"Oh no."
The setting sun cast dark, blinding shadows all across the busy streets of the Keelhaul Refuge. But even in lieu of the darkness, she could still make out the terrified visages of four grown men carrying the scraps of a battered, bloody sailor. This young man's arms were crossed over his chest as though he were already dead, and the sticky pools of crimson splattered across his body had seeped onto the hands and faces of his comrades. The small group, exhausted and anxious, was undoubtedly charging in her direction. Jasmine sighed. This was terribly unfortunate, as she had been hoping to close her apothecary shop in a matter of a few minutes.
"You bony-arsed twats should know that I'm not available after sunset!" she spat to them before they even reached her stand. As they approached, she could smell the lingering stench of sweat and gunpowder on their skins. It was especially pungent on John Merryman, who, in her time of knowing him, had always worn it like perfume. He let go of his grip on the young sailor's damaged leg and marched towards her with strong steps.
"Well, 'ats very inconsiderate miss," he retorted, "considerin' most injuries tend to 'appen at night."
She crossed her arms and scowled. The French woman didn't want to have to sacrifice her private plans and hospitality tonight, but it was a friend standing before her. She couldn't turn down a request made by John Merryman. He had a grand reputation around Keelhaul, and he had personally saved her arse on many occasions, particularly on their voyage aboard The Pride. It was many moons ago, but she remembered the barbarous raid as though it had been only yesterday. If not for his knowledge regarding steel-on-steel combat, she wouldn't have been standing before him.
They didn't need to speak anymore; they made a quiet, unheard agreement through the sharp glares of their pointed eyes.
"Get 'im inside," she exhaled, "watch out for the crates on the stairs."
The entrance to Jasmine Golde's apartment was only a sword's-length away. The crew bolted through the wooden door, their bloody victim groaning ferociously with every stride they took. Before she headed into the apartment herself, the woman took a few bottles and herbs from off of her stand, promptly stuffing them into her coat pockets. She curled her fingers up into fists, rolled her eyes, and then ran up the stairs into her makeshift living space.
"On there," she ordered the confused men, pointing to a hammock strung up near the left side of the room. Not showing any signs of fear or trepidation, she calmly strode to her medicine cabinet, which held a collection of even more herbs and oils. Some of the concoctions were of her own creation. Any man of Asian origin would have known that the Wood Witch's stash of potions and remedies was equivalent to a goldmine.
She took out a few more bottles and plants, and then sealed the doors shut. "Any broken bones? Damage to the organs? Head trauma?" she flatly asked the guests as she strode towards her patient.
John Merryman shook his head. "Naw ma'am, just some nasty cuts an' bruises. He were in a knife fight. His opponent 'ad been in the Royal Navy. War hero. 75 killings to 'is name."
Jasmine roared with laughter. She knew just the man he was talking about. You were an idiot to challenge Charles Blackbriar; any person with a brain knew that. Appalled, all the heads in the room turned to face her. Embarrassed, she awkwardly sealed her lips.
She tore open the bleeding boy's shirt, as well as parts of his pant legs, analyzing him. "Fortunately, you won't need any stitches," she smirked, grabbing some gauze from off the side table nearby. "Unfortunately for my knife, you won't need any amputations, either."
She chuckled, but the rest of the room didn't so much as blink at the joke.
"May sting a little," she warned him, uncorking one of the bottles she had grabbed from her cabinet. As soon as it was opened, the room was filled with the scent of honey, cinnamon, alcohol, and lavender. Getting straight to work, she quickly spread the watery ointment across his chest. Unsurprisingly, he grimaced in pain, squealing like a pig and flailing his arms about as though moving would help his situation.
"No wonder you got fucked so badly," she snarked, "you have the pain tolerance of a three-year-old."
"Jasmine,"
"Sorry, John," she snorted, "Couldn't help myself."
After spreading the concoction over his legs, arms, and face, the surgen placed tea leaves over major cuts and bruises, and then bandaged everything until there was not so much as a drop of blood to be seen on the man's body. She emptied her pockets, grabbing a bottle of opiates and feeding some of the drug to her patient. It would minimize the pain, at least for a full day. The wounded sailor stopped moaning, instead flicking his eyelids back and forth until drifting off into a deep sleep. Her guests, nervous a minute ago, were now stupefied.
She stood up, brushing traces of tea leaves from off her blouse, and then turned to face the men. "Give him some more of those palliatives if he needs 'em," she said. "Change his bandages every couple of hours, and make sure to switch out the leaves. More gauze can be found in my chamber. Tea leaves are in the cabinet and behind my stand outside. He needs sleep. Do not wake him. Don't want him wandering into anymore trouble..."
She grabbed a flintlock pistol from off of her side table, strapped it to a holster in her belt, and walked towards the door.
"Au revoir," she sang before opening it.
"Wait," John cried, his brows furrowed. "Where the hell you goin', lass?"
She walked out into the foyer, only her head visible.
"The place is yours for two days," she replied. "After the fright you shits gave me, I'm sleeping in a whore's bed tonight."
