A strange hush fell over both ships, broken only by the rhythmic knocking as the two hulls were driven together by the swell beneath the tumblehome. Both ships were lashed together by grappling lines and further tangled by the ruin that Markus had made of the caravel's sails. A moment later there was a great bloodthirsty cheer and the crew surged over onto the caravel to begin looting their new prize. A few stayed behind, carrying for wounded mates as best they could, though without a surgeon aboard there was little they could do other than bandage wounds and hope for the best. "Markus, stay with us lad," Morgan said, kneeling beside the fallen captain. To Emmaline's eyes he looked like he had jumped from a light wound to advanced stages of supperation. She had seen men in similar states after being stabbed in the guts during bar fights and laying screaming for several days. Black lines traced his veins from where the bolt sank into his flesh and his skin was growing pale and clammy. "Mannan help us I think he is dying," the old privateer cursed. Emmaline shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "Live by the sword, ex cetera," she replied airly. Morgan turned to glare at her. "He jumped infront of crossbow bolt for you!" he snarled, concern for Markus transmuting itself into anger. Emmaline arched an eyebrow at Morgan, clearly unimpressed. "I wouldn't have been here at if you and your band of cut throats hadn't abducted me," she pointed out reasonably, he eyes flicking over Morgan's shoulder to the bizarre looking dwarf and the Brettonian who appeared to have come from the elves caravel. Morgan caught he wrist as she turned to leave. "What was he talking about when he said you were going to tell him your secrets?" the pirate demanded. Emmaline attempted to pull her arm free but Morgan's work toughened hands were like iron. "How should I know, and why should I care, he is dead and damned and good riddance," she snapped. Morgan bared his teeth in frustration, his eye flicking between Markus, the caravel and the tangle of sails and rigging. "Perkins, Tomlon, get the captain into his cabin, then start rounding up a party to clear this rats nest away. Sea will be rising once it gets dark and we will knock ourselves to pieces if we are still tangled with this bitch," he snapped. "Hey," Emmaline protested. Morgan waved an arm at the caravel. "That bitch," he clarified, "not you bitch." Emmaline rolled her eyes. The two sailors who had been busily pillaging some dead elves trotted over and lifted Markus by his arms and legs, carrying him towards the captains cabin. He dragged Emmaline along behind having not released her wrist. Tomlon and Perkin's laid Markus who by now was shivering and muttering to his cot and set him down before all but running out of the cabin, either to follow Morgan's orders, or more likely, to join in the plunder. Morgan gave Emmaline a shove over towards the stricken captain. "Even if I wanted to help, which, I emphasise, I dont, I'm not a surgeon," Emmaline protested. "Do what you can for him," Morgan grated. Emmaline's derisive snort cut of as Morgan grabbed her around the throat his eyes flaming with genuine anger. "You better hope he gets better, because whoever takes over if he dies will have you on your back before his corpse is cold. Save him and he will be in your debt," the old salt all but yelled. Emmaline hadn't imagined that Morgan was so attached to Markus, but evidently she had misjudged him. Morgan shoved her at Markus again and then strode from the cabin, bellowing orders that cut of abruptly as he slammed the door closed. Emmaline made a rude guesture at his back and then slumped into one of the mahogany chairs, snatching a bottle of rum from the sideboard and pulling the cork with her teeth. She sat back for a moment. "Just let him die," she told herself reasonably, taking a sip of the rum, "it isn't like he doesn't deserve it." Markus moaned in his delirium, his back arching. Emmaline raised the bottle to his lips again but paused before taking another drink. "Oh for Ranald's sake," she sighed. __________ Emmaline shoved the leather wrapped stick between Markus' lips. As Morgan had predicted the sea had risen in the hours since the attack. Although she hadn't left the cabin, Emmaline could deduce by the fact that they were underway by the fact that the sound of axes had ceased, and the familiar roll of the deck. Morgan had returned once to make sure she was actually attempting to help Markus and the relief on his face when he found her stripping him out of his shirt and examining the wound had been palpable, as had been his surprise when he asked her if she needed anything. The supplies she had asked for from the kitchen had raised his eyebrows, but he was so eager for any chance to save Markus that he had complied without complaint. Once had withdrawn she had locked the cabin door with the heavy iron key Markus used and gotten to work. Emmaline dipped a rag into the pungent smelling clear fluid that she had distilled from the rum. It wasn't quite pure, but as alchemical base went it was many times more potent than a simple distilled spirit. "This will hurt," she told the feverish captain, "but don't worry, you totally deserve it." She gripped the base of the quarrel and whispered an incantation, reaching out to the cruel barbs that lodged in Markus' flesh. The metal sagged and softened for a moment and she yanked hard. Markus let out a strangled cry muted by the gag as the bolt pulled free, releasing a gush of blackish unhealthy looking blood. Picking up her rag she thrust it into the wound and was rewarded with another incoherent scream. Squeezing the cloth to get as much of the base into the wound as possible Emmaline withdrew it and began to swab the surrounding flesh clean. Whispering again she began another incantation, tiny fragments of cloth and other foreign material within Markus' body burst burned away with an audible sizzle that was quenched instantly by the distilled alcohol she had introduced. That accomplished she stood and crossed to the chest at the foot of his bed and opened it, digging through the contents till she found the dress he had stolen from her. She sighed morosely and then plucked at the hem until one of the strands of silk came free. carefully she drew on the strand until she had a yard or so of silk which she dropped into her remaining alchemical base along with a steel sewing needle which Morgan had fetched for her. After a moment she withdrew the needle and thread, threaded them together and began to none to gently sew the wound closed. "For Ranald's sake," she repeated as she tied off the suture. +Events of Healing+