The maid had tried to comfort her, but what comfort was there in her leaving, to be with a brutish man anyways? A friend she was not, Rose mused to herself. The shock of being all alone in this hadn't quite hit her, so she kept up her silent vigil, waiting any moment for someone, most likely the captain, to return. As if summoned by the thought he strode through the door, his little speech barely registering in her mind.

What could she possibly say to that? His promise meant nothing to her, if he didn't want to be tangled in this then he should have never boarded her ship! She wanted to say so, but she wouldn't give in. If an hour of silence already had him talking to her in a more calm manner, than perhaps the rest of the evening in silence might do wonders for his brutish attitude. It would also be a good time for her to collect her thoughts and calm herself down. It took near all of her energy just to control the trembles, the sobs. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to her in her young life, it was terrifying and she didn't know how to handle it.

Unable to look at him she looked at her hands folded in her lap, the angry bruise a reminder of why she shouldn't trust any of them. Chestnut ringlets fell in her face but she didn't move to brush them away. What did it matter? She was sure she looked a fright, she could feel that her hair had come loose from many of it's pins, her dress was wrinkled and she was pretty sure there was blood along the hem. It wasn't only on the outside things were so wrong. How could people like the captain and his crew exist in the world? How had she gone eighteen years without hearing a single word of the evil that lurked in the ocean, the ocean she had been so excited to sea, to sail across. Why hadn't her father warned her?

===

Gerard grunted and dropped down onto his cot, sitting back against the wall, is boots thumping on the wooden planks. His cabin wasn't large by any means, but it was better than what the other men slept in, hammocks and cots crowded together. He had room for a cot, a chest lashed to the wall, a few built in compartments, mostly empty as he had few possessions of his own. The linens on the cot were stained, but mostly clean, the pillow a bit lumpy, but who was he to complain?

When was the last time he had felt so out of sorts? He drank often, that was for sure, but he was a man who could hold his drink. It must be the blood loss clouding his mind, making him stumble about like a fool. Still, who could complain when he had a pretty woman to tend to him, rather than the grisly cook who would probably carve him up and make it far worse.

He pointed towards a door built into the woodwork, the third from the right and just above the floor. "Ale. It is a tad watery, but it'll do." He grumbled, knowing they probably should clean the wound once more, and he wouldn't miss the chance for a drink. Already the effects of the ale earlier seemed to wear off, taken away by the pain in his chest, which had only gotten worse since he stopped eating. Perhaps because he was no longer distracted. He struggled to lean over and pull of the leather boots he worse, the strain on his chest making him wince with each movement.