Whether butchering what looks to be a monster, freshly hauled up the portside of his vessel,, or putting his boot on the gunwale to wrench said monster onto his ship for soon butchering,, Basaran Gruthook was never seen without that award-winning jagged-toothed grin of his. What few people spotted him at his secluded fisheries; mostly lost drunkards telling the tallest of tales in dingy taverns,,, they would never forget what a kind, yet odd fellow he was. Cunning and clever,, but a tender soul, both deep down, and in his shallows. The dim, tealish lights, wrapped in old nets and hung all about his vessel.. ohh,, they were like the light of heaven itself to hungry travelers. Hungry travelers that had a specialized tongue for the most pungent, most seafoody of seafood, that is. Basaran didn't carry much besides exotic fish. The only other thing he'd supply were some old salted & roasted walnuts tossed loose in a drawer, used as a pallette cleanser for the fainter hearted souls who dared to try his strangest meats. Like usual, Basaran was hewing at some slimy creature that unfortunately breached right onto his butcher block with a hole (he swears) already punched through its skull. The staling blood of the beast seeps between the uneven, grimey tiles lining his ship's galley. The already sea swept air, steeped in a briney smell emanating from every gash his cleaver carved, was also filled with squelching and hacking, muttering in deep abyssal,

"kycha kycha, neish tei'idadt.."

Which translates to something like: "chop chop, all day.." His gutteral voice sing-songs in jokingly bored self awareness of his usual, somewhat repetitive behaviors. Indeed, he did chop chop all day. Not like that was a bad thing. He likes chop chopping all day, really. He gets to do things like shove a sliver of red fish meat into his maw, chewing as he muses further,

"nehh,, shko, neisha tei'mido!"

"well,, all night, too!" Damn, he's on a roll tonight. two very true statements in a row? Something's gotta be in this fish.