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(( 30 Firstfall - Denerim Docks, Mid-Afternoon - Kiran Xuresh ))
Dristan hadn’t expected to stay in Denerim for more than a few days. To be frank, he hadn’t expected to end up stranded in the midst of a snowstorm with a woman who absolutely detested him, either, but that was the turn his luck had taken of late.
In many ways, he was still recovering from that encounter. It had turned him about, knocked him far from his center and left him unsure of how to proceed. For days afterward he felt like he was eighteen again, faced with an impossible choice that he’d made in a panic, believing he was doing the right thing for everyone.
No, that wasn’t exactly true. He couldn’t lie to himself about that little detail any longer. Seeing Andi again had brought everything to the surface, and it was impossible for him to retreat into meaningless comforts.
He’d made that decision because he was ashamed of his father’s actions and his family in general. Over the years he’d tried so hard to be better than the life he was born into. Thestian’s place in the world, the respect he’d earned had always felt so unattainable. And Dristan supposed it truly was now.
Funny, he’d thought himself content just two weeks ago. As content as he was ever going to be. There was plenty of work in Amaranthine, with a diverse range of cases to treat and elixirs to sell. He felt like he’d made a difference in the city.
Now…
Now he was on his way to the docks after staying in Denerim for a week longer than planned thus far. The vendor he’d made an arrangement with had their supply damaged by the recent hard freeze, and while there was more coming on a ship from Antiva, that would take another few days to arrive.
The average person might have counted the extra time as a blessing and taken a small vacation. Dristan did not. Instead, he sought out work where he could, making home visits for those who required them.
His current visit was to a small and rather cramped home near the docks. He’d taken a break in a tavern earlier to record some notes about the spread of a rather aggressive flu in the impoverished areas of Denerim when a man had come in absolutely frantic.
He’d explained--after several gasping breaths and restarts--that his youngest had taken ill. That she was delirious with fever, couldn’t keep anything down--even water--and looked as though she already had one foot in the grave. The man’s wife had evidently also gone in search of help, but Dristan followed the husband and stepped through a house that likely should have been condemned years ago.
Younger children were being wrangled by the eldest, and he felt a pang of not exactly pleasant remembrance of his own childhood. No doubt both parents had to work to make ends even begin to meet. Or perhaps these children’s father was an irresponsible fool, as well.
“Where is the child?” he asked, tamping down those thoughts. The father had sought help. That was likely more than his own would have done.
“We put her in our room so we could keep an eye on her.” The end of his sentence was cut into by an exhausted plea, “Bryce, Maker’s sake, just give us five minutes of peace.”
The mentioned child--perhaps no older than seven--had immediately swarmed his father when he entered. A girl in her early teens pulled the boy away, giving her father an apologetic look.
Dristan focused on the task at hand, following the man into a small bedroom that was riddled with the stale scent of sickness. A small girl--perhaps four or five years old--was practically buried in thick, woolen blankets, her blonde hair matted to her forehead by sweat, her skin ashen, lips chapped and crusted over. Even from this distance, he could hear a whistling, wheezing sound whenever she breathed in--the sound of wet lungs, no doubt.
“Eloise,” the father called gently, barely getting a response, “I’ve brought the healer. He’s going to help you feel better.”
Already he guessed the child was stricken with pneumonia, but he approached the bed, set his bag down, and began the examination just the same. He didn’t have the proper tools on hand to drain her lungs, and so he found himself hoping for some other symptom to present itself.
Dristan hadn’t expected to stay in Denerim for more than a few days. To be frank, he hadn’t expected to end up stranded in the midst of a snowstorm with a woman who absolutely detested him, either, but that was the turn his luck had taken of late.
In many ways, he was still recovering from that encounter. It had turned him about, knocked him far from his center and left him unsure of how to proceed. For days afterward he felt like he was eighteen again, faced with an impossible choice that he’d made in a panic, believing he was doing the right thing for everyone.
No, that wasn’t exactly true. He couldn’t lie to himself about that little detail any longer. Seeing Andi again had brought everything to the surface, and it was impossible for him to retreat into meaningless comforts.
He’d made that decision because he was ashamed of his father’s actions and his family in general. Over the years he’d tried so hard to be better than the life he was born into. Thestian’s place in the world, the respect he’d earned had always felt so unattainable. And Dristan supposed it truly was now.
Funny, he’d thought himself content just two weeks ago. As content as he was ever going to be. There was plenty of work in Amaranthine, with a diverse range of cases to treat and elixirs to sell. He felt like he’d made a difference in the city.
Now…
Now he was on his way to the docks after staying in Denerim for a week longer than planned thus far. The vendor he’d made an arrangement with had their supply damaged by the recent hard freeze, and while there was more coming on a ship from Antiva, that would take another few days to arrive.
The average person might have counted the extra time as a blessing and taken a small vacation. Dristan did not. Instead, he sought out work where he could, making home visits for those who required them.
His current visit was to a small and rather cramped home near the docks. He’d taken a break in a tavern earlier to record some notes about the spread of a rather aggressive flu in the impoverished areas of Denerim when a man had come in absolutely frantic.
He’d explained--after several gasping breaths and restarts--that his youngest had taken ill. That she was delirious with fever, couldn’t keep anything down--even water--and looked as though she already had one foot in the grave. The man’s wife had evidently also gone in search of help, but Dristan followed the husband and stepped through a house that likely should have been condemned years ago.
Younger children were being wrangled by the eldest, and he felt a pang of not exactly pleasant remembrance of his own childhood. No doubt both parents had to work to make ends even begin to meet. Or perhaps these children’s father was an irresponsible fool, as well.
“Where is the child?” he asked, tamping down those thoughts. The father had sought help. That was likely more than his own would have done.
“We put her in our room so we could keep an eye on her.” The end of his sentence was cut into by an exhausted plea, “Bryce, Maker’s sake, just give us five minutes of peace.”
The mentioned child--perhaps no older than seven--had immediately swarmed his father when he entered. A girl in her early teens pulled the boy away, giving her father an apologetic look.
Dristan focused on the task at hand, following the man into a small bedroom that was riddled with the stale scent of sickness. A small girl--perhaps four or five years old--was practically buried in thick, woolen blankets, her blonde hair matted to her forehead by sweat, her skin ashen, lips chapped and crusted over. Even from this distance, he could hear a whistling, wheezing sound whenever she breathed in--the sound of wet lungs, no doubt.
“Eloise,” the father called gently, barely getting a response, “I’ve brought the healer. He’s going to help you feel better.”
Already he guessed the child was stricken with pneumonia, but he approached the bed, set his bag down, and began the examination just the same. He didn’t have the proper tools on hand to drain her lungs, and so he found himself hoping for some other symptom to present itself.