He spends a lot of time on the beach, two paws in the ocean, two planted firmly in the unstable sand. He's not patrolling, really. Not hunting, either. The five-foot lion is really just out for a walk. Maybe he'll collect some seashells along the way. The ocean is calming, even more than it is frightening. He doesn't believe in absolutes-- in true safety, or eternal love, or the word "always" even though it may come up in his vocabulary, on the rare occasions he speaks.
    There's a conch, half-buried in sand, about the radius of his paw-- the sort of thing children try to hear the ocean through-- and he doesn't have need for such a thing, but he's almost certain someone else in Tortuga might. They have crafters, more than their share of vanity. He rinses it in the ocean, and just as he's deciding if it's worth picking up in his jaws and tasting salt all the way back, he smells someone on the sea breeze.
    The male visibly tenses, but he relaxes at the sight of the stranger. Those are the colours of nobility. It's doubtful a superior would have cause to speak with Batzorig.