Leaving them confused and flustered, she slammed the door, making her way to the tavern just across the street.
✵✵✵
The Third Octopus was boisterous and claustrophobic: just the way she liked it. A flagon of rum hung from her hands; she didn't go for that Dark Ale shit. She was French after all, and the French always stood out from a crowd. Finding another good friend of hers, Tobias 'Dead Man' Mulligan, Jasmine sauntered towards his table and was met with the cheers of his friends as she sat down. The way she walked, it was as though she were already drunk.
"How's my favorite little harlot doin' tonight?" he smiled, patting her roughly on the back. She gave him a toothy grin and spread her legs apart as though she were a man.
"Alright," she giggled,
"although I had to patch a young man up just a few moments ago. Charles Blackbriar almost made another kill tonight." "Ohhhhh..." The sound of the famous pirate's name sent a round of laughter and jeering all across the table.
"I imagine it wasn't an easy clean," Tobias said inbetween a sip of his ale.
She shook her head in scorn.
"Not at all, sir. Almost didn't wanna help the poor bastard, but it was John Merryman's mate." She took a swig of her rum.
"I wish people would stop coming to me like I'm a damn pimp or something..." "I getcha," replied one of Tobias's friends. There was a wave of silence as they all continued to down their liquor. Finally, Mulligan broke the silence again, putting his hand on Jasmine's shoulder.
"You told me you wanted to get back to the seas again if you could, right?" he asked her. She nodded. He pointed to a man sporting a long leather trench coat and black frizzy beard.
"Well, there's your way out, over there. Malcom Vane is looking for a crew. He put up pamphlets all across Keelhaul. Apparently, it's the adventure of a lifetime," This made Jasmine snort.
"Sure," she snarked,
"and my tits are full of gold. Isn't he obsessed with his hair or something?" "I heard it was his beard."
"Apparently he reads as well..." The whole table added more rumors about Malcom Vane to the conversation, and then stopped to take another communal swig from their flagons. After a few moments of quiet pondering, Jasmine arose from her stool. She was intrigued, amused, and unimpressed by the man and his proposal.
"I'll be right back," she mumbled, taking her drink with her as she strolled across the room.
Sitting at the small table beside him were two women. The first one she didn't recognize; the girl had long copper locks and a doll-like face that alluded to a single possibility: she had never experienced the rush of battle before. You could always tell when someone was new to piracy, and this little lady smiled like it was her first day. The second woman she had seen in the brothel before. She had enrapturing eyes and nice legs to her, but Jasmine had never had the pleasure of meeting her, let alone bedding her.
She leaned against their table, her back to the redheaded girl.
"Bonjour Monsieur Vane," she greeted him as though back in her homeland.
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you...your failures, your fetishes, your foolishness..." she took another swig of her drink, a smug smile appearing on her face as soon as she lowered the metal flagon.
"You must truly be desperate if you had to advertise yourself to the people of Keelhaul..." Suddenly, two heavy pistols fell against the table. Jasmine shot her head sideways, spotting an Asian woman with sharp lips and eyes that crackled like flames in a fireplace.
"Alright listen. I may be a little tipsy right now, but I'm still the best damn shot in this godforsaken town," She quickly prattled, seemingly unaware of how loud she was talking.
"This one is Lola and the other is Tilly," she gestured to each gun.
"And I'm Sun. Let's go get us some adventure!" Slowly, Jasmine's eyes widened in surprise and amusement.
"Well," she turned to Vane,
"this one's awfully abrasive. You'd be an idiot not to take her in..." She passed the new girl, finishing the last of her drink as she approached the only man at the table.
"I'm awfully jealous of you Captain," she smirked, stretching out the last word so as to question its authenticity,
"You're living my dream: having beautiful women throw themselves at your feet without even questioning where you come from or the things you've done. I try to garnish the same mysterious reputation at the local brothel myself, but, you know...I lack some of the parts..." She shrugged, placing her empty flagon at the center of the table for all to see. She paced back and forth for a few moments, and then abruptly stopped.
"I'm not here to suck your cock, Vane," she spat, placing her hands on both hips.
"In fact, a part of me is interested in this adventure of yours, for you see, I'm up to my knees in work right now. I'd like to get away from it for a while. Take some time off from stitching up gashes and cooking up medicines..." She glanced at Dominique for a second, subtly biting her lip.
"But unfortunately, I'm at a bit of an impasse. I've made quite the reputation here - surely you've heard of my moniker. And don't even get me started on my salary," she moaned.
"I'm living a pretty good life here. So..." She sat herself on the edge of the table, right in front of him.
"Because you surely know who I am, you're going to tell me why I should join your crew. I'm not going to beg for your acceptance. You're going to beg for mine." She drank from his glass of dark ale, gushing once the deep flavor set upon her tongue.
"And don't try to convince me with artifice straight from your arse," she pointed at him.
"I'll know..."Jasmine crossed her legs, set the drink down and wrapped both hands around her right knee, smirking.
"After all, I've had lots of terrible experiences with crews before. Every captain says the same thing before he fails."
