Muddy Thesis, Clean Scalpel

[OCaisin 27]

 

 

 

 

‘By pure accident I came across a man today in the most curious of places. The cathedral-He was suffering from a grievous set of scars, no thanks to a water demon and unskilled hands.

 

I was taken aback by the work that had not been done, I have witnessed many of frightful sights in my line of work to be truly bothered by the vision-I was more so undone by the lack of care taken to heal him. My loose tongue lead me to question how he came to be inflicted-wretched river beasts. But the woman who patched him up ought to be hanged and quartered for the mess she left on him, let alone on a noble’s face. She preserved the work the monster rather than undoing it. I ought to suffer the same punishment if I am to be true, I had let my manners slip and became rather offensive in my questions. I was far too fascinated by my newest theory but he took my verbal assault and prying with grace. He claimed we were equals by faith in God’s house, mayhaps I am just lucky that he was so forgiving.

 

Now though, there was a question that came to me. It was in the moment I looked upon him, what can we healers of do for men suffering such great disfigurement? The wound had clearly not closed properly as it healed, he referenced the woman's stitching in this matter. Of course that would be the leading issue, though there are many complications in the matter. The laceration is a deep thing and covers a great deal of his left face. As for his right side I am unsure how to treat it, I would have to examine his wounds again to find a solution for it. The skin had been plucked right from his cheek but it had already healed, though it appeared to regrow in..’

 

“Miss are you well-”

 

“Yes!” Prissila spoke harshly before she even looked up, her hands clenching at the interruption of her writing, “Quite so, be gone with you.”

 

Ceasing her writing, Prissila offered the stranger approaching her a dark look, she was always true to her nature the house of the Lord but to be disturbed as she wrote. Well reality bled into her and she shooed the man away most rudely, she had no time for nonsense. Most days she could offer a smile and kindly word-a false politeness. In the middle of her work she’d be hard pressed to be courteous. The man she had sent scurrying, cursed her under his breath-though the words she rather not ponder.  Huffing at the reaction, Prissila decided it was time to set away her journal and charcoal. A basket lay unfilled above her head on the edge of the mound of dirt.

 

Her original task to collect  a golden flower was left undone. Flouncing stalks of agrimony swayed around Prissila in the damp ditch she occupied. Her legs propped up on the sloping hill across her, boots and stained stockings in broad daylight-the scandal. A muddy woman sitting in a trench was a peculiar sight of course, she should of expected some good man to inquire after her.

 

Though thinking of the people around Felsen to be anything near good was contradictory, the thought was rather rude of her but that did not occupy her mind at present. She recalled the noble going as far to use ‘unwashed’ to describe the residents of the capitol. The memory of the noble making such a comment drew a sharp bark of laughter from her. The conversation between the him and herself had been candid in nature-perhaps that was why he was so forgiving for they were both equally honest. Prissila found it to be the most reasonable of answers to that mystery.  

 

Slapping her journal shut on notes and drawing, work had to be done. She would return to her musing after. Agrimony was a herb she did not need of often.The plant was fickle about when it would flower, so it would be simply the wisest choice now to collect what she could. Though she would have to take care not to decimate the herb population. Remembering the fact that most people saw it weed, and went as far as to rip it out. Sadly not many knew of the wonders it did for the liver or that it could help cure bad blood like she did. Tossing her book behind her, it thumped on the grass above-it and the others were falling apart with her constant abuse. She really ought to treat the books a bit kinder.

 

 

None the less Prissila sat forward, kneeling in the muck at the bottom of the ditch. Her white apron turning vile in the mire as her hands fished under the bush of green leaves. All in a search for the base of the plant. Prissila did not hesitate, taking a deep breath, preparing herself as she sunk her hands into the muck surrounding the stalk of the plan; digging it out. It was a sensation that made her skin crawl. The mud was easily shoveled aside but at the cost of coating her hands in the sludge. Prissila would be scraping dirt from beneath her nails for weeks and scrubbing twice as long to rid herself of the smell-ah wait she would always be doing that. She only allowed herself a moment to grumble, it would make the work of digging the whole plant out even more grueling. Prissila wanted the majority of the plant in tact, from root to flower; it would all be used.

 

Feeling the tangle of roots and worms, she repressed the urge to gag. She would only have the patience to collect one or two more after this. Deciding three plants would suffice. Prissila planned to set the majority of it out to dry, some would be turned to tincture to be stored, and a bit for an oil would do. As she continued to shovel the dirt aside and keep herself from heaving, the plant began to tilt. There was a sudden buzzing by her ear causing her jump mid task.

 

Waving her hand madly by her ear to shoo away the offensive bug, flecks of sludge found it’s way from her hand to face. Lovely-the sudden thought of bees reminded her of her need of their goods. There had to be a keeper in the fiefdom, she needed to make balms and honey to sweeten stubborn men’s medicine. Making sure the offensive bug was gone before she continued, Prissila chanted the words under her breath to not forget about the wax. Lifting the plant from the ground carefully as she did.

 

Scrambling up the side of the ditch, her boot threatened to give on the dirt. Stretching her arm she slipped the flopping plant into the basket with a little effort. A sigh escaping her as her shoulders sagged after the exertion, the sun was overhead. Beating down on her, she had not spent long in the light but already she began to sweat. Wiping her forehead on her sleeve, Prissila set to finishing the rest of the excavation of the plants; swiftly.  The rancid smell would only grow in the heating sun and she would have to bathe in roses to rid herself of the stench. Willing herself to not think long on it, instead letting her mind drift to the rest of the noble’s case she began out loud.

 

“...Examine the longest cut again, the skin will stretch, perhaps if scraped and pruned the wound could be resealed.”

 

Prissila had to cut into wounds to scrape rot and to drain them, why could she not do the same with a scar? It was a taint of it’s own in this very case. But she would have to entirely tear his face open again and sew it shut properly to make it work. That could be a rather difficult thing to get someone to agree to, well she was a professional-why would they not trust her?

 

“Mullien and a mix to prevent an infection. Yarrow most definitely and Slippery Elm perhaps? Chamomile or White Pine-Blissfoil is far too temperamental.”

 

Prissila would need more herbs for a surgery but what, and there was the matter of time needed to collect them all. She would make a list or risk becoming too scattered and leading to nothing getting done. The entire idea had been from the corner of her mind that harbored insanity, but perhaps it could work. But first she had to find the noble again, she did not even know his bloody name; a mistake on her part. A grin formed on Prissila’s lips at the challenge and she pushed her soiled sleeves up, ascending from the mud with a stalk of agrimony in either hand. The last thing on her mind was that she probably appeared a bit mad; muddy, disheveled, and beaming like a fool on the road side as she confidently muttered, “let the hunt begin.”

 

[Elad™ 560]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.