Ashan 73, 715
Somewhere in the Orm’del sea on the way to Bayward
Pash groaned as he came to consciousness slowly, the rocking of the ship telling him that while the storm had abided, the waves were only just beginning to calm. He could see his own hot breath as a cloud as he exhaled in pain, but every part of him that didn’t hurt was cold. So cold. Zi’da on the Orm’del was bitter, the winds whipping his sails loudly and whistling through what was left of the rigging. Sitting up slowly, calloused fingers curled into silver blood—his blood—that had congealed on the worn wood of his deck, frosted at the edges.
How long had he been out?
Sitting up was excruciating, and the tall Biqaj was forced to exhale a string of curses through grit teeth, edges of his vision darkening for a moment as he steadied himself and began to assess what all had happened. The winds had been so strong and the freezing rain had felt like daggers against what little skin he was forced to expose, but some part of his rigging had snapped and the metal had—
Vrung.
Pash looked down, realizing the source of the small, frozen pool of blood he laid in was the gnarled gash in his thigh, the grommet that held his mainsail rigging on the port side of The Muse having snapped free and caught him as he moved to dodge it all while keeping control of his sloop, dragging him and tearing through clothing and skin and muscle, the gash long and still oozing the liquid stardust that ran in his Biqaj veins. He must have hit his head, too, given how he’d been unconscious for Immortals only knew how long and how much his head ached. Reaching for the railing he’d been slammed into, Pash began to carefully find his way to a standing position, needing to get a handle on the condition of his sloop and the sea before he could finish assessing the situation of his wounds.
The storm had passed quickly, frozen rain leaving a slick coating of icy danger on the railing and over his deck. The waves were still white-capped and sprayed against the orange hull of The Muse, and the snapped rigging flapped angrily over the port side of the railing, opposite from where the seafaring musician was standing. Both his sails were still in place, so that was good news, but it was obvious his control over the mainsail would be limited until he could fix the railing.
It was nearly impossibly to stay standing, his body cold and shivering and his leg protesting with pain. He moved to limp across the rolling deck, stumbling and almost slipping on the frozen surface, sliding his way to the mast with another groan and a few more curses muttered in to the wind. Reaching carefully with numb fingers, he leaned against the boom heavily and began to luff the sails, slowing the ship down and creating a safer speed at which to travel so that he could go belowdecks. Glancing over the cabin roof, he saw the tiller was still secure in the break and while the storm most likely blew him completely off course, he knew the area to be deep and clear, perhaps safe for a break or two should he need that long to care for his wounds.
Dizzy, his head pounded as he practically crawled his way to the hatch and slid down into his cabin, leaning heavily against the small counter of his tiny galley. He poked the stove, taking an extra moment he probably shouldn’t have to shove a few sticks into the fire and stoke the flames, seeking to warm the room for his cold, aching self. His first aid kit sat on the shelf above the basin, and he shoved his hip firmly against the small sink with a grunt to reach it in order to keep himself off his bleeding leg. Grasping for towels and snatching the half-empty bottle of rum from the shelf, Pash limped his way into the cramped living area and dumped everything on the floor.
Tugging off his cloak and shirt, the motions nearly too much for him, he finally remembered to reach up and run fingers over his head, feeling along his scalp for any wounds but finding none. He found a lump near his temple where he’d smashed against the railing, however, but as he pulled his calloused fingers away, he didn’t see any blood. The pain and the blow must had been enough to knock him out, and while he felt a wave of nausea wash over him, he didn’t actually throw up. A minor concussion was a better price to pay than being thrown overboard, but the headache was the least of his worries.
Investigating the rest of his upper body, he found only a few bruises, nothing of note, and so began to carefully slip out of his torn, bloodied pants with gurgled noises of pain. Perhaps an unnecessary step except for how he knew his cabin would warm quickly and it would be better to be out of wet clothes, he tossed his clothes in a pile behind him and eased himself roughly to the floor.
