baldrshand | expiationlogs inbox

A bite wound? From what sort of animal? I can make recommendations, but it would be best if I could take a look at it first to see what you're dealing with.

A razorfin. It's a type of overlarge rodent but with a larger bite force. Do you want a picture then? Or are you requiring an actual examination?

A picture would be good. Make sure it's in color and well-focused. That will help me see if the wound is clean or if it's starting to become infected.

[A picture does appear in the inbox after about fifteen minutes. It's of Silco's bare lower leg with deep half-scabbed punctures from a row of teeth between knee and ankle. It's very bruised, very swollen, and still appeared to be weeping serosanguinous fluid from the deepest of teeth punctures that went almost completely around the limb.]

Diagnosis?

My diagnosis is that I'm about to make a house call. Where are you?

No red line of death. I'm at the Last Drop working. You're not actually going to come take a closer look, are you? It's wholly unnecessary.

[Silco doesn't get an answer right away. Not until Ethlyn walks through the door of the Last Drop, doctor's bag in hand.]

Yes, I am.

How long have you been walking around on that, Mr. Silco?

[Silco was sitting on one of the bar stools, his injured leg slightly elevated it by rested his heel on the next stool foot rest. There was an open book on the bar and he was writing when Ethlyn entered; they were outside of business hours, so he actually turned his head to regard her.

He slowly turned back to his work. His injured leg was back being covered both with a bandage and then his trouser leg.]

Approximately four days. It hasn't been healing as well as I would have liked. You didn't need to rouse yourself to come personally. My inquiry was for healing elements to use.

That's often the case with animal bites, especially when they puncture that deep. They get far more into you than just teeth.

[She approaches the bar, businesslike, and snaps open her bag.]

I'll give you advice on how to care for the injury, but I still need to take a look so I can give you the best information and rebandage it properly. It looked pretty ugly in that picture.

[Not exactly precise medical terminology, but a good enough description.]

Indeed. Their teeth are designed to push as much mouth filth into a wound as possible.

[He was still scribbling neat writing in his book when she approached, though he tracked her progress with just a slight turn of his head. When she dropped her bag on the bar, he made a low displeased noise. Didn't they say a picture said a thousand words? Apparently a thousand wasn't enough.

Slowly, he set his pen down in the spine between the pages.]

I've suffered worse injuries. [Case in point being his mutilated eye.] I've been performing self-bandaging for years. Though, I expect you're going to refuse to leave until I show you in person, correct?

You're very perceptive.

[She starts setting out the things she'll need to treat the bite--gauze, disinfectant, topical anasthetic in case she needs to use the tweezers, etc.]

Don't worry, I'm sure you're very hardy and tolerant to pain and when you're injured you only complain about it ruining your clothes. [She looks up, waiting patiently for him to roll up his trouser leg so she can get to work.] But whatever your sense of pride dictates, mine won't allow me to let you walk around on that until necrosis sets in.

One of my many appealing qualities.

[While he didn't stop work, he was certainly aware of her unpacking her items. His pencil continued to scratch over the page anyway, and he did wonder how much she planned on debriding the area, if at all. No blades.]

Hardly. I put enough padding over it that I would never risk it ruining my clothing. [It was only the initial attack where he had lost a pair of trousers, but since then, he took meticulous care of his clothing.] You're a pushy doctor, but I expect you can't lay hands on me without consent.

[In Zaun, that was never the case. If one was too weak to resist treatment, well, they would be forced to endure.]

And an open bar hardly seems an appropriate place to recommend or perform treatments.

There are a few circumstances in which I'd do it, but they involve your being either unconscious or delirious. A good, set-in infection will cause one or the other sooner or later, so we might as well save time and do it now.

[He's protesting her doing it right at the open bar. Good, that means she can pivot to "do it somewhere else" over "not doing it at all."]

I'm happy to go somewhere more private, and more comfortable for you. Contrary to popular belief, most drinking alcohol isn't suitable for disinfectant purposes.

Neither of which I am currently in the state of. And if I'm to potentially lose the leg, I'd rather simply be taken by infection.

[He finally set his pencil down and closed the book over it, instead picking up his tumbler which had previously been neglected. He drank some of the amber liquid contained within.]

