faderift | RIFTER ARRIVAL: Guardian 9:45

It takes more courage than she wants to admit to, to lift up her tear-stained face, soft and wet. She lifts her hand, the cuff of it, rubbing against her cheek with her sleeve. Trying to sniffle herself back into some kind of composure.

It works, sort of.

"Thank-you." Her hands lift, shaking, tacky now with the blood. Before she turns them over, and they are a mess. The splinters dug in lines against her palms, all torn up, dirt thick under her nails.

It was not a pretty sight and as the Medicine Seller surveyed the damage done to what were clearly hands that likely never so much as threw a punch, he suspected that he'd need a bit more than hot water and a poultice. The ancient, moldering wood had probably gotten all sorts of nasty things in her skin.

The bottom drawer of his medicine pack opened with a gesture, and a pair of tweezers, a phial of disinfectant, and a roll of bandages emerged, levitating into his outstretched hand. He didn't have the patience to stand on ceremony today and sort through the clutter to find what he needed. The bandages and disinfectant were set aside, and he took the cloth from its bowl, squeezing out the excess water.

"This will probably hurt quite a bit," he warned. Hand injuries always stung quite a bit relative to their severity - all those nerves and things.

"Will you tell me where you are from?" He asked, dabbing away the drying blood. He didn't have the greatest bedside manner - he wasn't a healer, he was a merchant, after all - but he still knew that the easiest way for this to go smoothly was to keep her mind on something else beside the pain and panic.

There has been some time at least that they aren't running rivers. Tacky with dirt of the fight as well as time that has dried it on her skin. But despite the mess, they are just as he guessed, soft. A little bit of a callous built up on the side of forefingers that have been used for stitching, spinning. But otherwise, no more than that.

Save for now, apparently. A thorough mess. She is clay to be moulded by his touches, he finds no resistance to his broaching. Leaving them to be moved as he wants her. She seems to pay no mind as he moves the objects - either from shock, idle acceptance of most things or being used to it. Besides, there is more to consider. He isn't wrong. It stings, and the little whimper of pain is obvious from the first, but she resolutely doesn't move.

It takes her a moment, lips parted, soft where the tears had leaked down her cheeks to her mouth. Drying as she pulls in a breath. Her voice creaks, "St. Loe." Not sharp letters, but smoother. Sinleau. "The Isle of St. Loe."

There is no amount of conversation that's going to make having bits of wood slowly and carefully pulled out of the palm feel good but the Medicine Seller felt some relief that she didn't flinch or jolt too much. He didn't want a bit to break off as he was pulling it out.

The process was... repetitive. Dab away blood, pull a splinter, dab again. Rinse and repeat, quite literally.

"I am not familiar with it, I am afraid. Is it an isle in a lake? Or the sea?"

Bit by bit, the splinters came away and her hands were cleaned of blood. He looked them over, and, satisfied that he'd got the last of them, he selected the bottle of disinfectant and popped the cork.

There was an sharp and bitter medicine smell from it, mixed with the stink of rubbing alcohol. He poured a bit onto a square of clean cloth.

"This will sting quite a bit, but it will help keep wounds from souring."

She does her best to not move, to make as little sound as she can - but it is inevitable. The little noises of pain, that she bites her teeth into her lip to keep down. Gnawing on the sound, a look on her face that is patently apologetic when it's sharp enough a pain that she jolts and gingerly offers it back.

"On... on the sea. The only Isle in the - the - Bay of Lutch." Her face turns away. Nose scrunched up and her eyes screwed shut when a particularly big and deep piece comes free. Some deep need to answer his questions out of politeness that keeps her going even when she wants to sob once more. "Do you hail inland, to not know it?"

But his warning, she looks downright scared when he says it but... he is being kind, and he is helping, and it would be awful to say she doesn't want it when he is being so good to her. He says it will help, and she trusts him as she trusts anyone - which is to say, completely. So, ultimately, bracing herself, locking her joints to not falter, she stretches them out flat, and nods. Ready.

"A different shore, perhaps."

Either someone had told her rifters were from different worlds and times and she was in denial or no one had told her and the Medicine Seller was not about to drop that bomb when he needed her still and calm.

She's being very brave about the whole thing, but even as gentle as he is with the disinfectant, it still stings. Fortunately that means that any bacteria the rotten wood might have left behind were being wiped out and nothing would go gangrenous.