Shaking, tingling hands reached for a towel to set under his still-oozing thigh, the silver of his life blood now flowing faster after so much activity and warmth. He then reached for the rum and opened it, aware that while his mother, Ilynn had always told him it could be used as an antiseptic, it wasn’t always the best choice. It just was the only choice in a pinch. Pausing to take a swig, sputter, cough, and take another, Pash wiped his face with the back of his cold hand before gritting his teeth and pouring the rum over the deep, angry gash on his thigh.
Just like the alcohol set fire to his insides, it burned hot and horrible into his flesh, eliciting a loud growl of pain, the seafaring musician resisting the urge to toss the bottle in his suffering. Instead, just to keep himself steady he told himself, he took one more swig with a groan before replacing the cap and setting rum within reach, digging greedily through his first aid kit for the tools he figured he’d need: a clean cloth for wiping, tweezers, needle and string.
The Muse rocked and groaned, though Pash could tell the waves were calming and he began to feel the warmth of his stove creep in through his tanned, inked skin and warm him.
With the cloth, he gingerly wiped away the fresh, silver flow of blood and leaned in the lantern light to peer into the deep, short gash. A few flecks of metal and wood caught his stormy-eyed grey gaze and he frowned. The alcohol had perhaps helped as an antiseptic, but it hadn’t washed all the debris away. He’d have to fish that out himself. Thankfully, he had the right tools.
Shifting with a groan, he moved to hover at an awkward angle over his right thigh, leaning heavily on his right hand and tweezers in his left, hissing and grumbling as he began to pick out the small pieces of debris: a sliver of wood, a few pieces of broken brass, and a long, annoying fiber of frayed rope. Once finished, he wiped again and warily eyed the bottle of rum, weighing whether he should wash everything out again or not.
“Fine.” He hissed to himself, though he was decidedly very much alone in the middle of the Orm’del sea during the cold cycle, far from home and far from land. No one would know if he bled to death here. Ever. Uncorking the bottle, he let a more controlled stream of the rum wash over the silvery gash one more time, groaning and attempting not to writhe. One more swig and he set the bottle aside again, this time wiping carefully and placing some pressure, eyes fluttering shut with the fiery wave of pain.
The bleeding was beginning to slow, which was his priority, placing firm pressure on the gash with one hand while he sorted for better antiseptic salve and a bit of numbing milk thistle, calloused fingers tugging out bandages from the first aid kit. Checking the bleeding a few times, he kept steady weight on the wound for a few more bits before he knew the only thing left to do was sew himself up, a thought that made him more nauseated than the ache that swam in his skull. He should be used to his own blood by now, used to the cuts and bruises so common to sailing life, to sailing alone, and yet every wound still bothered him, every drop of his liquid stardust making his stomach feel like it was tied in a half-knot and set to rig a mainsail while heaving to. He just didn’t like it.
But he also didn’t have a choice.
Removing his hand but leaving the cloth, he set to threading the needle, his vision blurred with pain and his concussion, alcohol and fear. It took several tries and a few more strings of blush-worthy curses, his now warm fingers finally succeeding in threading the needle. He made sure to knot one end, though he didn’t cut a length from the spool, unsure of how much thread he’d end up needing. Instead, he turned to lean back over his leg, aware that it was unclean but resting the needle in his teeth for a bit or two as he dabbed some of the milk thistle tincture over the whole area, especially the loose open skin around the deep gash. It stung and tingled and he closed his eyes for a moment, wave of nausea catching in the hull of his chest.
Setting everything aside, he looked away for a few more bits, letting the numbing agent take effect as he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to whatever Immortal would listen—Zanik for strength, U’Frek for mercy, Xuir for hopefulness—if only because he had no one else to talk to, to converse with while treating his own wounds alone on his sloop.
