Honestly I don't think Peter has many hobbies, he's got a very boring personal life and he likes it that way lmao. I think he sleeps a bit more then an avatar needs to, and sometimes makes little things out of wood and small crafts like that. It's mostly a lot of wandering his ship / staring out the window at the sea / walking crowded cities unseen. Typical Lonely avatar stuff.

But his guilty pleasure is probably "playing sailor" so to speak, wearing the boatswain's call around his neck when its not being worn by Tadeas Dahl and sometimes a caption's hat.

If you asked he'd happily admit that he doesn't even really know what a caption's supposed to do, but if you want to believe he's competent, well, he's not going to correct you. He likes being occasionally referred to as captain and such.

@solused

Mallory - no, she reminded herself firmly, it was Carpenter now - had been trawling the town for days in search of someone she might lure in, and was just about ready to throw in the towel. Everyone was either traveling in too large a group, making it suspicious for her to approach them and try to get them alone, or clearly uninterested in being approached at all.

If she were to be completely honest with herself, Carpenter might admit that part of her failure was the result of reluctance to succeed. Nana Glass’ sacrifices had always been her least favorite part of the faith, growing up. But she wasn’t a child now, and she had a task to complete. She could only imagine Mason’s disappointment if she returned empty-handed.

The heavy, bitter feeling of failure was just beginning to settle in her stomach when, as if by miracle, her gaze landed on a young man tucked away in the corner of the coffeehouse. Well, thank the Trawlerman. He couldn’t be much older than her, with the look of a tourist about him - probably the kind of backpacker who could easily get lost in these parts, and no one would think twice of it - and, most blessedly, traveling alone. If she didn’t take this shot, she’d never find another as good.

Now resolved, Carpenter slid into a seat across from the man. “Mind if I join you?” She prayed he couldn’t sense her discomfort; Carpenter didn’t particularly enjoy having to approach strangers, and her intentions for him certainly didn’t ease the awkwardness. “I’ve heard great things about their cappuccinos here.”

“I do, actually, but far be it from me to stop you!” Peter smiled brightly over the table, pale eyes awash in something like relief. “I can’t say that I know anything about this place, I’ll have to take your word for it.”

There was something in his voice that suggests that maybe he would prefer to keep on knowing nothing. It’s in the way that he glances at the early morning mist though the window and rolls his ring, a heavy, cloudy white thing engraved with dozens of minuscule prayer marks, back and forth on his finger.

It’s a rich man’s ring, although he was not dressed as a rich man, his coat is travel-worn, lacking adornment save for the dampness left by the aforementioned mist. It’s only half disguise, Peter’s never had a desire to stand out in a crowd, perfecting the layered, plain dress of a sailor. Not, of course, that he ever laid his hands on rope or wheel.

Salesa pulls on gloves and cuts Peter’s shirt around the wound, with a murmured apology and promise to lend him another shirt in return just in case Peter still happened to be lucid enough to notice.  Given the closed eyes, he is willing to bet otherwise.

By no metric is he a doctor, but everyone becomes somewhat of an expert on first aid at sea and he’d been doing this a long time.  He gives the wound a good wash with some saline, picks out what he can of the flesh that’s beyond saving, slathers it all in antibiotic ointment, and properly dresses it.  With a few more gentle apologies, he props Peter up long enough to get him to take something for the pain and fever as well as an antibiotic.

If he’s played his cards right, the syringe should’ve pushed away the Corruption fast enough to make the wound properly manageable.  Hopefully the typical hardiness of an Avatar will kick back in now that some initial treatment’s been done.

Peter doesn’t sleep, nor can the state he slips in to be called unconsciousness, but but he does not wake for several hours, silver mist slipping out from beneath his eyelids, exhaled in small clouds with each breath and swirling in the salted air.. It seems The Lonely takes care of its own, providing the unique unease off which its avatars survive, and bolstering the effect of Selesa’s artifact.

When he does wake, it’s with eyes clear of their previous delirium, and an annoyed, slightly rasping sigh. An attempt to sit up, unfortunately, clears his mind of any notion his rest had left him completely healed. Peter does not swear, as a rule, but the pain rather makes him wish that he did.. He settles for understatement, in its place.