((OOC: Hope you don't mind if I play some minor part in this. Like coolcoyote, I don't mind too much if my character gets killed off.))
A good ship's surgeon keeps patients calm and reassured. This stops them from potentially hurting themselves and others.
"Pour sand on the floor, get me three bottles of rum, and a spoon!"
Zelamir Rudo was not a good ship's surgeon. It was just past four bells, and the one-eyed weasel was already slipping on the bloodstained deck of the infirmary. This was turning out to be a dreadful morning; he hadn't even had his tea yet, and already he had at least three serious arrow wounds to deal with. To make matters worse, there was blood getting onto Zelamir's apron, which he wore over his white shirt. He had rolled up his sleeves, but his left cuff was now stained red, as he'd slipped and accidentally stuck his elbow into the bucket of amputated limbs. Thankfully not all was lost; his cheerful sunshine-yellow britches were still clean.
The infirmary was a dimly lit, morbid little room hidden away in the lower bow section of the ship. The few wounded corsairs that had made it down there were groaning in pain, and gazing nervously at the surgeon's collection of hacksaws, hammers, knives and axes that were strewn over the tables and shelves. A pot of water was being boiled over a small wood-fired stove. There was a small door that led to the stairs up into the ships' upper decks, and another door on the far side of the room that led to the surgeon's quarters.
Zelamir's assistant, a bright young rat called Giton, hurriedly picked up a bag of sand from the corner and sprinkled it liberally over the bloodstains. Now the deck wouldn't be so slippery, and Zelamir could concentrate on his next patient. The weasel squinted with his one eye at the pine marten's shoulder, struggling to see by the flickering candlelight. He took off his monocle for a moment, and wiped the lens on his remaining clean shirt cuff. Zelamir didn't have an eyepatch over his blind eye; the milky, sightless pupil was there for all to see. He had needed glasses before, but thanks to an unfortunate incident with a sea otter and a fishing knife, now he only needed a monocle.
Giton scurried to the shelf, brought back a bottle of rum and gave it to Zelamir. The weasel grasped it in both bloody paws and yanked the cork off with a loud pop. He leant over the pine marten and grinned, showing his gold teeth.
"The arrow's pierced his pectoralis minor and subscapularis muscles." The weasel flipped open a large book on the table, which was full of drawings of muscles and bones. He peered at a drawing of shoulder muscles for a moment, then gently coaxed the marten's muzzle open with his paw. "Open wide, young Liam, this'll numb the pain!"
The ship swayed as Zelamir forced Liam to chug down the rum, causing it to spill and drip down from the marten's muzzle and mingle with the blood on the table. Giton brought forth the spoon as the weasel had requested, as well as a clean napkin. Zelamir took the spoon, and mopped his sweaty, grimy brow with the napkin. This was the delicate part of the operation, made all the more difficult by the ship's constant motion. Zelamir sniffed at the near-empty bottle of rum, shrugged, and finished off the rest of the drink himself with a loud belch. Just a little rum would calm his nerves and steady his aim, the surgeon reasoned.
Zelamir took a deep breath, and pulled out the arrow shaft. The arrowhead had been attached to the shaft with wax, and now the arrow had hit the marten, the barbed iron head had detached and buried itself deep in the marten's shoulder. Zelamir tossed the arrow shaft aside; it arced through the air and plonked neatly into the pot of hot water. Liam moaned, and convulsed in pain.
"Giton! Hold him down!" Zelamir barked. The little rat lad held the bigger marten down on the table. Liam had to weigh twice what Giton did, but the surgeon's assistant had a surprising amount of strength for his diminutive figure. The weasel surgeon bent over the wound with his spoon, and grimaced. This would be so much easier if he had two eyes. Zelamir wiggled the spoon into the wound, pressing down harder as Liam squirmed under him and howled for his mother. The weasel could feel the spoon brushing up against the hard metal of the arrowhead. It took a few more painful seconds of jinking and wiggling and scooping to get it safely into the spoon, but at last Zelamir pulled it out without the barbs tearing up any more of the marten's flesh.
"There, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" Zelamir beamed at the distraught Liam. He dabbed the tears of pain from the unfortunate patient's cheeks with his napkin, and with Giton's help, half-lifted and half-dragged the heavy pine marten off the table and to one of the recovery hammocks. "Now, I must insist on a fortnight's resting of that arm. No heavy lifting, climbing, or maiming anybeast with your bare paws. Plenty of food and rest!"
"You think he needs more food, master?" Giton scratched his head, eyeing the marten's round belly. The crew of the Midnight Fury were hardly ever lacking for plentiful provisions, which only proved that they were successful and dangerous corsairs.
Zelamir folded his arms and pouted at the rat. "Giton, you still have much to learn. Enough questions from you, and bring the next patient to the table!"