Finally, he made the decision of where to begin, which was the narrower lower end of the wound closer to his knee. It was a better place to anchor the first knot, which he made with a whine and a shuddering breath, carefully using both hands to make a nice knot, before he began to stitch his way up toward the top of the gash, careful to use his other hand to bring the skin and flesh of his thigh together as he did so. He wasn’t really any good at sewing, and he possessed very little experience stitching himself. He’d watched his mother do it and Cassandra, and so he worked from memory and instruction. Aware that this wound was deeper and that his leg saw quite a bit of movement, he knew vaguely that his stitching pattern would have to be different. Pausing with the string in his hand and his ears ringing, the warm flush of his furnace and the rum flowing under his tanned, inked skin and bringing him a strange sense of relief, Pash attempted to remember the lessons he’d already learned through various injuries.
Finally, he recalled that he could make a series of stitches using the same string and keeping it connected, or running, instead of individual sutures and knots, which would, quite frankly, take all trial with how slow and careful he would have to be. He didn’t have time for that, considering he still had his sloop to take care of and he was alone at sea. So, gritting his teeth, he set about creating a simple running suture, knotting and looping, whining just about every time he’d have to set the needle back under his skin in an attempt to close the gash. It was excruciating and Pash was quite sure for a few trills that he’d have to pause and throw up, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from shuddering or stopping, willing himself to continue the uncomfortable process. The milk thistle had helped numb him a bit, but not enough that he wasn’t in any pain at all.
As he reached the halfway point, the seafaring musician was desperate for a distraction, and so he began to hum. While his song was interrupted by a few gasps and winces, he let his humming become a quiet song, an old sea shanty about rum and loose women. This helped to keep him focused, and once he was done, well, it wasn’t a pretty site, but he tied the last knot somewhat satisfied with his efforts.
“That’ll have t’ do.” He sighed, trimming the string with the small pair of scissors that came with the first aid kit and wiping the wound that had oozed still more silver while he had stitched it. He spread a bit of salve that his mother had given him arcs ago, smearing it carefully over the whole jagged line, before he wiped his hands on the towel and leaned back on his palms for a moment, closing his eyes against the ache that still rumbled through his injured skull and taking a few slow breaths.
After a few bits, he felt a little less dizzy, so he sat up again and began the slow, careful process of wrapping his thigh with the woven cloth bandages. He was careful not to wrap too tightly, and yet just tight enough to provide some protection while allowing him the movement he would need to get about on deck of The Muse. Around and around, Pash hummed again a bit to keep his mind occupied, to keep himself still thinking and doing as he wasn’t really sure about how badly he’d knocked his head into the railing of his sloop.
He still had to get up and fix his rigging, though he knew that he could give himself at least another half a break of rest first. He’d carefully charted the course just the trial before and while he wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, he knew the cold, brined landscape would be pretty much devoid of obstacles for another half a trial or so. The open sea was somewhat convenient that way, so long as you were this far from shore. Unless a pod of whales or some other horrible sea creature decided to become especially angry in the middle of the cold cycle, Pash felt somewhat confident he could take his time. And he needed it.
Once he’d finished wrapping and securing the bandage, he began to wipe and clean all of his tools, using the rum again over his towel, though he’d have to be more thorough later. Tucking everything away, he turned to set the first aid kit on his table in the living area. Then, he slowly stood.
This would be the test of his skill or lack thereof. Carefully, using his hands and grabbing for a well-built shelf, he eased himself to his feet, a wave of dizziness and the ringing in his ears loud above the rush of his pulse. His head ached and he closed his eyes for a moment, tide pool gaze blurry as he tested his weight on his wounded leg. Immortals, it wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t feel the tearing of skin or the sharp pain of a ripped stitch.
He exhaled the breath he’d been holding and took a few limping, careful steps, using the small space of his cabin for handholds. One he was sure he’d done a decent enough job and that his stitches would hold, he moved to get dressed again, piling his ruined pants that would also need stitching and bloodied towel for washing later, if not the next trial depending on the weather. Dressing was another clumsy, laughable affair as he struggled to pull on an extra pair of pants over his stitched, bandaged thigh, and he couldn’t help but curse his way into them before tossing back on a dry shirt and his damp cloak. He’d have to get back on deck and figure out what to do next, how to fix the snapped rigging with a sore leg and aching head.
