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  • [ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ • ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀss ʀᴘ ]

    [ lu, you accidentally listed Remy as 27 in the front post ;3
    also, forgive me for making a lot of assumptions here; if there's anything you disagree with, just let me know C:
    also i'm so sorry this is so long |D ]


    The previous evening had been a miserable set of circumstances for Remy, a horror story of violent stomach upsets and a cabin that rocked and bucked with every swell. It had started with simple nausea that had escalated as the evening wore on, so by seven o'clock he was bedridden and terribly ill. It didn't help that Minerva made clear her displeasure of having to take care of her seasick son; he couldn't blame her. It was a...messy job. His only comfort throughout a sleepless night had been Csilla's cooing reassurances that it would pass, that he would grow accustomed to the ebb and flow of water beneath the ship, and as always she was right. By three the worst of it had passed and he was able to catch a few hours' rest.


    Needless to say, dinner was unthinkable, so by morning he was roused by a ravenous appetite. His mother had made herself scarce - he assumed she had proceeded to the dining hall without him - and so he prepared for the day in relative peace (as she had a habit of looming over him and pointing out every aesthetic flaw in his choice of day wear). Nevertheless, he kept her criticism in mind; he spent ten minutes on his cravat, as she was very particular that it be straight. He debilitated on whether he should sport a hat, but in the end felt it best to leave it.


    "Come on," he said softly to Csilla, and obediently she alighted on his shoulder, sinking her talons carefully into the fabric (once his dæmon had settled, Minerva had insisted that special pads be sewn into all of his coats so as not to damage the shirt underneath).


    And thus they left the room, Remy walking close to the wall to keep out of the way of other passengers. It was a quiet stroll, no discussion between the dæmon and human, but comfortable that way. Neither were inclined to initiate small talk.


    They were ascending the stairs when Csilla saw it fit to speak. Remy, I have reason to believe that there's something wrong on this ship.


    His brow furrowed. What do you mean, "something wrong?"


    Look to your left.


    He did. Directly in to his left was a peasant girl with dark, messy hair. She was moving quickly but not with haste; he assumed her destination was the mess hall, although he couldn't figure why Csilla was pointing her out to him.


    That girl? What has she to do with anything?


    There's a little bit of blood on the inside of her elbow there, see? I don't think she was hurt, but someone else may have been.


    He didn't see, but then, a barn owl's vision was exceptional. He knew to trust Csilla's profound observation skills.


    I don't think a doctor will help her, she continued with characteristic bluntness. She won't be able to pay, and likewise, neither will the person she's helping. You know enough about the bondage of wounds, don't you?


    Remy hated where this was going. But --


    But nothing. She swiveled her head and met him with her direct black eyes. Help her.


    By this time they had reached the deck. The girl did seem to be hurrying now, acutely aware of the passage of time (the stairs had been crowded, hindering the speed which you could climb them). He hesitated for a long moment, but with a not-so-gentle nudge from Csilla he finally endeavored to catch up with her.


    "Excuse me!" he called out in accented English, too quietly for her to hear over the clamor. He almost reached out to catch her arm, but then realized that it was the quickest way to get himself decked in the face and instead settled for impeding her progress by standing in her path.


    "U-Um..." Now that he had her...what was he supposed to say? Be polite.


    "M-My sincerest apologies, miss, but I couldn't help - I mean, my dæmon, her name is Csilla - my dæmon noticed that you've got a speck of blood on your arm there, on your elbow. Is there any trouble?" He flinched at his own boldness and hastily amended, "Ah, n-not to be forward or anything. It's really none of my business. It's just...that is, if you needed any assistance..."

  • [ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ • ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀss ʀᴘ ]

    As Remy floundered his way to an offer, he was overcome with self-doubt and certainty that she would refuse. What sort of person would trust a (well-meaning) stranger with their personal affairs, especially one so incompetent with handling the simplest of words? Two years of study and he could hardly put together a coherent sentence in English! And despite hours of practice his accent was atrocious; it would be a miracle if she could understand him at all. He was a moment away from fleeing this uncomfortable discussion - never mind, it wasn't my place to intrude, good day - when at last the girl spoke.


    "Er – yes...My brother's been badly hurt - some crazy men in the lounge beat him up."


    All at once, he felt far out of his depth, a fish out of water (or so the expression went). Cuts and bruises he could handle, minor afflictions such as fever, stomachache, fatigue...But 'badly hurt' could mean any number of injuries, from severe abrasions to broken bones to internal bleeding. As much reading as Remy had done on the application of medicine, he was not a surgeon and simply didn't have the experience required for anything more complicated than simple slings or a mediocre tourniquet.


    ...But then, that was something, wasn't it? And if not him, who else?


    He'd met one of the doctors, the finest on board; Minerva had spoken to him about her dietary concerns. That woman had the constitution of a horse until it came to matters of the stomach, as she was allergic to a great number of things and many more made her ill. Remedius couldn't recall the name, but what he did remember was his preoccupation with compensation should his mother get sick on the voyage. Csilla had been absolutely correct in that regard - the price was not a problem for such an esteemed family as theirs, but what of people like the girl and her brother? Who would treat them?


    Remy was about to suggest that she describe the extent of her brother's injuries, but for reasons he could not fathom, she had a fit of contrariness and lost her nerve. "I-I'm sorry, I have to go."


    He had half a mind to let her go on her way, find her friends, let them deal with the boy that may be screaming in pain somewhere below deck or slowly bleeding out...But of course he couldn't. Not with her voice trembling and distress rolling off her in waves.


    "Attendez!" He reached out and gently took hold of her shoulder to stop her, releasing his grip as soon as he had halted her. "Attendez, ah, wait! I-I'm not usually so insistent, but I would really rather not leave to your own devices while you're so...so aggrieved. For my sake, do you think - allow me to help you find your friends at least." The effort to find the right English phrases to get his point across without pressuring her was beginning to drain him, and, conscious that his strain may be showing, he managed a weak, uncertain smile to lighten the atmosphere. "I'm much taller than you, so it stands to reason that I could find them faster. The dining hall is going to be...frighteningly crowded at this hour, and time is of the essence."