Lexicon — Roleplayer Guild

Trouble
The Med Bay

"Gotcha first patient!" a man's voice called out from behind Sigrun, and the startled Ysmirod dropped the scrap of paper she'd been gaping at. Patient? The shock of seeing the word 'vrykul' written in human blood evaporated as memories of the last few hours flooded Sigi's mind. The UIS Garrloch had entered the Ring of Thunder, bucked like an angry stallion, and now one of the crew was injured. It all sounded logical enough, but one insidious thought made Sigi freeze. Were there more stormborn aboard this ship? Who else would know what it meant to be vrykul? Shaking her head like a dog after a bath, Sigrun forced herself to concentrate on the two men filling the med bay's doorway. The taller of the two men had messy blonde hair, dark brown eyes, and reassuringly solid facial features. A flabby, balding man wearing the dark blue uniform of a DOC affiliated sailor was leaning against him. The pudgy mariner's right arm was visibly bent, jutting out at an alarming angle, and blood was dribbling down the front of his damp clothes. A fractured, or possibly broken, bone then. The coppery stink of spilled blood was already filling the med bay, and Sigrun knew she needed to move fast. 

Stalking over and offering her shoulder to the injured man, Sigi's eyes darted to his companion as she said, "Well done, helgus. Now leave us. I will tend to your friend, but I want you out of my way." 

The wounded sailor, whose blood-spattered name patch revealed his name was Bronson, looked anxiously at his comrade, clearly wondering if it was wise to let this young woman treat him. Gritting her teeth, Sigrun ducked beneath the man's shoulder and applied just enough pressure to make him let go of the other crewman. She turned away from the blonde-haired sailor as if he no longer existed and guided her charge to one of the med bay's three cots. Sigi nearly fell when Bronson put his full weight on her, but she bent her legs and kept moving, reaching the cot and easing the mariner onto it. Her new long-sleeved shirt, which was already soaked from the Garrloch's entry into the Ring of Thunder, was streaked with Bronson' blood. Stopping the bleeding would be her first task. She could deal with the bone afterwards.

"Mother's love, lass!" Bronson said as Sigrun hurried over to the nearby cabinets and began pawing through their contents. "You aren't actually a doctor are you?! You're just the doctor's assistant or...or...fuck me, my bloody arm is broken! Do something! Please!" Ignoring the sailor's howls of pain, Sigi grabbed several clean cloths with the DOC's logo on them, a small pewter wash basin, and a jar of pinkish gray paste. She also took her canvas doctor's bag out of her sack and produced an oilcloth water skin from its cluttered interior. Balancing all these items in her arms, the stormborn felt a surge of pride as she returned to Bronson's side, because, unlike many people in the United Isles, she knew exactly what to do in this situation. After setting her various tools beside the cot, Sigrun uncorked the waterskin and poured half of its lukewarm contents into the wash basin. 

Pursing her lips and dipping one of the cloths into the water, the stormborn said, "I need you to stay quiet and keep still, Bronson. I'm going to clean your wound as best I can, but I must stop the bleeding. Luckily for you, I have something for that, and I also have something for the pain. There's also a chance I might have to set your broken bone, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. " The sailor's doughy face had turned white as a sheet, but he nodded wordlessly to show he would do whatever Sigrun told him to. The Ysmirod woman knew how unnerving it could be to see so much of your blood outside of your body. It certainly made patients more compliant and less argumentative.

Using slow, delicate movements, Sigrun started washing away some of the viscera on Bronson's right arm, her eyes narrowed in concentration. If the sailor lost too much blood then things would become much more complicated. Two blood-soaked washcloths later, the Ysmirod set her rags aside and picked up the jar of paste labeled "Dr. Morrison's Clotting Paste: Stops All the Bleeding All the Time! Now, with a delicious fruity aroma!" Svanrige had used a similar mixture, though he'd called it azeyma and made it in an old bathtub, on countless patients back in Beggar's Row. The old vrykul claimed it was one of the few concoctions in the United Isles capable of stopping excessive blood loss. Opening the jar, and wincing as a blast of citrus-scented air hit her full in the face, Sigi poured a sizable dollop of clotting paste onto Bronson's wound.

The sludge bubbled angrily for a few seconds as it soaked up the residual blood on the sailor's skin before turning into a powdery, chalk-like substance. Looking into Bronson's wide gray eyes, Sigrun said, her voice calm, "And now something for the pain. Prepare yourself."

