A Sore Thumb

A Sore Thumb

Postby Serrus » Sun Aug 10, 2014 1:03 am

There were a number of difficult propositions the man had been considering of late, decisions he'd made that part of him thought weren't the smartest. He'd only worked with others when a job or circumstances had called for it, and generally disliked having a partner since this always meant splitting the profits.

Recently, the sellsword had begrudgingly decided to allow another to follow along in his work, even though this partner required no share of the profits and offered to assist in matters he knew nothing about, namely the magics. He'd agreed for her to tag along, but there were strings attached. The first being that he could decide she wasn't suitable and ask her to leave at any time, and that she wasn't to interfere with his dealings and negotiations when it came to what sort of work he was to undertake nor what methods he used to complete his task. His final condition was that she was not to any of her 'mind melding or whispering' unless it meant life or death not to do so, something he was grateful for -- he had enough noise in his head from listening to his own thoughts, let alone someone else's.

He didn't know how well she'd taken to the idea of the ring, though, since it was symbolic of the very prison she'd been freed from in the first place. He'd insisted it was more a place that she could stay, a home, if you will, and that she could come and go as she pleased. He'd suggested this simply because the very nature of what she was meant she'd probably cause dislike, and worse, fear, in the men he often worked for -- simple men with simple ideals, who distrusted the magics and non-human creatures as much as he did, and hence he requested that the girl (if she could be called a girl) would stay mostly incognito during these times. Even though he may have disliked magic, protection from other magics was the primary reason he'd decided to let her tag along in the first place.

All of this, however, didn't take away from the fact that his new partner in question had a tendency to become teary on occasion and break into emotional bouts of reflection -- the sort of thing he disliked the most seeing people do in his line of work. This was the main doubt he had as to her steadfastness, whether she would hold her own in the face of death or break like those not used to the fight often did.

I give a her a week. Month, at most. Aye, then she'll quit.

It was then he wondered if the girl could actually read his thoughts -- a question he hadn't asked her during their ad-hoc job interview at the Broken Dagger. Read his thoughts -- what a horrible invasion of privacy. He'd have to set boundaries on those matters, too. But no voice was forthcoming, no bright flash of blue light or hissing argument in his ear, so he supposed he was safe from such intrusions for the moment... or at least he hoped.

He leant against one of the posts of the Broken Dagger's stables. Dusk was settling on another day, a day in which he should have left already, but had stayed for some reason -- there was still the matter of him and his new partner to complete, creases to be ironed out on their new... arrangement. That and this new note he'd received from a woman he knew nothing of. Services were required at a healer's den. What, they needed help with a scalpel? It seemed an odd place for a man of his expertise to be needed.

The crumpled note from Mercy was folded in one hand, goatskin of watered-down wine in the other, from which he drank regularly. On his left, the grey roan peered out through the window towards him, ears swivelling. The rouncey had been cooped up for almost a day now, eager for a long ride after being fattened as per Serrus' request to stableboys the day before. He had originally planned to travel to Heath, though he wasn't in a great hurry to get there, hence his delay. The horse gave an impatient nicker, stamping a hoof. Serrus glanced the animal's way, tossing the goatskin aside.

"Later, ya grumpy shite. First we'll see what all this healer bollocks is all about, eh?"

The walk from the stables to the Rememdium was only slightly longer than the walk to the Broken Dagger itself. Crickets chirped their song as the night began to settle, light of the in infamous inn shining across the inn's lawn in warm amber hues. As per usual, the man was dressed for business, in his leather brigadine - a jack of plates interwoven inside a thick fabric, underneath which sat his hauberk of chainmail over thick padded cotton, the coif lumped loosely behind his neck. He'd done away with wearing his sword's scabbard after all the nonsense going on in the town since his arrival, and steel from the hand-and-a-half sabre glinted orange in the torchlight of the Rememdium as he drew closer, the sword hanging loosely from the belt, his dirk sheathed on the other side. For outer clothing he wore the usual fingerless gloves, thick leggings and boots. It was much the same attire that he wore everyday, since men of his profession rarely went about their business not being actually dressed for business.

He came up the stairs to the entrance, stepping inside. He'd always hated apothecaries, physician houses and healing dens. The smell, pungent and thick, the screams, wails and moans of the sick and maimed, and the stains of blood in the woodwork that never ever washed out, no matter how many times the scullery maid would scour them top to bottom. He rounded an entryway to a door where the familiar moans could be heard. Some poor sap of a farmer had a nail or fence peg wedged inside his ankle, and was laid on a table while some healers attempted to remove the item, others holding the man down, though he made little struggle, only shouted and pounded his fist at the ebbs and flows of pain that came in each passing moment. Serrus watched the scene for a few more moments before moving on.