Well, it is a shame that I poured some over the injury after it occurred. It was all I had at the time, but I would also be willing to buy you a drink, doctor. What's your poison, hmm?

All the more reason for me to mend it now. I've seen a few infections in my time. They're no picnic for anyone involved, especially if I have to get the bone saw out.

[She doesn't break eye contact, and she doesn't make a move away.]

I'm afraid I can't drink while I'm on duty. But I'll be happy to accept your offer once I'm finished.

And if you'd provide me with the appropriate medicinal herbs for a poultice, I can certainly take care of this injury myself. Hence why I asked for you by device and not in person, and yet... here you are.

[He actually believed her threat when it came to a bone saw. There were enough unscrupulous doctors in Zaun that would use one for fun, though she did seem to be strictly professional about it. Still, he kept half of his face only after experimental debriding of the wounds.

He also didn't break eye contact, and he also didn't turn further in his seat to make his leg more accessible.]

What is your poison anyway? You seem a wine or ale sort?

Mr. Silco, do you want me to launch into a graphic description of the process of gangrene? I've seen it before. It's painful, and ugly, and in this city where we have disinfectant and antibiotics and targeted anesthetic, there's absolutely no reason for you to risk it.

[She taps her fingers on the counter. "Nobody will want to eat or drink in a place where the bartender's leg is rotting off" is an angle of attack she could take, but maybe she'll try something more direct.]

...I don't know what you went through when you got that scarring on your face. If you had to treat it yourself, or if you had a poor doctor. But I've been treating injuries here for over a year--some of them quite dire. Do you think I would still run the clinic or lead the Arztenritter if I was bad at it?

Just Silco. [He corrected her immediately on his name.] And you needn't regale me with tales of people suffering of complications from injuries. I come from a place where that is commonplace. We learn quickly to treat our own.

[However, he wasn't familiar enough with the flora or fauna of this place to make the same kinds of decisions others might whisper about as healing herbs. For a long time, he had stayed hidden away, the threat of death looming but kept at a distance.

Yet, he turned his head to look sharply at her, the deep scar lines carved into the left side of his face twisting as he snarled.] No, you do not. I have no evidence to point to you being a poor healer; it's why I contacted you in the first place. I wasn't looking for your personal touch on the matter.

[Now he was purposefully nudging at her to see how resolute she was to get her hands on him.]

Excellent, then I don't have to tell you how it looks when your flesh starts to rot on your own living body.

[She doesn't flinch at his glare. She'd been fairly sure that bringing up his facial injury would offend him. Whatever story behind that is sure to be a grim one--somehow she doubts that it was an unfortunate mishap with cooking oil, or anything else in the realm of innocent misfortune.]

Then I have to ask why you're being so stubborn about the matter. You aren't a sixteen-year-old denying treatment because he wants to look tough. And if you've seen a wound fester, and you have a healer right in front of you offering to numb your skin, clean out the punctures, and bandage it with antibiotics, why would you refuse her?

[She can't fathom his obvious mistrust. Whether he's dealt with bad doctors before, or thinks she'll try extorting him for the service, whatever it is she'd like to get it out and dismissed so she can get to work.]

Not at all. I've seen it and experienced it.

[He didn't sound convinced despite the fact that he was better equipped to understand the bite that he had sustained in the first place. Razorfins were from the docks of the sister cities after all. He'd seen a man's leg torn clean off when he was a boy, and he'd been exposed to all the dangers of infected wounds. He was taking care of his as best he could.

He regarded her, setting an elbow on the bar so he could rest his knuckles against his temple. He let her have her say on the matter, though his expression remained seemingly unconvinced.]

Why are you insisting on doing all of this for me in the first place? I didn't ask for this particular treatment plan.

[Silco, why do birds fly, why do bees buzz.

Fine, if he wants to ask a philosophical question, he can get a philosophical answer.]

We don't have much control over our lives here. We're brought here, even from death, to "atone" in the vaguest possible terms. This town has been attacked by monsters, cultists, infection of the mind, and it's even changed under our feet while we sleep, all while it is--apparently--not even a real place at all.

