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Rohar’s injury was not healing as it should.

There had been some—miscommunication—in one of their last exchanges with a more questionable client, which had lead to a brief outbreak of violence. Most avoided much harm. Rohar had been the unlucky one. Still, it hadn’t looked unmanageable to begin with. A few extra days at port, some thorough cleaning and bandaging, and they ought to have been off again. Except that it did not improve.

Whether by the chemicals in the climate, the food, the nature of the injury, improper cleaning, or sheer bad luck, a clean knife wound in his side regressed to infection, and fever.

In retrospect, perhaps he should have considered it before, but being responsible in some fairly large fashion for not only the direction of the ship but the well-beings and even lives of his crewmembers was not among his list of anticipated duties. But it came inherent with the job, and as the situation arose, Ozzrick couldn’t deny his gut. Most of his crew were anxious to leave. They ought to have been out days ago according to their prior schedule and the island made them anxious.

Perhaps the spook was catching.

Regardless, their anxiousness to leave made for rising tension as Rohar’s health failed to improve, which left Ozzrick with the decision—to push out to sea with an ailing man whose health problem could be specifically related to something only an island doctor would be familiar with and risk his recovery if his luck did not improve. Or ignore his remaining crew members’ anxiety, delay the return trip another several days, and seek medical aid here.

It would mean a trip to Pajore, as—after question confirmed what he already anticipated: no local doctor would see to a mainlander—the only doctor he knew who would was a native of the capitol.

But then, it wasn’t as though he really had much choice, after all. He would never have forgiven himself if a man died on his ship when there was more he could have done beforehand to prevent it, and while the risk wasn’t absolute, it wasn’t his life to bet.

Ozzrick didn’t know the status of Pajore’s clinic or how exactly it operated in terms of accepting patients. He had been once, but not long and not for anything serious himself. Under these circumstances it felt prudent to send word ahead, no matter how odd the looks he got on giving its delivery instructions. They ought to arrive in person just after, since, while the trip was not long word by air was quickest and injured cargo did make things slower going.

By the time they arrived, night had fallen on the capital city, and Ozzrick felt some undefinable prickling under his skin as he drew a breath deep, watching the flicker of lantern light from the various Yaelian dwellings as their ride approached the clinic. As it turned out, it probably was fortunate there had been some word given ahead—and that it had apparently arrived after all—because even with it, he met with resistance at the door.

“Look,” Ozzrick grunted at the frazzled front desk clerk, “I am here for the doctor, Tacrith, he should know a man is coming-”

He couldn’t quite make out everything the girl said, but from the sound of it, he suspected Tacrith was at least known for his willingness to pick up obscure—or ‘terrifying’—patients. One would have thought as someone who worked in such a facility, she would have seen a bloody and infected man before, but perhaps her discomfort was more due to the strange, foreign men regardless of any blood or lack thereof.

He sighed.

It did, however, look as though the message was going out, and with any luck, they might make some headway soon. Rohar, who had needed to be carried in by himself and the crewmate he’d brought along for the aid, was currently unconscious, damp with sweat, and feverish, but Ozzrick did hope not critical—yet. The color that had begun to develop around his wound was most concerning.

Why did you not send him back right away?

Attention having moved to Rohar during the wait time, Ozzrick did not notice the approach until the words, and his eyes snapped with surprise to the man at the intensity of it. The doctor had arrived. After his surprise wore off, a peculiar swell of appreciation — and relief — filled his chest, and he breathed out. It was a rare blessing to have anyone on their ‘side’ in this country even enough for basic cooperation. He owed the doctor real gratitude for his outlier open-mindedness—and dedication to his profession, for that matter.

But there would be time for talk later.

“It’s been several days,” Ozzrick explained as they followed in the doctor’s wake. “We were set to leave port some time ago, but Rohar was…” He frowned as he thought back on the scene. “Complications arose in our last transaction with a client, and he sustained a minor injury. I held us at port hoping it would improve over time. Instead his condition has worsened…”

With his crewman’s help, Ozzrick deposited the ailed man on the available workspace in the room Tacrith had for them.

“Aye…” the crewman asked, “you going to need me ‘round more t’night?”

Ozzrick paused, blinking and glancing to him. Would he? Unlikely. Now that they had gotten Rohar here, he could handle the task of explanations to the healer and looking over the process until morning. So, he shook his head. “You’re free to go. Meet me here tomorrow, not later than an hour after dawn…I’ll decide where we’ll go from there based on his condition tonight.”

