Ankyra Sound Any wind means we're running

On some level, it was an excuse.  Though he was but a greenhorn, capricious Tux had crafted himself the watchdog of Ankyra Sound, especially after the black-masked stranger had tried to stake her claim and had apparently been attempting — and succeeding — to build her numbers.  The thought made him bristle, with someone so close to his home.  There was no room for the thought that perhaps this island might have belonged to someone else, once.  It was Drageda's now.  That's all that mattered.

He is not a very good traveling partner, but he does make a point after Eprhaim has finished his sentences to interject with the words that he was unable to identify in Trigedasleng — he'd punctuate the air with ass, and then again with fools, before he worked over a response in his mind.

It could be a trap, he finally says, nose half-buried under some bush or shrub that had been marked by something-or-other.  Haughtily, he raised a leg and covered it before turning back to his friend.  There have been others lingering in this territory.  Maybe he was with them.