Captain Gutt

Captain Gutt's hammock, stitched from the hides of woolly mammoths and generously studded with the pits of unknown fruits, gave a mournful creak as its owner hoisted his bulk upright in one mighty motion. The sweetish juice of overripe mangoes, which he had mistaken for the base of his signature pirate stew, streamed down his curly beard in rivulets, but Gutt paid it no heed. His nostrils, capable of catching prey from three icy hummocks away, flared at the salt-laden wind, while his small yet keen eyes glittered with a predatory gleam.

Shira, the sabre-toothed tigress whose pelt was etched with scars from battles past, bared her fangs in a snarl and roared above the crash of the waves:
— Land, Captain! It stinks of rot and fruit!

Gutt carelessly wiped the juice from his lips with the back of his shaggy paw. His immense, hairy hand, armed with claws as jagged as splintered rock, clenched the wooden pommel of the helm, making the ship groan in protest.

The ice vessel, governed solely by the whim of its captain, crunched as it rammed into a coral reef. With a powerful leap, he sprang onto the damp sand, leaving behind footprints the size of his sea-rat crewmen.
The island greeted him with moisture and dense jungles ahead. The air hung thick and heavy, promising days of foraging ahead. His nostrils sucked in the local scent convulsively.
Today, they would feast, render fat, and lay in supplies, for Captain Gutt would not abide hunger aboard his icebound ship.