It could be done, so long as the weather remained calm, despite the bitter cold of the season. So, after one more swig of rum for good measure, Pash staggered his way back up deck to get back to sailing, for being a Biqaj alone at sea didn’t come with only good days. Some of them were bad, but they were still worth it.
How long had he been out?
Sitting up was excruciating, and the tall Biqaj was forced to exhale a string of curses through grit teeth, edges of his vision darkening for a moment as he steadied himself and began to assess what all had happened. The winds had been so strong and the freezing rain had felt like daggers against what little skin he was forced to expose, but some part of his rigging had snapped and the metal had—
Vrung.
Pash looked down, realizing the source of the small, frozen pool of blood he laid in was the gnarled gash in his thigh, the grommet that held his mainsail rigging on the port side of The Muse having snapped free and caught him as he moved to dodge it all while keeping control of his sloop, dragging him and tearing through clothing and skin and muscle, the gash long and still oozing the liquid stardust that ran in his Biqaj veins. He must have hit his head, too, given how he’d been unconscious for Immortals only knew how long and how much his head ached. Reaching for the railing he’d been slammed into, Pash began to carefully find his way to a standing position, needing to get a handle on the condition of his sloop and the sea before he could finish assessing the situation of his wounds.
The storm had passed quickly, frozen rain leaving a slick coating of icy danger on the railing and over his deck. The waves were still white-capped and sprayed against the orange hull of The Muse, and the snapped rigging flapped angrily over the port side of the railing, opposite from where the seafaring musician was standing. Both his sails were still in place, so that was good news, but it was obvious his control over the mainsail would be limited until he could fix the railing.
It was nearly impossibly to stay standing, his body cold and shivering and his leg protesting with pain. He moved to limp across the rolling deck, stumbling and almost slipping on the frozen surface, sliding his way to the mast with another groan and a few more curses muttered in to the wind. Reaching carefully with numb fingers, he leaned against the boom heavily and began to luff the sails, slowing the ship down and creating a safer speed at which to travel so that he could go belowdecks. Glancing over the cabin roof, he saw the tiller was still secure in the break and while the storm most likely blew him completely off course, he knew the area to be deep and clear, perhaps safe for a break or two should he need that long to care for his wounds.
Dizzy, his head pounded as he practically crawled his way to the hatch and slid down into his cabin, leaning heavily against the small counter of his tiny galley. He poked the stove, taking an extra moment he probably shouldn’t have to shove a few sticks into the fire and stoke the flames, seeking to warm the room for his cold, aching self. His first aid kit sat on the shelf above the basin, and he shoved his hip firmly against the small sink with a grunt to reach it in order to keep himself off his bleeding leg. Grasping for towels and snatching the half-empty bottle of rum from the shelf, Pash limped his way into the cramped living area and dumped everything on the floor.
Tugging off his cloak and shirt, the motions nearly too much for him, he finally remembered to reach up and run fingers over his head, feeling along his scalp for any wounds but finding none. He found a lump near his temple where he’d smashed against the railing, however, but as he pulled his calloused fingers away, he didn’t see any blood. The pain and the blow must had been enough to knock him out, and while he felt a wave of nausea wash over him, he didn’t actually throw up. A minor concussion was a better price to pay than being thrown overboard, but the headache was the least of his worries.
Investigating the rest of his upper body, he found only a few bruises, nothing of note, and so began to carefully slip out of his torn, bloodied pants with gurgled noises of pain. Perhaps an unnecessary step except for how he knew his cabin would warm quickly and it would be better to be out of wet clothes, he tossed his clothes in a pile behind him and eased himself roughly to the floor.
Shaking, tingling hands reached for a towel to set under his still-oozing thigh, the silver of his life blood now flowing faster after so much activity and warmth. He then reached for the rum and opened it, aware that while his mother, Ilynn had always told him it could be used as an antiseptic, it wasn’t always the best choice. It just was the only choice in a pinch. Pausing to take a swig, sputter, cough, and take another, Pash wiped his face with the back of his cold hand before gritting his teeth and pouring the rum over the deep, angry gash on his thigh.
