Atlantic Roleplay Community Boards

[Jacob Amersyng]

---

Walking into the small house behind the frumpy pale woman, the smell of infection reaching his well trained nose, a harsh bitter smell. On a small pallet in the back of the main room, near the hearth lay an weatherworn man, his clothes wrinkled from many nights tossing and sweating with fever. His leg had a filthy rag tied about it near his knee, stained with dried blood and the punky green pus of deep infection. He frowned deeply, moving towards the man, his hand already upon the latch of his satchel.
Kneeling, he speaks, knowing full well the delirious man won't even know he's there.

"Sir...can you hear me? My name's Jacob, I've come to see about your leg..." He speaks softly, the man moaning from some far off plane. He sets down his bag, opening the clasp and pulling out a few bottles. Selecting a thin vial, he pulls the cork. He tilts the man's head back gently, slowly dripping a few ruby droplets onto his tongue.

As the man slips into a drugged slumber, he reaches into the bag, pulling a small pair of scissors and a smooth silver blade. The woman's eyes grow wide at the sight of his tools, and he frowns a little. Deftly, he snips the bandage off, pulling at the scabs that the rough fabric has melded with. Underneath is a gorey sight, rotting flesh and pus surrounding a deep angry red gash, too long gone without proper care. He looks up, his eyes meeting the woman's.

"Best prognosis...he loses flesh due to the debriding. Worst, I cannot get the wound clean enough and he loses the leg."

she gasps, holding her hand to her mouth. "B..b...but, if Harold loses his leg, we will be sunk! How will he work?"

Shrugging, he turns back to his patient. "Afraid I may have no choice...this is very bad. You really should have sent for someone sooner." He gingerly prodded at the wound, releasing a fresh oozing of yellowy pus. He knew what he must do, but this woman hovering wasn't going to make it easy. "I need you to put some water on the fire to boil and bring me a large supply of rags. This won't be pretty, I warn you now, but it must be done. Also...if you have any strong liquor in the house, we will need that as well." He looked at the wound again, adding, "and some tar..."

As she hurried off to fetch his request, he carefully laid out the saw, the hammer and the chisel...
_________________
In service to the body, one performs service to the soul.

[Jacob Amersyng]

---

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he pinced the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The dark of the room didn't take the edge off the emotion. It was like he had been there all over again, back in that small stuff office. He pulled his dream log off the side table and began to write one of what had become an almost nightly entry...all of them seemingly slanted toward those dark years.

Sitting in my chair, I hear the heavy bootfalls enter the hospital. Checking my time peice...4am. Night duty...and someone was actually calling. Getting up, I walk out of the office, and there he is, the big man in the leather jerkin, holding the small boy in his arms, a great bloody gash to his head...yammering about the horses. He's scared and the boy is limp, but alive...barely. I manage to get the boy to the bed, pushing the man out the door, telling him to get his horses before they kick someone else. The blood seeps thickly from the boy's head...a few neat hoofprints surrounded by hemmoraging flesh. I clean...I scrape...I apply the herbs....and then I stop and I wonder...why? The boy would barely have function...I can see the soft grey matter in his head...here and here. I stick my finger in and watch his limbs jerk randomly. A sick smile crosses my face. Yes...this is how it must be. I take the thin handle of my blade and...

He stops, his hand trembling. Why was this happening? Hadn't he paid more than his fine in redemption? Work for all, and ask for next to nothing, perhaps a meal or a warm bed? Shutting the book, he set it down, running a hand through his hair and sighing deeply. Hadn't he paid for his crimes against humanity...or was there still more?

In the dark, he held his head in his hands, waiting for dawn.
_________________
In service to the body, one performs service to the soul.

[Jacob Amersyng]

---

"Yes, that's right, I gave him the bread, and he ate it all."

"You're sure he ate it all?"

"Yessir, he was very hungry."

"Very good, boy. You'll do just fine in this business..."

It echoed in his head as he left the small house, tucking a small loaf of fresh bread into his pack. Idly, he scratched the back of his hand, looking down. He saw blood clinging to the small crevices around his nails. He had washed so meticulously...but always there was the blood. He squatted next to the trough outside and plunged his hands into the icy water. Pulling a rag from his satchel, he scrubbed roughly at his nailbeds. 'Come off, blast you...' He muttered to himself quietly. Soon his hands were bright red...but clean. Always clean...

Standing, he dried his hands on the edge of his doublet and straightened the wrinkles from his sleeves. He strode off down the road, his mind set on his next patient, avoiding the voices on the edges of his mind. He needed something more stable to keep himself occupied and away from the darkness that haunted him and threatened to return and wreak havok on his life again.
_________________
In service to the body, one performs service to the soul.

[Jacob Amersyng]

---

It was always so cold now, like nothing he'd ever known. Even his gloves and traveling cloak didn't provide any warmth. And everything was so bright. Any more he had to pull the brim of his hat far over his eyes to keep from squinting. And then there was his mouth, it was always so dry. He had come down with something, that was for sure...and he wasn't ever going to shake it, he felt absolutely positive about it.

The last patient had been difficult...another birth. There was always so much blood...and mess. He could not wash well enough to get the stains off, and he had only held the child this time. All those people, he felt sure they saw right through him, saw his thoughts inscribed on his face, in his every action. Surely they knew...

He sat at the table, the basin of hot water steaming as he plunged his hands yet again...but still...it was always so cold...
_________________
In service to the body, one performs service to the soul.