asking. He did not really know what his new Captain's reign would entail.

“Aye.”

Smokestep could not read Raptor's expression, but he assumed that his companion would find the rule a suitable one for their crew. Regardless of this, the pale corsair would not have changed his ruling even if Raptor had seen fit to be aggravated by it. All the while, he thought of his sister and how he would never allow another creature to degrade her because she was female. Sandpiper was just as much pirate as the rest of them, and he wished for every woman to have the same opportunity that she had. The pale brute knew better than to judge a beast based on their gender alone, and he knew that while females were beautiful to look at, they had sharp tongues and were capable of holding their own.

“Right then, er... are ye sure ye need berries fer the rum, mate? Nothin' else will do?” the Captain changed the subject back to their original topic of conversation. To be fair, he was far more interested in the prospect of having grog than he was with toying the idea of wenches on his crew. It had been some time since he had tasted Raptor's elixir and he was more than eager to get back to their roots. Granted, Smokestep knew nothing about the creation process, and he lacked all of the imagination for what would taste good in rum, so he stared blankly at his sable partner and refrained from salivating.

There was that topic again.

Raptor twitched an ear and cast his eyes around them. He need not wonder what else he could use to make rum, he had already done so and came up with nothing.

"Not that I know of." He answered. "I use berries and fruits — apples and the like. Some honey too. Kept a store o' the stuff back the old ship t'get through the winter with but..." Raptor trailed off with a shrug, facing Smokestep with a half grin. "Here we is." The only reason his expression was so relaxed was that, while Raptor could scheme no other method for producing rum, he had landed upon the idea that he could make some other drink. That he could invent something entirely different, entirely new, something to call his own. Something that would help him feel a little less uneasy about the rum situation.

"But don't worry yer tail, Cap'n... I'll see what else I can rig up, aye."

Brushing that topic aside before his insecurity washed over the bow like a rogue wave and sank his composure, Raptor blurted out the first question that came to mind, just for the sake of switching subjects.

"So yer sister... off limits?"

“Aye... here we is,” he agreed with a solemn nod of his head. Spring would be around the corner in several months, and he was sure that it would bring with it a plethora of items to be used for rum and grog. If they kept a stock of it, the next winter would not be so difficult on them. “I've got faith in ye, Rap. Ye'll find somethin' to keep ye busy,” he said with a sure nod and a smile. Suffice to say, once the sable-pelted wolf inquired about Sandpiper, that smirk sank from his features and left him with a gaping jaw and shocked expression. Both eyes were trained on his companion with a fierce disbelief. His sister? Off limits? At first, the inquiry didn't register appropriately in his mind. Smokestep was imagining that Raptor would turn Piper into rum, and found the image both strange and disgusting. She was a bit too briny for his liking, anyway.

When the question did finally sink in, the corsair recoiled a bit and shook his head. “Wot? Wot did ye... blow me down, Raptor, yer jokin' aren't ye?” he asked the other male incredulously. A selfish and jealous bubble began to grow inside of him. A fierce sort of desire to keep his sister hidden away from anyone, but he knew that this was an unrealistic goal. In hindsight, Smokestep did realize that Raptor and Piper had spent a great deal of time together since they'd landed in the bay. Unable to conjure a proper response, he waited to see if the sable pirate would respond.

He was in fact joking. But Raptor summoned the will to hold a straight and expectant face. The sort of face that said the bearer was waiting for the shock of the question to wear off for a serious answer to be given. He held it for several long moments, and then allowed the smallest of impish smiles to play on his lips.

"Ye should see yer face..."

Annnnnd then he cracked up. "HAW HAW HAW SMOKIE!" Raptor bellowed. "I got ye good!" The sable wolf cackled so much he started to snort, and slapped his paw on the sands. "I wouldn't go after yer sister," he assured his companion — and it was true he wouldn't. Honor among thieves and all that. "I just couldn't help meself there, haw haw."

Regaining his composure and clearing his throat, Raptor calmly reiterated. "I wouldn't go after yer sister. Aye, she'd chew my nutsack off if'n I did anyway."

His cheeks flushed red and he reared his head back until it forced him to move his feet. Raptor cawed at him with a cheeky grin, but the pirate stung with embarrassment and disbelief. There was a moment that he felt almost at ease, but the worrisome voice in the back of his mind was relentless in its attempt to persuade him. It was successful, and the pale yearling believed that his best mate would have an interest in his sister. A war waged on the back of his mind. His pride could scarcely believe that he would walk into such a situation, but also that there had to be some truth to what he had said. It was an strange topic for him to have brought up without some prompting. Smokestep knew what it was like to be smitten.

“Oi, quit yer heein' an hawin'. Wot's wrong wit me sister, Raptor? Eh? She not good enough fer the likes o' ye?” he inquired with a pointed stare. One ear splayed to the side – a typical sign of irritation for the pirate. He had completely rebounded from baffled to defensive and in such a short time. “I'll have ye know that you'd be lucky to have a lass like Piper... if ye even had a chance – which ye don't,” he added with a salty expression and glanced toward the waves to prevent Raptor from seeing the especially daft expression that had crossed his face.

Raptor swung both his ears back. "Nothin's wrong with her!" He blurted in reply, quick to seek to defend his companion and assuage his Captain, for whom the topic of running with his sister was no joking matter. Smokestep went on, and were it possible, the sable colors of Raptor's face would have drained away and made him pale as snow. That last barb had slipped right between his ribs and pierced him where it hurt the most, owing to his teenage emotional state of mind.

"Aye," he agreed quietly as a dark moroseness settled across his countenance and he fixed a hurt expression to the side of his comrade's face. "I knows that well enough. I'm the scurvy rat that ain't good enough for her nor anyone else." With a slow shake of his head, Raptor got to his feet and turned away, slinking away with his skull below his shoulders and his tail limp, seeking some place quiet to sulk over a lack of rum and love (ha).

A stab of regret filled him as he watched his friend’s reaction unfold. His emotions had pushed their conversation too far and he was not prepared to deal with the result of that. Smokestep watched as his sable partner turned and left the scene. His fur was bristling, and his mouth felt dry, but he did not stop the Quartermaster. The Captain could still feel a smoldering burn in the pits of his stomach, but he could not tell if it was because of his sister or how he had reacted to his dearest mate.
 
The ghostly yearling sat in his place for a while and watched the waves roll in and out of the shore. He thought several times that he should have searched for Raptor and apologized swiftly, but his limbs never provided him with a means of fulfilling that option. Instead, he rose from the sand and shook his pelt free from the granules before he departed to the series of caves within the rock and collapsed for several long hours of sleep.