Stavanger Bay There's talk goin round this town, keep it down now

rosalyn had asked a question of her — erzulie mused over what it had been as she approached the first mate, cheek swelled with the stickiness of chewed comfrey. settling near to the other woman, along the wounded side, erzulie leant forward to apply the poultice in ragged lines to the tooth-rippings. the harlot worked until each laceration had been smeared with comfrey; her lips pressed now against the rows of masticated pulp, pressing it gently into the wounds.
from this distance, erzulie beheld each detail of rosalyn's face; the proud jawline, the gaze that challenged. "yes. it was was my choice, and those who knew betta den me taught me how to be quick about my trades." erzulie smiled, drawing back somewhat, unfurling herself to pad into the corner of the den. returning on the odd-hop gait of three legs, one forepaw swathed in what cobwebs the spider had woven today, her mint-glow gaze preened with interest toward rosalyn. "and what did you pick for youself?" erzulie murmured, once more using her lips to line the comfrey with spider-silk.
if she lingered, it was both deliberate and brief.