<div class="floatleft">(http://pre00.deviantart.net/c13a/th/pre/i/2014/320/d/0/hazardous_docks_by_haryarti-d86m32q.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><strong>Name:</strong> Finn Búistéir<br/><strong>Position:</strong> <del>Distinguished psychopath.</del> Surgeon<br/><strong>Location:</strong> Infirmary &amp; Surgeon's Quarters<br/><strong>Time &amp; Date</strong>: Day 1 | Evening<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong> Lifa.<br/><strong>Content Warnings:</strong> Language</span><br/><hr/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: georgia;"><br/>Finn had been sedated and in a gentle mental fog all day - which was fine, as she really needed to settle in and prepare anyways. Everyone had a job on the ship, and no one could do their job if they were hurt, pressing quickly towards dead. Rhythmatic waves lapped at the boat, and even through the bustle of it all she found herself able to lock on that sound and let it carry her through her work. It was no shanty, obviously - which Finn wasn't super fond of anyways - but having a weakness to the siren of the sea? Well, that was something she had, just as weak as her draw to the pistol and blade.<br/><br/>Diligently she rearranged supplies, stocking excess surplus far up and away, making sure everything necessary was easy to reach, but not easy to be knocked upon the floor when bad weather rolled in. Surgeon's tools and blades found themselves secured in pouches, tucked along the wall and infirmary workspace in small storage spaces, while much of the fragile items found themselves in crates and boxes, pushed safely below solid surfaces and near the ground - though never on it. Quietly she'd hung up her apron, settled on where to place the alcohol and the rest of her stashed goods, before she finally moved into the absolutely-tiny quarters tucked behind the infirmary. There was some spare storage room, her bed, and a small desk as well as dresser fashioned into the wall, but otherwise it was largely bare - and that was fine. <br/><br/>It would serve its' purpose, and it was leagues better than the more crowded portions of the ship.  She repaired the lantern mount and wiped down the dusty portions of the room. Slowly she stored away her things - her journal, her <em>secret</em> momentos, the clothes she had, and then settled a blade under the spare pillow of her bed. All the while she mused about the crew - this ship - a bunch of strangers, harboring secrets, all while stowing their stashes and goods all over the place like some merry band of thieving magpies unable to trust nearly anyone in proximity. It made her chuckle - and with that, she deemed her work done, though not all of her belongings had yet to find a home, so they remained in her bags.<br/><br/>Pressing open the door to the infirmary proper, Finn moved to one of the trauma tables and settled her ass right on it, fingers coming to undo the binds of her blouse just a touch more, as a lonely drop of sweat retreated down her face. Wasn't much to do about being warm - and really, she'd earned it with all the heavy lifting. It was, in all truth, more than hard for her to handle alone. <br/><br/>Finn though? She always managed. Somehow.<br/><br/>With her mental haze lifting, the moon in the sky, and the lanterns around her gently swaying, it was only natural she heard someone approaching - and so her eyes settled on the doors infront of her, expectant, head canted curiously as she raised a skin of water to her lips and took a sip, legs swinging idly off the edge of the table. It was a habit from childhood, but atleast she'd learned to not kick the surface below her until it splintered. In all honesty, she was a hellion - and was more of one as a child. <em>Oughta drink more water</em>, she mused, the container full of water nearly full from being unused all day. Frail girl or not, being hydrated was important, especially when she intended to drink herself into a stupor within the next few hours. </span>