He supposed there weren't too many people in this town with a soft name like Mercy hanging about. He came to a large hallway, an area he supposed was the administrative area -- though it was hard to tell since it smelled just as bad as the other areas and there were scrapes and scuffs along the floor where folks had probably at one stage or another been dragged, hauled, or carried away, along with all the other unpleasantries he could only imagine happened in this place. He looked to the door, finding no name or markings, but it was obviously an office since it was closed and didn't have the same sense as trauma about it as in the other rooms. A hand reached up and rapped heavily on the door -- perhaps heavier than required -- whereupon Serrus Belcaw stepped back to lean against the opposite wall with his arms folded, hoping someone would provide some straight answers. Namely why of all things a man paid to kill or injure others was required in a place where all inside strove to do the exact opposite.
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby girl » Sun Aug 10, 2014 3:26 am

Save for the one noisy patient that the Remedium had taken in earlier on in the day, the entire building was operating under a sort of lull. In point of fact, the past week had seen only a handful of unfortunates requiring emergent (read: noisy) medical care.

As such, the staff had been redistributed to spread their attentions to the wards, to focus on those requiring extended care. Unfortunately, with attendant attentions attributed elsewhere, Serrus' entrance had gone unnoticed. With further misfortune, the door that Serrus had knocked on was not Jule's office door, but rather the entrance to the stockroom. The knock had obviously startled whomever was in the office, and with a small and nonplussed measure of panic, a feminine voice calls out from within, "Yes?"

Sleepy sounds of rustling are issued, and half a minute later the door is pulled open just far enough for a pale sliver of face to show through. Signs of stolen sleep are still readily apparent upon the assistant's face, her cheek lined with an impression from whatever she'd been resting her head on. The woman's gaze is heavy and drowsy, her words slightly slurred as she speaks, but it is with politeness that she addresses the sellsword she spies through the crack, "Can I help you, Ser?" The door opens more, just far enough to admit one of the woman's slender arms, which extends in gesticulation back down the hallway and to the other side, to the nondescript room with seating for those needing care, and she speaks once more, politely, "The waiting room is that way."
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby Serrus » Mon Aug 11, 2014 12:40 am

He was a man who looked close to being middle aged, far from some young and cocky sword-swinging upstart, appearing just shy or past his forties. A weathered and battered man too, with long trails of dark hair that rested upon neck and shoulders, with thick facial hair in the shape of a short beard, the sort that looked like weeds a farmer often tried to beat back only to have them return twice as strong the following season.

A scar ran from his nose to the right cheekbone, something a healer could easily tell was many years old, hardened and calloused. Eyes were dark too, a brown that was close to being black. They seemed to smile, enhancing the wry smile upon his face that made the man appear nonplussed about even the most dire of circumstances.

He replied in the overtones of your typical Granger, a rural accent that sounded warm and always amused, so much so that one might think the man a miller or drover were it not for the menacing steel he carried and the armour upon his person.

"Frankly, think if I stand around waitin' for somethin' t' 'appen in this town any longer than I 'ave been, I'll become as addled as that simpleton boy of Wynsee's." His arms remained folded as he leaned back further against the wall. "Some lady by t'name of Mercy said I's needed down 'ere for summat. I'm as buggered as a Derry whore t'know what for, but 'ere I am, so.... you her? Or do I 'ave t'go knockin' 'bout on doors till I find 'er?"
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby girl » Mon Aug 11, 2014 5:54 am

Now that she was more awake, the attendant was getting a good handle on the situation. Idly, she considers getting a good handle on the fit gentleman who was speaking to her. She opens the door wider, enough to permit at least her smocked torso (which she's been told by all the boys is very handsome). Serrus makes a joke, and she laughs warmly, attempting to engage his attention more fully. However, when Mercy's name is mentioned, the woman's expression shifts from inviting to scowling. Oh, aye, all this attention the little twit is getting--an I been here for, what, three years? Not a single glance. She sneers a little, but speaks without wasting a beat.

"She's in the waiting room, most like. Made herself a little office in the corner, she has. 'S down the hall there, off to your right. Look for the books, she's certain to be inside," she pauses, and leans out the door, licking the center of her lips just a little as she goes, and shooting Serrus her best bedroom eyes. "Unless I could interest you in something in here..." her words trail off and lips bow into what she hopes is a smoldering little smile.