A nod was all the answer he needed, and as the man made his way out, Oz turned his attention to Tacrith.

“It was a knife wound, not terribly deep, but enough that I was concerned to travel immediately…the way it’s progressed and colored, I was not comfortable taking him across the sea to healers who are not familiar with this land’s disease and infection.”

At the doctor’s exasperated huff, Ozzrick wondered if it was worse than he’d thought. He considered explaining that he had seen knife wounds before, worse than this had been, and he hadn’t thought it would need special attention. But he was no healer, and it wasn’t worth it to distract the man with likely uncritical information.

Instead, his eyes briefly followed the other healer out, silently appreciative again of the other man’s seriousness with the task at hand, before he looked to where he suggested, and moved over to fetch the cloth and liquid as instructed. As he poured enough to dampen it, he looked to Rohar, and then Tacrith, shaking his head while folding the cloth to layer over the man’s forehead.

“I’m not squeamish.” Ozzrick wasn’t old, but the life of a traveling gypsy, while not something he would replace for the world, was not easy either, and he had seen his fair share of sickness, injury, and even death already. None had ever been due to him, however, and it was a peculiar pressure to have in his gut as he studied the man, bringing over a blanket as well to fit beneath his head.

He was Oban, older, but not old—perhaps nearing forty summers.

“I don’t know much of anything about him…” he admitted aloud. “Not where he lived before coming onto the ship or whether he has family…” Granted, he was still reasonably new to captaining his own ship, and thus had yet to have a long established and stable crew. But still he felt as though perhaps he ought to have learned more about the man he had been sharing risk with before anything went wrong.

Ozzrick grunted.

“I don’t know him personally, but…as a crew member under my charge, on my ship, I don’t think anything less would have been appropriate.” When he wakes up… Ozzrick managed a bit of a smile at the optimism. He had known the man’s state wasn’t good, but at least it didn’t seem Tacrith was concerned that he’d arrived too late.

Of course, magic always helped.

Ozzrick looked away a moment after Tacrith announced there was nothing more to do. It made sense, but at the same time left him with a sort of restless void—the feeling that came when there was no where to go, and nothing to be done but wait.

“Thank you…” he said at length, somewhat quieter than his usual tone. “Again. Your willingness to look beyond our border differences is…rare here, and very appreciated. I am sure you are a busy man, and it may not bring you much favor to spend your time tending to foreigners…”

Immune to foreign curses.

Ozzrick found a smile tugging at his lips at the thought despite the seriousness of the circumstances, amused by the picture. Tacrith, the mainlander-whisperer, beacon of repellence from outsider spook cooties. He snorted.

“Even more special of a man than I thought, doctor,” he said. “You never know, perhaps there’s some credence to their suspicions. And it’s only your mystic power of protection granted by the toxic island gods to keep you safe from my…” He wiggled his fingers. “Demonic influence.”

With another glance to his crewman, Ozzrick hesitated. He wasn’t certain he could just stay here, but nor did he have anywhere to go aside from venturing out into the night and attempting to find a wakeful innkeeper.

‘Slow day,’ hm?

“And yet, you’re working late…I’m sure it doesn’t go unnoticed.”

At the offer to allow him to stay, Ozzrick glanced over. That answered one question, at least.

“I would,” he said, “if there’s space…” He wasn’t especially excited at the prospect of searching for or paying for an inn room, when he would already be having to cover the cost of service, but that still begged the question where. “I don’t need a bed, just…something I can sit or lie on ‘til morning without spooking the staff…”

He wondered while it was on his mind how far away the doctor himself lived. It couldn’t be far, if he stayed into the night with any frequency. “If you direct me somewhere to be, I can be out of your hair. I am sure you have people you’re eager to go home to.”

“Mm. Office, if you don’t mind,” Oz found himself saying. It wasn’t that he wanted to avoid the man, but so too would Ozzrick welcome a more private space to rest if he could have it, and while he wasn’t strictly religious, he didn’t necessarily think it was best to bait bad luck by sleeping in rooms where people had no doubt died any more often than he could help it.

He glanced to the man at the admittance of living alone. It wasn’t actually unsurprising, given the man’s private temperament, and perhaps he had been intentionally specific in his assumptions so as to invite an answer in some regard, so it was satisfying to know at least.

“Plenty,” he said. “Thank you. I will be sure to compensate you for the effort in proper coin this time…”