[hider= Fucking bard, don’t think you’re getting away with it that easy. Just because you sneak in when I'm out doesn't mean I'm any more likely to let you get away with it.][i]

 The ship’s hull creeks; salt and wood and iron, groaning against the mechanical rolling of the ocean waves. It doesn’t bother Elsie so much anymore, although it took her a while to find her sea-legs, she’s adapted. Others, it seems, have not always been so lucky.

 It’s one of the unlucky ones that she’s tending to now - a young deckhand who lost his footing on the slippery deck and was unfortunate enough to land on a rusty nail, sticking up out of one of the splintery planks of wood. Infection had set in quick, the wound quickly reduced to a foul-smelling mass of puss, the affected limb, his arm,swelling beyond recognition, the skin shiny and pink. When one of the crew found him, unconscious and feverish, Elsie had been awoken in the middle of the night by a sharp rapping at her door. 

 Of course, being sailors, their first thought had been amputation. Bloody butchers.

 Good herbs and a little something magical had gone a long way to clearing the sickness from the boy’s blood, now it’s just a matter of seeing that the wound itself gets properly looked after. At least the boy’s unconscious state means he’s quiet. With hands deft from looking after patients far less cooperative than this one, Elsie passes a needle through the open flame of a candle, before setting to work.

 The silence in the cabin is oppressive. And, not find of absolute silence at the best of times, Elsie finds herself talking, because talking is better than the alternative any day, and after a while, the subject of the ‘conversation’ turns to the Virtuous Company.

“.... they’re a right lot, I’m telling you. Even just the ones that are with us now. Most people are only interested in the fighting. Not really my area of expertise I’m afraid, which is good for you or you’d be dead’un by now.

“Reignald on the other hand… that’s a man that’s seen his fair share of battles, trust me, I can tell. Something in the eyes. He’s good to have around though, knows how to command, something which is in short supply round here. Stops the newer recruits coming back with quite so many unwanted holes in them. Mind you, he could do with learning how to fucking quit when things go tits-up, it’d certainly make my job a lot easier.” her expression takes on a slight scowl as she finishes draining the boy’s wound. Unflinching, she wipes the area clean with a rag soaked in rum, pilfered from the galley for this exact purpose. The stench of alcohol mingles in the air with that of the boy’s sickness, although Elsie is unfazed.

 “Not that Rosha’s any better,” Elsie continues, picking up steam now that she’s gotten going, “half the time I don’t think she even bloody notices what she’s doing to her fists with all that ‘fighting with a sword is dishonourable’ bull. Honestly, the folks round here need to learn a bit more about self-preservation before they start mixing in ancient honour codes and what-not. Wouldn’t catch me messing around with that pugilist nonsense. I suppose it could be worse though.

 From one of the pouches on her belt, Elsie withdraws a few different bundles of, which she shreds with her fingers before placing into a mortar and pestle along with a half a vial of something syrupy, “Could be like Fiers.” there is a harsh grinding sound as the begins to blend. Thoroughly. “ Fucking Fiers. I swear, from the day I met him that man has done nothing but get on my wick. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with an injury [/i]not[i] inflicted by someone he managed to prod into blind rage with nothing more than his own special Fiers blend of arrogance, stupidity, and twisted perversion,” the herbs are now little more than a mushy green paste, but Elsie continues to grind them, hand grasping the pestle to the point where her knuckles turn bone-white, indignation clear in her tone, “And if he thinks he’s getting away with what he did in my cabin then he’s got another thing coming- ‘a mop around here somewhere’- can you believe the cheek?! What a-” she lapses for a moment into unintillegable grumbling, before collecting herself long enough to realise that the paste is finished. 

 With something approximating care, Elsie pours the paste over the boy’s wound, ensuring that every inch of unnaturally warm, inflamed flesh is covered, “if he could learn to be more like Alya… although then again, even she’s not perfect. Not Fiers levels of troublesome, but it’d be nice if she could put that bloody flute down for a second and tell me where, exactly, she got run through with a polearm as opposed to just leaving me to figure it out on my own. Communication difficulties is an understatement, to say the least.

 A slight frown of contemplation, “you know what though? She seems to get on strangely well with R’Ornn. And yes, I mean the one who’s gratingly cheerful, occasionally terrifying, and liable to find my [/i]boot[i] connecting with his [/i]arse[i] if he mentions those council-darned crystals of his again whilst we’re on this fucking boat!” she huffs in frustration as she pulls a fresh roll of bandages from her pouch.

 “And, then, of course, there’s Ricardo. He’s a clever one, I’ll give him that much. Knows his lungweed from his dragonbane, perhaps better than I do. He is an alchemist afterall.  Not a man for trusting though, if you get my meaning. He’s got a face that doesn’t always match his words. Aside from that... well, I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling with them pills of his - I doubt that there’s one person in the company that doesn’t know an addict when they see one. Not that it makes much difference. As long as he doesn’t fuck it up for everyone else...” with a soft sigh, she finishes wrapping the deckhand’s wound, “and I suppose that’s you done.”

 The boy still sleeps as Elsie stands, giving his prone form one last scowl for good measure, “that’s alright. Don’t thank me for saving your life or anything.” the door slams behind her as she exits the room, one last parting “ungrateful little shit,” lingering in the air long after she’s moved on to greener pastures, likely to track down a certain bard to make him clean up his own damned mess and pay her back for what he took.  [/i][/hider]