The two older men brought the youngest member down below deck and set him down a small table in the crew’s quarters. Berlin lit several lanterns and prepared some bandages, boiled water, needle, and thread. He also found a bottle of rum that he used both to clean the wound (which made a Rohaan howl like an angry bear) and to give him to help settle his nerves. Usually the boy jumped at any opportunity to have liquor, but he was not in the mood now and Berlin had to coax the lip of the bottle in his mouth. 
“Big swallow, lad. It’ll make you feel better. One more. There ya go.”

Occasionally Rohaan would speak, but in his shock he no longer spoke the common tongue and reverted back to his own. Vokurian was a lilting language and an accent appeared where it hadn’t been before. Berlin would reply in kind, speaking softly. His grasp of Vokurian was solid, but not altogether fluent. Still he was able to communicate with Rohaan well enough. Berlin kept one hand wrapped around Rohaan’s small one and didn’t let go, pouring feelings of calm and stillness into the boy as Pieter, who was much better at sewing considering he had so many years of mending sails under his belt, stitched the boy up. Berlin’s role in this was crucial, as Rohaan had a tendency to snap wildly at whoever was trying to dress his wounds. Once, when Rohaan was eight and after they first met, he’d broken a few fingers and Berlin attempted to set them back into place. Frightened already, Rohaan had shifted to a wolf and bitten Berlin’s arm hard and fast. Then he was the one needing medical attention. Berlin alone could keep him still at a time like this. Again, he thanked the stars that he found the boy, not someone else.  Only when they were finished and Berlin was assured the was stable did he carry him over to an empty hammock, put a blanket on him, and let him sleep.

Berlin was quiet as he saw to it that the ship was clean again. He felt guilty. He shouldn’t and he knew it, but he did anyway. He was just glad the wind was favorable and there was hardly any maneuvering to do for a while; they’d have a little down time after their adventure. 

Uban took this time to break out his lute—one of the few nice things he bothered to own. He played most of his life and was quite good at it, but after he’d lost a finger in his prison escape, he had to teach himself to strum with his left hand instead. For slower songs he did fine, but he still preferred chording with his left if the song was faster. This of course would lead to an odd, off note every once in a while. His fingers moved so much out of habit that he often forgot he was missing one. 

“How soft the breeze in the island trees now the ice is far astern. Them native maids, them tropical glades is awaitin’ our return...”

 he was playing right handed, so his notes were true and bright.  He loved music. Though he had a repertoire of old folk songs, bawdy tavern tunes, and sometimes things he made up himself, Uban had grown to appreciate the music of the men at sea. It didn’t typically have instrumental accompaniment, but he Liked to have it anyway.  After a while, he was pulled away from his lute to see to the next meal, which he was beginning to lust after even as he prepared it.

It wasn’t much. They always had potatoes, often carrots, onions, and an unleavened bread that usually tasted like sawdust. They kept a supply of salted pork, and sometimes these were made into a thin stew, and other times they were merely roasted together with salt. Another thing they tried to keep on hand, depending on where they were at the time, were coconuts. The water inside made their stale water taste a little better when mixed together, and the hard meat was as good a dessert as any. Tonight, there was freshly caught fish. Just the day before, Rohaan had disappeared into the ocean depths to herd a small school of mackerel into their small net. Unlike some ships, the Borealis always had fresh fish. 

The crew was called down for their meal. Since the borealis was too small a crew to have multiple shifts, they furled most of the sails during mealtimes so that they merely drifted along. The smell of pan-fried fish drew a very sleepy Rohaan out of his hammock despite his injury which made him move slowly, and his continued exhaustion made him sway like a drunk. He looked like hell. Despite efforts to clean him up, he had blood crusted a little in his hair and on his trousers, glinting metallically in the lantern light. 

“Boy!” Berlin barked. “Get your arse to bed! Or so help me I’ll tie you up myself.”
“But I’m so hungry I could eat Wheel’s filthy shirt...” the lad looked miserable. Though he was dry now, his posture was hunched and stiff, one arm still holding his bandaged wound. Still, ever the street rat, he was not about to pass up an opportunity for a meal.
“You got no business being upright. I know what  color your face ought to be and it ain’t that. Get! I mean it, or I’ll put you there myself. Uban will bring you something to eat, don’t you worry. Now go!”
“But—“
Berlin tossed a little piece of bread at him and it bounced off his face while the boy just sort of blinked at it, confused. “Rheoaan, haiadi!”
Rohaan shuffled away slowly, muttering. It took a lot of effort to get up and just the act of supporting his own weight felt uncomfortably tiring. But he never did like the idea of missing out on anything and he hadn’t the wisdom of self preservation enough to stay down when he ought to. Every time he’d been seriously injured in his life, Rohaan was forced to keep moving just to survive. It was all he knew how to do, and this ‘resting’ business was new to him.

Berlin also muttered to himself quietly. Damn, he was stubborn. He shook his head. “I think we’ll spend a couple days ashore,” he told his crew. Longer, if we can find some...opportunities on land. I’d guess we got another...two days? Day and a half? The wind ain’t that strong. Anyhow, assuming the half-pint-terror heals up nice, I figure we can take those two days to ourselves. After we resupply of course. In fact, Uban, it might be good for you to bring your lute along. Find you a crowded tavern and see if someone won’t buy you a few drinks.”
“Yeah?”
“Aye. Anything to give the people something to chat about besides the Borealis being docked in the harbor, though I’ll see to it the right people don’t ask questions. And, most importantly, NO BARFIGHTS.” Berlin looked first at Wheel, then at Uban. While it wasn’t Uban’s nature to be generally violent when drunk, there’d been a few occasions when he’d been drunk enough to engage an unwitting and usually equally drunk idiot. Uban typically won, and not because he was a master at bare-handed boxing. An arc of electricity would somehow find its way into the mix, and that always drew lots of attention. And Wheel…well…he was just Wheel. “We’ll get us a room in an inn somewhere and some honest to goodness beds, some bread that doesn’t taste like arse, and good ale. Not to mention it’ll be a good chance to pick up some good rumors about what’s happening ‘round these parts. Sound agreeable?”