Mercy was not a part of the medical ministrations Serrus could hear unfolding in the bowels of the Remedium, nor was she the sleepy figure who'd made a nest of the clean linens and was currently attempting to soil it with him. The young physician is in the waiting room, head bowed over a book settled on her knees, while scrawling furiously in another that is balanced on the spread of her thighs. She is enacting her studies in the corner of the room as prescribed by the attendant, surrounded by a range of studious mountains, their shapes formed by books in various states of open and closed. There is order to the messiness that surrounds her; the piles are artfully arranged and are comprised of similar subject nature. The physician herself is seems protected and contented, surrounded as she is by that curving cordillera of knowledge.

There's a single lantern flickering behind her, illuminating her text and work. Precious little in the way of the physician's physicality can be seen, owing mostly to the cant of her head and the hunched position she's taken in her thought. Thick, glossy, unbound curls spill in dark ropes over the pristine white of her smock, their darkness marred only by the fingers of her left hand, which is propping up her head, poking skyward like a crown of pale horns.
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby Serrus » Mon Aug 11, 2014 11:03 pm

He remained mostly unmoving during her explanations, maintaining an unfazed expression as she directed him to where he'd find the one who'd sent him the note. He did eye the girls smock, though whether it was an appraisal, a leer or simple scrutiny might have been hard to judge, the man was unreadable most of the time, being unabashed about everything he did on a daily basis. He did glance towards the room at her rather obvious invitation, and though his stance remained the same, his wry smile began to show teeth as his eyes narrowed a little.

"Somethin' in there? What, y'mean shelf stackin', as like? Aye, I could do me some shelf stackin', come t'think of it. Be 'ard work, though. We'd 'ave t'work up all them rows. Even them 'igh ones." He glanced back in the direction she had pointed, feigning a bored sigh. "Still. Business before pleasure, as they say." He pushed of the wall and turned down the hallway. "B'careful of them pantries in there, luv," he warned facetiously in farewell, waggling fingers in a quick wave. "We wouldn't want that nice waist o'yours gettin' all fat."

Though some might consider Serrus tall at six feet, he was hardly a brute, being far more wiry of muscle and light of foot. Nimble, he liked to think. As such, he didn't walk particularly loudly down the hallway. He wasn't a silent thief skulking about the shadows, though he was hardly the heavy-armoured knight clanking about in full plate, either. So he made very little noise to signify an approach when he found Mercy seated in the waiting room, deeply entrenched within her books.

Stopping shy of the entryway, he leaned against the archway, eyeing the healer with all her materials. The girl was seemingly off in some reading trance, he figured. Regardless of whether she noticed him standing there or not, he screwed up the small note she'd delivered to him, took a lazy aim, and then tossed it toward her centre cranium.

"That's a bloody lot of books y'got there," he commented offhandedly, arms folded in much the same way they'd been earlier. "Mercy, right? Y'sent fer me." He glanced down to wherever the scrunched up note had landed, nodding once. "So... 'ere I am, flesh 'n bone. Per'aps y'could be so kind t'tell me what t'bloody hell this is all about?"
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby girl » Tue Aug 12, 2014 1:09 am

Rebuffed, the attendant flushes. She'd thought briefly of calling after the man, but her healthy ego prevented groveling (at least in this occasion). The inner monologue regarding her dislike of a certain young and dark-haired physician is amplified, but that running loop of hate doesn't stop her from watching Serrus walk down the hall, trying to catch a glimpse of his rear end. A sigh, two parts dreamy and one part frustrated, resounds from that crack in the door, and then she closes it.

Mercy is completely oblivious in her world of frank medical accounting and outdated but possibly-still-relevant textbooks. Though she'd registered some approaching sound, it didn't come from the direction in which new patients generally were shunted, and so it didn't warrant real exploration. Instead, she kept carefully recounting the shards of relevant information she'd gleaned from the latest dusty tome, scrawling text across the blank-paged book in her lap.

That ball of paper hits its mark, striking her precisely in the center part of the top of her head. She jerks out of her thoughts, notebook sliding off of her lap and clattering onto the floor in her surprise. That previously passive but intent expression that had lined the girl's countenance is replaced by a scowl of epic proportions. "HEY," she begins, her low voice keyed up an octave in annoyance. Said annoyance melts away when she realizes that this was the man whose blade she was keen on hiring.