Just like the alcohol set fire to his insides, it burned hot and horrible into his flesh, eliciting a loud growl of pain, the seafaring musician resisting the urge to toss the bottle in his suffering. Instead, just to keep himself steady he told himself, he took one more swig with a groan before replacing the cap and setting rum within reach, digging greedily through his first aid kit for the tools he figured he’d need: a clean cloth for wiping, tweezers, needle and string.
The Muse rocked and groaned, though Pash could tell the waves were calming and he began to feel the warmth of his stove creep in through his tanned, inked skin and warm him.
With the cloth, he gingerly wiped away the fresh, silver flow of blood and leaned in the lantern light to peer into the deep, short gash. A few flecks of metal and wood caught his stormy-eyed grey gaze and he frowned. The alcohol had perhaps helped as an antiseptic, but it hadn’t washed all the debris away. He’d have to fish that out himself. Thankfully, he had the right tools.
Shifting with a groan, he moved to hover at an awkward angle over his right thigh, leaning heavily on his right hand and tweezers in his left, hissing and grumbling as he began to pick out the small pieces of debris: a sliver of wood, a few pieces of broken brass, and a long, annoying fiber of frayed rope. Once finished, he wiped again and warily eyed the bottle of rum, weighing whether he should wash everything out again or not.
“Fine.” He hissed to himself, though he was decidedly very much alone in the middle of the Orm’del sea during the cold cycle, far from home and far from land. No one would know if he bled to death here. Ever. Uncorking the bottle, he let a more controlled stream of the rum wash over the silvery gash one more time, groaning and attempting not to writhe. One more swig and he set the bottle aside again, this time wiping carefully and placing some pressure, eyes fluttering shut with the fiery wave of pain.
The bleeding was beginning to slow, which was his priority, placing firm pressure on the gash with one hand while he sorted for better antiseptic salve and a bit of numbing milk thistle, calloused fingers tugging out bandages from the first aid kit. Checking the bleeding a few times, he kept steady weight on the wound for a few more bits before he knew the only thing left to do was sew himself up, a thought that made him more nauseated than the ache that swam in his skull. He should be used to his own blood by now, used to the cuts and bruises so common to sailing life, to sailing alone, and yet every wound still bothered him, every drop of his liquid stardust making his stomach feel like it was tied in a half-knot and set to rig a mainsail while heaving to. He just didn’t like it.
But he also didn’t have a choice.
Removing his hand but leaving the cloth, he set to threading the needle, his vision blurred with pain and his concussion, alcohol and fear. It took several tries and a few more strings of blush-worthy curses, his now warm fingers finally succeeding in threading the needle. He made sure to knot one end, though he didn’t cut a length from the spool, unsure of how much thread he’d end up needing. Instead, he turned to lean back over his leg, aware that it was unclean but resting the needle in his teeth for a bit or two as he dabbed some of the milk thistle tincture over the whole area, especially the loose open skin around the deep gash. It stung and tingled and he closed his eyes for a moment, wave of nausea catching in the hull of his chest.
Setting everything aside, he looked away for a few more bits, letting the numbing agent take effect as he squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to whatever Immortal would listen—Zanik for strength, U’Frek for mercy, Xuir for hopefulness—if only because he had no one else to talk to, to converse with while treating his own wounds alone on his sloop.
Finally, he made the decision of where to begin, which was the narrower lower end of the wound closer to his knee. It was a better place to anchor the first knot, which he made with a whine and a shuddering breath, carefully using both hands to make a nice knot, before he began to stitch his way up toward the top of the gash, careful to use his other hand to bring the skin and flesh of his thigh together as he did so. He wasn’t really any good at sewing, and he possessed very little experience stitching himself. He’d watched his mother do it and Cassandra, and so he worked from memory and instruction. Aware that this wound was deeper and that his leg saw quite a bit of movement, he knew vaguely that his stitching pattern would have to be different. Pausing with the string in his hand and his ears ringing, the warm flush of his furnace and the rum flowing under his tanned, inked skin and bringing him a strange sense of relief, Pash attempted to remember the lessons he’d already learned through various injuries.
