"I doubt it," Xiomara says, dropping her arms and chest against the railing to stick her face into the wind. Her hands—now dangling over the waves—contain a tin. They twist it most of the way open, but not all of the way, because the contents might blow away if she does.

It isn't always obvious that she's an elf, at first glance, but the wind pushes enough of her hair aside for an ear to show through. The sideways look she gives him is wary enough to also make it clear she knows he's a Vint, from gossip if nothing else.

Wary and faintly nauseated. She's not feeling too great herself. Better than he is, though, thanks to—

"Elfroot," she says, and holds the not-quite-open tin toward him in one hand, in case he'd like to take it and open it the rest of the way, "and peppermint. They taste like shit together, but it's better than bile."