A twitching, head-sized sailcloth bag, embroidered EASTERLY.
"Let me out, you rat -------! I'll blow your ears to Timbuktu!"
The sailor shook her bag violently, and the twitching stilled a bit as she yelled, "----hole, ye'll get out when I say and not a moment before! AND ye'll stay quiet lest I tie yer wings t' yer legs and make ye hobble like a goat!"
She followed this up with such a stream of profanity that I dare not even attempt to write it here, lest my quill catch fire. My lady-in-waiting attempted to have words with her for the sake of my delicate health, but in truth is was invigorating to see her speak so as to nearly ignite the air with vitriol, a balm against the freezing northerly winds.
I dispatched my maid to other tasks lest she catch the ire of the sailor, and braved her wrath somewhat to ask her about her business. Evidently, she is the ship's sorceress, a common job on these barbaric waters, casting magic without any of the strict controls we have in the Empire. How awful, to be required to cast without proper safety protocols! She was even wearing trousers! Between you and me, my diary, I don't believe she was even wearing a corset! How scandalous.
I shall have to see her again to-morrow!