Finally, he recalled that he could make a series of stitches using the same string and keeping it connected, or running, instead of individual sutures and knots, which would, quite frankly, take all trial with how slow and careful he would have to be. He didn’t have time for that, considering he still had his sloop to take care of and he was alone at sea. So, gritting his teeth, he set about creating a simple running suture, knotting and looping, whining just about every time he’d have to set the needle back under his skin in an attempt to close the gash. It was excruciating and Pash was quite sure for a few trills that he’d have to pause and throw up, chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from shuddering or stopping, willing himself to continue the uncomfortable process. The milk thistle had helped numb him a bit, but not enough that he wasn’t in any pain at all.
As he reached the halfway point, the seafaring musician was desperate for a distraction, and so he began to hum. While his song was interrupted by a few gasps and winces, he let his humming become a quiet song, an old sea shanty about rum and loose women. This helped to keep him focused, and once he was done, well, it wasn’t a pretty site, but he tied the last knot somewhat satisfied with his efforts.
“That’ll have t’ do.” He sighed, trimming the string with the small pair of scissors that came with the first aid kit and wiping the wound that had oozed still more silver while he had stitched it. He spread a bit of salve that his mother had given him arcs ago, smearing it carefully over the whole jagged line, before he wiped his hands on the towel and leaned back on his palms for a moment, closing his eyes against the ache that still rumbled through his injured skull and taking a few slow breaths.
After a few bits, he felt a little less dizzy, so he sat up again and began the slow, careful process of wrapping his thigh with the woven cloth bandages. He was careful not to wrap too tightly, and yet just tight enough to provide some protection while allowing him the movement he would need to get about on deck of The Muse. Around and around, Pash hummed again a bit to keep his mind occupied, to keep himself still thinking and doing as he wasn’t really sure about how badly he’d knocked his head into the railing of his sloop.
He still had to get up and fix his rigging, though he knew that he could give himself at least another half a break of rest first. He’d carefully charted the course just the trial before and while he wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious, he knew the cold, brined landscape would be pretty much devoid of obstacles for another half a trial or so. The open sea was somewhat convenient that way, so long as you were this far from shore. Unless a pod of whales or some other horrible sea creature decided to become especially angry in the middle of the cold cycle, Pash felt somewhat confident he could take his time. And he needed it.
Once he’d finished wrapping and securing the bandage, he began to wipe and clean all of his tools, using the rum again over his towel, though he’d have to be more thorough later. Tucking everything away, he turned to set the first aid kit on his table in the living area. Then, he slowly stood.
This would be the test of his skill or lack thereof. Carefully, using his hands and grabbing for a well-built shelf, he eased himself to his feet, a wave of dizziness and the ringing in his ears loud above the rush of his pulse. His head ached and he closed his eyes for a moment, tide pool gaze blurry as he tested his weight on his wounded leg. Immortals, it wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t feel the tearing of skin or the sharp pain of a ripped stitch.
He exhaled the breath he’d been holding and took a few limping, careful steps, using the small space of his cabin for handholds. One he was sure he’d done a decent enough job and that his stitches would hold, he moved to get dressed again, piling his ruined pants that would also need stitching and bloodied towel for washing later, if not the next trial depending on the weather. Dressing was another clumsy, laughable affair as he struggled to pull on an extra pair of pants over his stitched, bandaged thigh, and he couldn’t help but curse his way into them before tossing back on a dry shirt and his damp cloak. He’d have to get back on deck and figure out what to do next, how to fix the snapped rigging with a sore leg and aching head.
It could be done, so long as the weather remained calm, despite the bitter cold of the season. So, after one more swig of rum for good measure, Pash staggered his way back up deck to get back to sailing, for being a Biqaj alone at sea didn’t come with only good days. Some of them were bad, but they were still worth it.
Rakahi Pidgin Translations
Vrung = Human waste. Used as an expletive accordingly.
