Unconventional Medicine

[rassafraggin]

The deck of the Wave Dancer is quiet at the moment. The sailors are off doing down-time things with only those needed to keep watch and make sure barnacles do not take over to be seen. Maggie, apparently dressed in a big, floofy coverall type outfit with her hair all done up in a Rebman style mesh is standing near Quinlan who is decked out in a long, green robe. Mattie is holding an open box from which she draws a distinctive, round cookie. It is the sort with two dark, crispy cookies on either side of white cream. Although the two are clearly talking, no sound comes from them. Even their figures are slightly distorted. From a distance, it would be difficult to say who the pair are.

Trumpsense tingles at that moment, as Queen Moire, with an usual amount of urgency in her tone, foregoes the usual pleasantries to state, "I have two wounded here, much blood lost, Margaret. Would you locate a doctor with clearance for Gwyn Gaer?"

That abstracted look that heralds a trump contact settles in on Maggie's countenance She blinks when the message is given, her eyes tracking to Quinlan, "I'm with Quin now. He is not a Mandrake, but can probably help. Reaching forward, she conveys the urgency as well as the message to him, "Quin? There are two wounded and in dire need. Can you help, please?"

Quinlan makes a face. "I'm really *not* a doctor," he says. "That takes years more study. I can maaaaybe keep them alive until a doctor can help though."

Moire observes, "You are on your ship. We are with the Kelpies, Margaret. The attacks occurred in the waters outside the nursery." She pauses, listening to Quinlan, then decides, "Let me send them to you: Arthur Templeton, and Lord Murdoch. From there, we shall see where the Wave Dancer might bear them." She's already moving to rouse one, then the other, to join the contact and be pulled through.

Maggie nods, "We are." She lifts her hand from Quinlan's to offer to bring the wounded through though also holds the tin of cookies out to Quinlan. "What happened, please?" Her manner has shifted, the easy stance replaced by something more official, though not quite military. All commentary is held for now, though, in case details will be forthcoming. The seriousness of the situation settles around her like a mantle.

Quinlan in turn shifts to lifesight as wounded come through; Maggie gets to keep the cookies a bit longer as he tries to figure out what the hell happened, and what if anything he can do to help.

Trump contact itself could be a confusing, headache inducing prospect to someone with a sparse year or two of experience. For once, Mercier was glad his concentration wasn't that required. With a blink of contact, the merchant images; Its a weak motion, skin somewhat pale. The recent dip makes it difficult to tell if its actually clammy, or just seawater. There's an unfocused sort of look, and a stumbling grab for a oilskinned pouch, carried and utterly useless, given the previous moments actions. The cause of the symptoms is rather apparent to those in contact, and quite apparent to those out once pulled through. Fleshy, ragged lacerations, more then easily countable, match ripped chunks of of his shirt, and pants. His tie and waistcoat are off (dire enough). All oooze, a better sign then if it moved in time with his heart, but there's quite a number of them, and enough are flowing rather freely. Pulled through, he'd stumble towards the manrail, retching unproductively over the side, before stumbling dizzily to his knees.

Murdoch is handed off to Maggie next. Instead of a wet Rebman hand, it's a flipper offered for the trip. No gush of water, but the spotted leopard seal that flops forth is damp. Gashes in his thick hide about his throat, and some not-ticklish wounds that could have been made by something hookish around his ribs and tail. His wet watery eyes roll about, trying to make heads and tails of the new surroundings. He barks wetly. And then there's the transformation, from selkie-form to human. This causes his wounds to take on a worse condition in humanoid form, but the satchel he carries manifests again. He makes a gurgling noise as his fingers flail to the manpurse where things sound like they're clinking together inside.

OOC> Murdoch says, "And inside the satchel: Issues of Seal Life Quarterly, Whisker trimmers, and helpful coagulants?"

Moire keeps her gaze on the card, but apparently in response to various naggings on her end of things, says, "All will be made well, little ones. Wait, be calm - you will see us again." With a mildly regretful sigh, she reaches out for Maggie after Murdoch has shimmered away, to bring her through last. Like the others, she is wet through, the wild tang of the deeps beyond the bay of Amber, along with a strong metallic whiff, traces of silver ichor clinging to their hair or what clothing remains to them. Moire herself, her vessel, looks unharmed. "It was a trial run for the Kelpies," she explains, standing with her hand still in Maggie's for a moment or two, then releasing the captain to be useful among the casualties. "Only two followed, but as we planned a larger corral for them, we were tracked and harried by a trio of hunters from some shadowy abyssal plain. We would not have them follow us back to the nursery, and so Lord Murdoch and Mister Templeton were obliged to engage them."