"Prepare myself for what?" Bronson squeaked, though his doctor was already darting back to the cabinets, cursing herself for not getting everything she needed on the first trip. That damned slip of paper was still distracting her. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, though she'd fallen out of the golvar after seeing that note, Sigrun grabbed one of the two dozen linen pouches lining the counter. She also flung open the second cabinet and pulled out a length of stretchy black cloth as well as a glass beaker with the words 'corn whiskey' scrawled on it in marker. Rolling her eyes at the helgus and their bizarre ways, Sigi rejoined Bronson and placed her new supplies beside her growing pile. She pushed the resealed jar of clotting paste, wash basin, waterskin and remaining washcloths aside before opening the linen pouch. The fruity scent in the air was immediately overpowered by the repulsive stench of fresh dung and vomit. 

Bronson gagged and recoiled, wincing as the sudden movement sent a jolt of pain through his injured arm. "What the fuck is that?! God and Ground, woman, it smells like a Gherish sewer!" the sailor said, and he jerked back as Sigrun thrust the pouch in his face.

"Don't be such a child," Sigrun snapped. "These are fadeleaf seeds from my...from my homeland. I know they smell awful, but three of them will numb your entire body for the next hour or two. I suggest you take them. Otherwise, I'll be setting your arm without painkillers. Do you want that, Bronson?"

Cowed by the thought of facing that kind of pain without any assistance, the heavyset sailor took three round, yellow seeds from the pouch and gulped them down, his face screwing up in disgust as the cloying taste filled his mouth. "Good," Sigi said as she ensured the elastic black cloth was ready to be used as a makeshift splint. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would work.

Five minutes of uncomfortable silence passed before Sigrun abruptly punched Bronson in his injured arm. The man opened his mouth to scream in agony...only to realize he hadn't felt anything. In fact, he couldn't feel much of anything at all. Blinking stupidly at Sigrun, Bronson watched as she carefully guided his right arm into its proper position and placed it in the splint, tying it off with an ease born of experience. Covered in a stranger's blood and feeling immensely satisfied, the stormborn said, "I'd suggest lying back now, Bronson. You've lost a great deal of blood. Rest and I'll check on you in a few minutes."

Bronson saluted weakly with his good arm and said, "Whatever you say, doctor." He let out a low sigh and lay back on his cot, an expression of faint bewilderment on his face. Fadeleaf seeds tended to muddle a patient's thoughts a little, but it would pass.

Sigrun turned around to clean up her mess and saw the man with the split chin sitting in one of the med bay's only chairs. The moron was getting blood all over it.

Frowning, Sigrun gathered her belongings from their place beside Bronson's cot and approached the older man. He was as different from Bronson as night was from day. It was mostly in the way he sat. This crewmen had the upright, yet somehow relaxed, posture of a warrior. A warrior that had seen more than his fair share of bloodshed. Sigi blinked as she realized her mother sat in a similar manner. Setting her supplies on the floor and gritting her teeth, the Ysmirod said, "I suppose you're next, hm?" before withdrawing to the cabinets. 

The top shelf of the largest cabinet sagged slightly beneath several heavy glass jars of sterilized needles and a dozen rolls of catgut. Grabbing one of each, Sigrun walked over to stand before the bleeding soldier and briefly examined the wound. It wasn't too bad, though she'd never enjoyed stitching injuries shut. Something about sewing skin together made her feel uncomfortable. Not queasy, of course. She was stormborn and no self-respecting stormborn ever got queasy. Placing the jar of needles and catgut by the man's weather-worn boots, Sigi hurried over to Bronson's cot to retrieve a clean washcloth, the pewter wash basin, and her waterskin. Without meeting the man's eyes, she washed the blood from her hands and dumped the water down a chrome drain set into the floor a few feet away. 

As she emptied another third of her waterskin into the basin and wet another cloth, she said, "The Ring of Thunder is a nasty beast, isn't she? Let’s have a look at that chin." 

Sigrun walked over to the seated fighter and used her cloth to wipe most of the blood off his chin. She'd just set down her cloth and picked up her stitching equipment when a loud, almost metallic, shrieking sound split the air. Bronson wailed in terror and Sigrun hissed at him to shut up. "Attention, all ye aboard!" Captain Conway's voice roared over the intercom, "Now's the time to earn yer keep! Anyone who's not injured or tendin' a station, I want ye all up above decks. We've been hit by lighting, and there's a fire going on the lower deck. Get up there and put it out!"

Sigrun's pale face turned a few shades paler. That sounded bad. Should she try to find a lifeboat and...? No, no, this ship was her best chance to find a worthwhile avallach. She wasn't going to let a little fire keep her from returning to Ysmir. Taking a breath and parting the man's beard so she could start stitching, she said, "So, since you won't be rushing off to stop any fires, mind if I ask you where you fought, soldier? The way you carry yourself, it's obvious you haven't led a peaceful life." And then she saw the bloody gas mask hanging from the man's belt. "And that gas mask isn't something you see every day, either," she said, a faint note of concern in her voice. Who was this strange man and what was he doing aboard the UINC's new boat?
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