There's no primping here, no self conscious checks to make sure she's arranged correctly, just a grin and a very dainty and careful self-extrication from the towers of learning she'd arranged around herself. She picks her way around the books, skirts held up in balled fists to prevent any incidental damage from coming to her papery creations. She composes her voice, calming herself with a single steeling breath, and addresses the man, "Ser Belcaw--it's a pleasure to finally meet you." She speaks as she approaches him, looking much less like a blob of skirts and hair when she's standing. She is of informidable height and generally unimpressive stature, possessed of dark hair and even darker eyes, but a smile that is charming in its own innocent way.

"I apologize for the vagueness of the note. I felt it improper to discuss the...delicate details of my situation via text," she pauses, hands moving to clasp together before her, palm pressed to the side of her other wrist, fingers wrapping thereupon. "I have been tasked with a patient who has been deemed a danger to this establishment. I am to make official visits to the patient at her home, in the wood, a ways away from Myrken." She looks down, now, her previously unabashed gaze suddenly waxing coy and focusing on his knees, lashes lowered.

When the girl speaks again, it is with a voice that sounds wholly contrite, softer than before, "As such, I have been advised that treatment should not be performed unaccompanied; I am to have a measure of damage control, should things prove to get out of hand."
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby Serrus » Tue Aug 12, 2014 2:15 am

"An escort?" the sellsword replies to her first comment, shrugging nonchalantly as he leans back into the archway. "Aye, done plenty o'those, like. Mostly caravan work. Few times I worked out them dark places other folk don't like vistin', but monsters ain't my line o'work, most o' t'time."

Monsters were dangerous beasts, unpredictable and deadly. Men he could at least understand to some point. If someone paid him well enough, he'd stick his sword into anything, but with most of the sort of men he'd usually be paid to sort out, there was little fear in finding them surrounded in an aura of fear, or magic, or any of the unexpected abilities often attributed to such terrible creatures found in the forests.

If she needed an escort, that would be straightforward enough. He'd heard Myrken was a dangerous place, a understatement if there ever was one. During his occasional sleepless night or two, he could still smell the stench that came from the Silver Lake, along the voices and monsters that followed. His dreams brought him there, alone in the sludge, horseless and cold. Dead cold...

He realizes she is speaking again, so he listens, noting the lower tones of her voice. There's a pause as the man leans to the side. "What sort o'damage control? I ain't no healer's 'prentice, luv. Y'might be better off askin' help from your men-healers 'oldin' some bloke down if they started causin' some ruckus."

He does however note the caution taken with her words and in her mannerisms, and his voice takes caution of it's own.

"Who's this patient, then?"
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby girl » Tue Aug 12, 2014 4:01 pm

Serrus mentions men-healers and the notion brings about a two-step reaction. First she grins a little, but then she scoffs, just a tiny tch of disdain for the statement, before she's moving on. That voice, already pitched lowly to begin with, grows a little quieter (not that there's company to hear their discussion, mind), "Her name is Whelp. And your presence is not necessitated for holding her down. You are required for the protection of myself and potentially another healer."

She licks her lips then, gaze cutting away to the side, physical hallmarks of her current discomfort. The hands that are folded in front of her are wrung precisely once before she realizes what she's doing and stops, looking back up to him. "I've never had to hire protection before. So," she pauses for a breath or two, gaze scanning back up to the sellsword's face in uncertainty before she begins speaking again. "What's the going rate for a man of your caliber?"

It dawns upon the naive physician that what she said might be construed, especially to outside ears, as less than wholesome. A blush colors her cheeks, sweeping from side to side and across the bridge of her pert nose. She looks down again, and lifts a balled fist to her mouth, coughing nervously into it. After a few moments of collection, all she manages to utter is a very small "Sorry."
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby Serrus » Wed Aug 13, 2014 1:22 am

Whelp. The name means little to him, except that it was a name often applied to annoying little upstarts and gutter rats with an attitude maladjustment. But as a name, it doesn't mean much, because he's never heard of it. It's now confirmed again that the patient is a he rather than a she, and this puts him slightly ill at ease. An escort through forest to a remote location made perfect sense, especially in a place like Myrken, and an escort to a place full of dangerous people, even more so. Though as to why he'd be to be present during the workings of a physician or healer sounds completely off kilter, even his line of work, especially for a female patient.

