Snippet #1882655

The petite woman muttered something about following orders as she rapped upon the heavy wooden door, visibly eager to roust the drunken cartographer. There was no response, nothing more than the hiss of the waves as the boat rolled upon the midday ocean. He gave her a small nod to encourage what came next, the small girl easily cracking through the latch which had secured the door shut in case of high winds. Making a mental note to deal with it later, perhaps reinforce the mechanism based on what little fight it put up, he followed Kaitsu inside.

It was a sorry sight. Shaafir’s eyes were immediately drawn to the unsteady swaying of the man precariously perched halfway on his small bunk. The crumpled form of his wife huddled by his feet, watching silently. An intense fire burned in her eyes, barely contained behind the stern expression. Their small boatswain wasted no time, heading straight towards the pair of chests which rested not far from the bed itself, insistently relaying her orders to the stumbling drunk.

John stood, his tongue managing to slur out a handful of choice words for the duo, making special note to emphasis the hatred in his voice while referring to the color of Finch’s skin. The drunk took several uneasy steps toward Kaitsu, his finger raised accusingly as he continued to holler his thoughts on the situation. In a single long stride Shaafir placed himself between them, itching for an excuse to put the man down. Though she carried herself with an unwavering confidence, Kaitsu was still quite small and knowing full well he was not opposed to laying into a female, Finch didn’t care to find out what he might do to the boatswain.

Shaafir locked in on the glazed eyes of John, shaking his head. The message was clear. Don’t. With a commanding point of his finger, he dictated where he believed John belonged, in the corner, away from the action. To his credit, despite his intoxication, the fraudulent mapmaker seemed to realize he was getting in over his head. With lips hanging open lazily, he marched himself in the direction of the pointed finger.

With the primary obstacle overcome, Finch set his sights on tending to the fuming woman still nestled by the foot of the bed. Even from several feet away it was clear she wore a new handprint across her face, the stinging pink of her flesh a clear indicator she had been hit with some force not moments before their entrance. Similarly her arm seemed to be held stiffly, as if she was trying to keep it from being jostled, her elbow cocked awkwardly outward. Shaafir frowned, eyes briefly snapping to the drunk in the corner to make sure he knew the trouble he had brought on himself.

Approaching slowly, he knelt to better inspect the injured arm.

“Xele. Niv‘tsun apovi.” He whispered quietly, the careful tone and movements making clear his intentions more than his words. Reaching out to gingerly take the arm in question into his practiced hands.

“Dunn yuu tuch ‘er!” John barked angrily, moving from his given corner. Shaafir was instantly back to his feet, healing hands clenched into tight fists. Finch said nothing, instead staring down the drunken man who took a handful more steps in his direction. Shaafir’s fierce gaze slowed the man, and, as if suddenly realizing the line he was about to cross, John slumped back to his corner.

Returning to kneel he gestured with his fingers to assure the woman he meant her no harm. As her legs fell from their place tucked beneath her chin, Shaafir caught sight of the heavy bruising around her ankle. She hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting across Shaafir’s face as if trying to read him before allowing him to inspect her arm. Cautiously he pushed up the fabric of her far too large clothing, revealing dozens of dark blotches. Though they were scattered randomly it was quite clear they were a result of the manhandling he had witnessed earlier, the fastened claw of a grip John kept on her at all times. Holding her upper arm in place he smoothly ran his free hand up and down the outstretched arm, his eyes locked on her features to spot where it was the pain was oriented. As he passed over her forearm there was a fleeting wince, nearly gone before it had even began. It was clear the woman was used to having to bury her feelings, a fate worse less enviable than death as Shaafir himself could attest.

“Kah. Vishu.” He gave her a quick flash of his radiant smile, the edge tainted by the wretched scar across his face. No problem, wasn’t nearly as bad as he had originally feared. Trained hands surrounding the area, Finch’s fingers lightly pressed into her flesh to judge the set of the bone. The woman hissed as he made a quick movement of his thumbs, removing all doubt that it was at the very least fractured. “Splint.” Shaafir said doggedly.

A jingling sound behind him stole his attention from the injured arm, revealing Kaitsu holding a small chain. Finch’s head tilted in question as the wheels in his mind began to add two and two together. Almost absentmindedly he peered down at the woman’s foot, the ugly purple and blue stains which marred her ankle. As he did so, the woodworker in him took over from the doctor, gaze falling to the damaged leg of the nearby desk. It seemed as though the wood had been slowly eroded, craggy splinters littered the ground around the worn wood.

Shaafir’s eyebrow arched, pupils staring through the peripheral at the woman by his feet. As she had yet to take her eyes off him, she seemed to notice the slight deviation in his gaze, and gifted him with a small nod as if to confirm his suspicions. Turning back to the much smaller Kaitsu, he took the chain from her child-sized hands, an accusing glare written across his scarred features.

“Captain.” He said casually, head flicking in the direction of the door, indicating it was time to get moving.

Without another word, he turned, holding his hand down to the abused woman on the floor, not keen to leave her alone with John for any amount of time if he could help it. John visibly bristled, but remained silent, pinned into the corner by Shaafir’s menacing stare. A moment passed, his offered hand not taken by the woman, he met her eyes apprehensively peering up at him.

“Splint.” he repeated.