Maggie inhales slowly as she sees the wounds on the men coming through. Grievous, they are, to be sure. She nods to Quinlan, even as she listens to Moire relay what transpired. When the three are with them, safe and sound, she lingers a moment longer with her hand in Moire's. After a gentle squeeze as her hand is released, she turns to Quinlan, "Do what you can, please." Stepping out of the bubble of silence, she strides forward, "Mr. Anderson." Although she does not raise her voice, exactly, it carries over the deck, "Set sail for Amber." Turning back, she adds, "Get the Ship's chirurgeon up her to help Lord Quinlan with the wounded." As she speaks, her hand ducks to her belt to draw her deck from its pouch. This time, she speaks to Murdock and Mercier, "Do either of you object to my trying to bring Doctor Amethyst here?"

The merchant's kneeling position, becomes a laying position as he lays his shoulder against the deck, more trying to make the world stop spinning a bit then intending to succumb to the dangerous exhaustion. One hand reaches out to claw at his bag, "I have no objections, at least over the other outcome of understanding oblivion... though.... whatever you've iron got in the fire might be faster..."

Quinlan makes a face. "It's the other way around, Maggie. I'll be helping the ship's doctor. Oh - and yell at the cook. These two are going to want all the food and drink they can stuff themselves with." And then...well, he starts getting to work. He's no doctor but he can lay them out, so the chirurgeon has an easier time. And he can give them strength. An infusion of life.

RPG: Quinlan declares that he has the Arcanis Create (ARC-CR) gift.

RPG: Quinlan declares that he has the Arcanis Life (ARC-LI) gift.

Murdoch regrets changing to his human form, but deems it a necessity. Her croaks and beckons to the satchel and for someone to spread it. Some pantomime to empty his satchel of everything however, and the assortment of things beyond the standard coagulant. Pufferfish spines kept in a sponge like ink nibs at the ready. Jars of jellyfish. A bunch of scalpels. "Stop...the bleeding. Keep me conscious. I can...walk you through...more..."

RPG: Murdoch declares that he has the Barber-Surgeon (LIF-BS) gift.

Quinlan just nods. "You walk me through what needs doing and I'll do the best I can." At least blood doesn't make him faint?

Moire moves with deliberation on the deck, balancing her weight precisely before taking another step forward. It doesn't help much with the triage situation, but she does get to kneeling to one side of Murdoch, removing his fine satchel. and working the ties off. The contents spill out beside him, and she rummages through the collection. "Margaret? There is Dilwen reagent here to clot the wounds." She nods to Arthur sagging all over the deck near the rail, then leans over to unstopper a vial and pour the contents over the gurgling gashes across Murdoch's neck. The fast-acting alchemy begins to seal the leaks deep within the wounds. "Lay back and instruct, Lord Beastmaster."

A young man, just about 15 or so runs up the stairs carrying a doctor's bag. He skids to a stop near Maggie, handing his burdon to her, "Doc's takin' care'f Madon, Captian. She'll be up soon's he's seen to, begging your pardon." She takes the bag and releases the boy with a nod, "I'll want a report on Madon, Toff." The boy nods and runs back the way he came. Moving quickly to join the others, she kneels near Mercier and nods to Moire, "Good. Thank you. I hope that there is enough. Quin? The needles and gut in here are sterile but it would be good to get the wounds cleaned quickly. Can you manage?" Though maybe a dousing in sea water is just the thing. Moving with care, she eases Mercier down onto the deck and begins assessing his wounds to see which will need the coagulant and which should be stitched first. Once that is completed, she opens the doctor's bag and takes out a needle already threaded and ready to go.

Murdoch grits his teeth as he tries to attain a more comfortable position. "So Faint. Those creatures were tenacious." So soon out of sealform he speaks in short or simple sentences. "Need more blood. No donor. Jab behind the ear. With blue tipped spine. Is the topsider awake? It will keep him awake." He reaches up but falls short of actually touching the wound-sealer. "Allergic reaction to spines. On purpose. Will keep us awake." He squints at Quinlan. "You look clever. Alright. This will be unpleasant. It will work."

With whatever arcane actions Quinlan has done, its certainly accomplished adding a bit more color to Mercier's cheeks, the blood oozing out of numerous wounds increasing in volume, just a bit. None of them appear, even now, to be a popped blood vessel. The warm, sudden rush of blood to his head, and extremeties is comforting to say the least, and mental faculties briefly smooth out into sharper focus. His hand reaches for his bag again, before producing a familier flask, which he slides across the deck to Maggie, "Strong enough to burn, should be useful, if there's nothing else." He says, though the smear of blood the motion leaves on the deck, in the pool keeps the spy from taking much other action.

Quinlan nods. Warm, pure water to clean wounds. "Can't give you blood, but I do have cookies, which should go well with the life magic, and the sugar rush to keep you awake."

The Queen is settled on the poop deck with her companions, out of the way of the crew while the Wave Dancer sails into Amber's harbour. Mystical transfusion, alchemical sutures, and a bit of barber surgery has both stabilized and set them on the path towards health and strength, so there's no great urgency to check in at the Mandrake facility. Hunkered amongst coils of rope with back against the gunwale, Moire lifts out of a weary doze and studies the others tucked up in their recovery cots.

