Oystercatcher Tide Pools and the devil makes three

They loped along beneath the overcast sky, half a day's distance from the ruffians whose teeth had left his snout flecked with red.

So yer tellin' me ye 'aven't 'eard of us afore? He questioned with a glance over his shoulder, speaking in a raspy slur with an uncanny lilt. The Black Tails? The cutthroats o' the coast? Fiercest and foulest around? He was nonplussed, but nothing about her face suggested she was lying. Tellin' me that I went an' dirtied me tail for nothin'? Badtooth as she knew him, waved his mud-blackened appendage—an apparently meaningless banner along these foreign shores. The castaway considered the implications of that with a grunt as he turned his eyes ahead and surveyed the stretch of tide pools.

From this distance the gulls were little more than pale stones, but their murmuring and squawking was unmistakable. Layered with the crash of waves and the breeze that rolled in with them, it was the music of the sea. To the keener ear, an underlying buzz of excitement was also a dinner bell.

Badtooth drew to a pause. Well. Not all fer nothin' I suppose. It scared that scrawny one off quick 'n yer all the way out 'ere now, aye? The Corsair reputation may not have preceded him, but that hadn't stopped him from coming away with the prize—one @Winterfinch.