...And as little as some of us are able to cooperate, each other is really all we have here. I don't have control over much. Neither do you. But I can make sure that the bizarre whims of the theatremasters don't leave my neighbors with permanent damage, so that the next time a load of unnatural beasts rampage through the town, they won't be limping away on a crutch because they lost half a leg. Call it idealistic and interfering if you will, but I founded the Arztenritter because I care about people and I want to help. And the fact that I'm still at it after more than a year should tell you how stubborn I am about it.

[Truly, the amount of times Aldrip has tried to kill everyone is way more frustrating than one grumpy man behind a bar.]

[She was an impassioned speaker, and he did believe that she both knew what she was saying and was actually being candid about the content. He made a soft noise in his throat of acknowledging her big wind up, even going so far as to lift his tumbler of whiskey up as mildly mocking toast. He downed the contents.]

If I'm to lose the leg, I'd rather die and start over. [He had his own pride on the matter, but he would not be someone here who had to hobble around. His daughter was on a fool's errand mission to who knew where and and couldn't make him a new leg if it did need amputation.

He pulled his injured leg away from where it was propped up to settle on the floor and then stood from the bar stool. He picked up his book and tucked it under his arm as he limped his first step away from the bar.]

Not here. You can look at it in my office.

[That was as close to telling her that he would accept her treatment without putting up more of a fight about it. Not winning so much as he was amused enough by her insistence that he'd allow it and he wanted her to know he'd just walk on it regardless of the state that it was in.

He did just that, moving around her towards the stairs leading to the second floor. He took them with a crow-hop motion as he took them both to his office. It was private and he wouldn't care to roll up his pant leg in here. There was also a coffee table or his desk for her to set out all of her things.]

Desk or couch, doctor?

[It takes an effort for Ethlyn to not snap "you would not." Does he know what it's like to die? How painful, how terrifying it is to watch your life drain away so fast and so slow... to reach the point where there is nothing you can do, there is no way to fight, utter defeat, utter failure...

For all she knows, he has experienced it, she has to remind herself. He seems the sort who would engage in that kind of dark humor. And even if he is simply being thoughtlessly glib, it's not worth irritating him now that he's finally agreed to be sensible. Instead, she just packs her things back into her doctor's bag and follows him into his office, carefully watching his hopping gait.]

Couch. It will be more comfortable for you. [She's already draping some sterile paper over it so he doesn't have to worry about oozing on his expensive furniture.] I'm going to apply a topical anasthetic and then clean out the wounds in case there's any foreign matter left in there. I'll stitch anything I need to, apply antibiotics and bandages--and if everything looks all right over the next few days, I can mend it up entirely with my staff.

[The reason she didn't just break it out right away--it can be dangerous to seal up a wound when there's such a strong possibility of matter or infection still inside.]

[He could see it written on her face, and he tilted his head slightly as if daring her to contest his claim. He had died twice now, and he had come close more times than he could count. If anything, needling her was perhaps his greatest reward for having to put up with her doting.

He seated himself on the couch, the sterile paper seeming to crinkle under his weight. He leaned down to remove his boot and set it aside and then made a point of rolling up his pantleg to the knee. Bandages were wrapped around his calf, and he lifted his leg so that he could rest his heel on the coffee table.]

There's no need for anesthetic, though perhaps if there is a need for sutures. [He was reaching into his vest and pulled a silver cigar case and his lighter. He slipped a cigar between his lips.] No need. It will heal on its own without... magical interventions.

If you wish. [She's not going to bother to ask why he doesn't want anesthetic, and she's going to charitably guess that he's too unused to magic to be comfortable with having it used on him.] Let me know if you change your mind.

[She could make a remark about how his cigar probably wouldn't stand up to the strain of needing to bite down on the pain, but she doesn't. Now that she's finally won him over, she's not going to spend any more energy on advice or arguing--she's fully in healer mode now. Gloves on, dish under the leg to catch any drips. Gently unwrapping the bandage, she examines the bite marks, cleaning them out gently with saline to wash away any matter or unwanted germs, glancing up frequently to monitor his expression and body language. Then she applies antibiotic ointment to the tooth marks.]

I'm going to stick the deeper punctures shut with these, rather than stitches, in case there's any infection I missed.

[She applies a few adhesive skin closure strips where needed; it'll be easier to get them off if things get into ubi pus, ibi evacua territory.

Once that's done, she puts fresh bandages over the wound.]

There. How does that feel?

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