Quinlan is mostly quietly studying the injured, with the silver-tinted lifesight. Watching what the medicine and the infusion of life magic do. Possibly just to know, possibly to call for help if something seems to be going weird.

Moire leans over to adjust a pillow under someone's head, casually maternal. She looks over and inquires, "Were the.. biscuits.. all devoured, Quinlan?"

Quinlan nods. "It's a normal side effect, as best I can tell. The magic gives the body energy to heal itself, but having the energy to build a house doesn't mean you don't still need materials."

A small, slightly wiry young man with touseled hair done up in a net moves up from below decks. He carries a tray laden down with roast beef sandwiches with grilled onions, mushrooms and cheese. There is a basket of freshly baked bread and a plate of chocolate chip cookies next to a pile of oatmeal raison cookies. Although he does not tip-toe, he moves as quietly as a mouse. The tray is one of those nifty arrangements with legs that can be locked up into a frame to sit on a table, or dropped to turn it into a table in its own right. He smiles a bit shyly at each, but settles on Moire, "Pardon, Captain Merrisol, sir. Begging your pardon, Your Majesty." To cover all bases. "Captain Flame said to bring up food. Hope that this will suffice to begin with anyway?"

Moire listens, only mildly put out by the depletion of cookies. Asking for more cookies would be just as unseemly as the word cookie itself. They are biscuits! "It is unusually sensible, for the arcane," she observes. Turning her regard to Mouse and his surprising fare as he arrives just then, she nods coolly. "It shall do very well, young man."

Quinlan's nose twitches at all the tasty tasty food. But. Convalescents first. So he sits back to let them eat first, watching to be sure this is indeed the right course. The magic's still new, after all.

Mouse half bows to Moiresol, then turns to Quinlan and the wounded warriors. He figits a bit, then darts off to make more cookits. And mabey a few biskies for good measure. And for Quinlan.

As he vanishes, Maggie appears bringing a pitcher of milk and several glasses. She is followed by one of the sailors bringing another pitcher of lemonade. Setting the glasses down on the tray Mouse brought, she takes the pitcher and sends the sailor on his way. "How are they doing?" Her tone is quiet in case some are sleeping. As she asks, her glance flickers over Quinlan and then moves to Moire where it lingers.

Moire hasn't inspected the food closely, and it won't last long between Mercier and Murdoch, given Quinlan's predicted side effect and the naturally robust Selkie appetite. Instead, she looks with greater interest at Maggie, and grips the rail to stand as drinks arrive. "The danger has passed, however with such rapid improvement it is difficult to gauge the state the mystical aid will leave them, once the effects have worn their duration."

Quinlan nods. "Agreed," he says. "They're improving. At the moment, I'm willing to call that a win. The details...well, we'll find them out as they happen."

Maggie nods to both Moire and Quinlan, her initial impulse to offer Moire a hand up stayed by the pitchers in her hands. Her attention shifts only minutely to the injured two. "Well, that is as good as can be expected, then. I asked Mouse to keep the food coming until everyone has had enough." Setting the pitchers down, she glances out to sea, then looks back. "We shall arrive in Amber's harbour within the next hour or so. Shall I send a bird to have someone meet the ship?" That is mostly asked of Quinlan on behalf of the patients.

Quinlan nods, but slowly. "Yeah, I think having an actual fully fledged physician look them over, just to be on the safe side, is probably a good idea. They'll make it that long at least."

Moire steps over in her considering manner while above the waves, to pour out some of the beverages into the provided glasses, liberating one for herself once the patients are furnished as needed. Adventures in drinking from an open cup, coming up here. Oh, but there are probably straws. "We shall leave the decision to those uninjured," she considers first Murdoch, then Mercier, while she samples the lemonade, blinking over the non-alcoholic sweetness of it. "Mister Templeton at least prefers discretion in areas which could affect his business practice."

Privately, to Maggie, the Queen is preoccupied still, though it doesn't look to be a hit of nerves after yet another assault repelled by the brave soul assigned to her personal security. Her own smile remains warm, yet her glance does seem to turn obliquely towards Maggie more when the other woman isn't directly looking.

Maggie nods slowly, glancing to Quinlan first, then the two patients. A smile is offered at last, though she turns to Moire at last. She takes a half step back, one hand lifting in the expectation of a parrot. A richly colored green and crimson bird wings out of a clear blue sky to land on her wrist. The bird side-steps up to Maggie's shoulder as the Amberite turns, "Good points. I will be careful in framing the request for a doctor." Inclining her head, she offers a wan smile to each before turing to seek out parchment and pen.

Privately, to Merrisol, Maggie begins to look curious as she finally notices the glances. She makes a mental note to seek the Queen out soon to see what is going on. Or to give her a chance to talk.