Isabela, at this point in her life, had gained the supernatural ability to outdrink everyone on her ship and only receive the smallest twinge of a hangover in the morning. There was a lot of sport to be had in waking up the entire crew at the crack of dawn, all moaning and groaning as they practically fall off of their respective mattresses onto the creaking floor. That time hadn’t come this morning, however, as the Admiral sat on the ledge of the quarterdeck, legs dangling over the edge with a bottle of partially full rum on the deck. Sometimes, when the mornings were a little more rough than usual, a little hair of the dog helped dull the senses.
All those years ago in Kirkwall Isabela would’ve bet (or hoped) her weight in sovereigns that Anders disgusting blight-vomiting would be the last time she’d ever see something like that. Sure, she’d seen a lot of fucked up things, but something about seeing that black sludge was just creepy. Perhaps, in the beginning, Isabela didn’t chalk up the reaction her crew did at Eden’s nightmares because she had her nice, comfy, separated captain’s cabin. She’d wag her finger at the complainers and tell them to shut the hell up because Isabela really didn’t care. Maybe she didn’t make such a big deal out of it because she had the vague concept of what Anders was running away from this entire time and didn’t blame Eden for making the same decision. After all, weren’t they all running from something?
The peaceful morning of the waves lapping at the shore and quiet, still-drunk fisherman was broken up by a familiar scenario: an elven women throwing up unnatural black sludge overboard.
At least it wasn’t on the deck.“Rough night?”
Isabela joked, leaning down (and maybe nearly toppling over) to reach for the bottle on the ground. She raised it in a faux cheer, saying, “Late ones will do that to ya.”
Well, she never had a rough night like theirs. Anders never went into the details; most complaining about how they made him get rid of his cat. Isabela would never ask the details from Eden, either, or even address the situation at all. None of her business, really, as long as it didn't complicate things - and it never did. Everything else paled to that one time an Antivan Crow came to kill one of the crew. Nasty ordeal.