"Are there many different kinds of fish there?" He asked, as he finished dabbing on the last of it. He corked the bottle, cut a few squares of bandage and opened the jar of poultice.

"You are doing very well. This has a painkiller in it and it will keep the swelling down," he explained, showing her the thick, green substance. It had an earthy, herbal smell to it - not entirely unpleasant with none of the acrid smell of the disinfectant.

Sting it does, and even as her hands stay still, her head drops, face contorted in the pain of it. The cry she barely has the time to swallow, eating up all the words, any other questions. Because it was worse than denial, she hadn't heard them at all. By the time she had reached the Gallows, no doubt the truth will have made itself understood. Bur right now?

Well, he's spared any follow-up questions about it. Rather, he asked another question and she follows along. "Many. Many fish. The fishermen - " another swipe, another murmur of pain. Scrunched up she goes to prayers rather than whatever else she was going to say. "- Sea-Lord, take my pain, I am but nothing but made of you, share, share, - "

Her teeth clack, quiet. Silence with its bite, and finally, it is over. But it is over, with only the lingering pain left behind she looks back up at him with eyes wide, nodding along as best she can, fumbling over things to say right now and settles for the familiar. "As it pleases you to do."

"I have used shellfish in the making of medicine," he explained, applying the poultice to the bits of cut bandages, laying them flat on her palms.

"Though they are medicines for old, old men."

The poultice that had seeped through the gauze had an almost immediate cooling effect where the wounds were inflamed, and the Medicine Seller wrapped her hands - tight enough to secure the poultice but not so restrictive that she couldn't move her hands.

"Will you tell me more about the sea where you are from?"

It is... a relief, after all that. He was being so careful with her, she is sure, even if it hurt. Taking good care of her, that at least the want to cry returns to no more than little sniffles. Not that it mattered where her face is still wet with the tears of before.

"It is... " she struggles, for a moment, to unravel her tongue from where it has been glued firmly to the back of her teeth to be quiet in the pain. To form intelligent things and sensible conversation. "... It is a deep grey-blue. A little like your eyes. Almost always frothing with waves, also."

He was quiet and attentive as he stowed his materials, the way she spoke of her home sparking a rare nostalgia for his own.

It seemed quite unfair that someone who clearly loved the place she lived in had been ripped so suddenly from it and with little to no chance of returning.

"Tumultuous seas are always a wonder," he agreed.

"Though not so good to swim in. Can you stand?"

He extended a hand to her, in case she needed help getting upright.

Later on, in a day or two, it will become too much, and she will weep again, being so cut off from the other half of herself. The dreams which had once scared her so, now an aching memory. She will curl up inside of herself, and not want to move from bed and find, suddenly, with no reason to do so, she cannot bring herself to face the sun or sky.

But as of right now, his company is a soothing balm. "I shall never be afraid of it." And nervously, it takes her longer than it should, to reach for his hand. There is a twitch that is almost reflexive to never reach, not for anything. Her now bandaged, cleaned hands that curl in and shyly away. Smoothing over the bandages.

" - Yes." She ventures, at last. Her hand settling on his, small, light, half afraid of the touch for what it was. Accepting. Gently, she unfolds her legs underneath her to try and get the rest of the way up.

He was still and patient despite her hesitation - he knew the body language well enough. He'd seen it in many, many people over his long life, and it always spoke of an upbringing that told them their life was not their own.

He didn't speak much more until after he'd shouldered the heavy-looking wooden pack.

"Some were wounded in the fight," he explained. "I will see if they require my services. Will you join me? There is much to explain, and I am sure you will want answers."

A pause - perhaps hesitation? Something like sympathy? Possibly. The Medicine Seller's face rarely expressed anything, and it remained masklike as his tone montonous.

"...However hard they will be to hear."

There is a comfort in that, in its way, for all things simmered in front of her face like ripples on the water, he reminded her of her oldest brother's calmness. His evenness in tone. The disinclination to show much that was noted of their homeland.

"I will do my best," though it worries in the corner of her mouth, the crinkle of her eye when it's down turned in her gaze. Though she realises that is easily an answer for either of his questions - so she clarifies a moment after she wets her lips. "I would like to help them."

That is what matters most, isn't it? Not her discomfort, least of all that, there must always be something more important than that, didn't Godfinn tease her? "Please do not worry for me. I will be well, with - with some time." Like that was all the soothing she needed.

RIFTER ARRIVAL: Guardian 9:45

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