"Y'got nowt t'be sorry for, luv. You ain't done far wrong yet." He hasn't moved much from his position, arms still folded, leaning against the archway and still looking her way with careful scrutiny. "My goin' rate depends on what the job calls for. If you were jus' after an escort through them forests? Fine. Five bob a day durin' work, three crowns up front as retainer." He cocks his head to the side. "Though I'd say them forests ain't t'only thing you're worried 'bout, eh? Y'say you want me 'round when you're dealin' with this 'Whelp' girl, right? Well then, that I need t'know more 'bout, for starters." He offers a wry shrug, his expression calm.

"So... this 'Whelp'. She touched? Got a few nails loose in that head of hers? Or's it summat else... summat else y'should probably tell me?"
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby girl » Thu Aug 14, 2014 12:12 am

Serrus is far too astute--she was hoping to secure his promise of assistance without having to delve too deeply into details. She makes a start to begin wringing her hands again, and then stops dead, instead reaching up to push a lock of hair away from her face. A professional, waxy calm washes over her expression, and when she begins speaking it is once more in that hushed tone, though this time the hush speaks much less of impropriety than a desire to keep these words out of the public knowledge.

"I have not yet had the chance to examine the patient, as I have not yet been able to acquire an escort. However, I can with certainty tell you that she has been barred from this establishment on the grounds that her presence was deemed dangerous for both patient and healer alike," Mercy pauses here, as if gathering her thoughts, gaze flicking to a position just to the left of Serrus' face for a breath or two before that low and modulated tone rings out once more.

"There has been some talk about a certain duality to her nature, and it has been speculated that her true affliction is caused by the inhabitance of two separate entities within the one, single body." The matter-of-fact recounting stops here, and Mercy looks up with those curious and dark eyes, gauging whether or not she's lost the man she was seeking to employ. "I cannot tell you how much of a danger the girl is, nor the extent of the damage either side of her nature could present. What I can say is that you appear," she reaches a hand out in lazy gesture from shoulder to hip, "to be able to handle whatever trouble a girl of her ilk could throw your way."
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby Serrus » Thu Aug 14, 2014 1:06 am

Her warden may have thought Serrus a man to take any work without question if the pay was sufficient, and that was true -- to some degree. Most men with a trade knew exactly what they had to do and when they had to do it. For mercenary work, be it a freelancer, a sellsword, or a hedge knight, although the skills required were the same, how they were required in each job was the clincher. Just like an artist commissioned for a brush, a stonemason for a sculpture, he liked to think that a mercenary needed to know what, when and how they were needed, and each was just as important as the other before taking on a job first hand.

The man inclines his head to the side, holding his lazy stoop while he leans, a posture he kept reguarly when his blood wasn't up.

"Y'wanna know why most them sellswords, rouges an' ner'do'wells y'see 'bout all the places are all so young? All ' a bunch of bloody upstarts with wicks bigger than their brains, all cock and no thrust? It's cause they're stupid, an' most take jobs they can't 'andle, so they all end up fuckin' dead and bein' burned in places just like this one." He raised a hand to knock on the archway. "'If I jus' took every job offered t'me, happy as y'please sir, yes ma'am, no ma'am, right away ma'am? I'd 've jus' died like the rest of 'em, an' you an' I wouldn't be 'avin' this conversation."

"If I seem pryin' and nosy, well, it's 'cause I like t'be pryin' an' nosy, 'cause I need t'know if a job's gonna be worth my time an' if it's somethin' I can handle. All's good an' well y'say, you're a smart man, you can 'andle yourself. Sure, I can' andle m'self. I can fence good as any man-at-arms. Better, most likely. I could carve through 'alf o'them fuckwit soldiers camped outside this town easy as a butcher chops up 'is pork. But this is Myrken, luv. There are things out there in them forests, things that you won't find in any o'them books or any'o'them writin's you like to read so much. An all the fencin' in the fuckin' world don't mean shite against a powerful mage who can jus' kill yer so as as whisper a word."

All of this was said with the same casual, friendly overtones, much like he was talking about the weather down south. He breaths a lazy sigh, leaning back against the archway.

"So then.. forgive me if I'm stickin' me nose in your business, but that's how I work, an' that's how I've managed t'keep meself alive all these years, an' not end up in with folks like you threadin' needles in me all t'time. An' yes."

A beat.

"I'll take t'job. I'll need three crowns as retainer, up front. After that, five bob a day for each time we go out there, paid up front on the day we go. I'll need t'know a day in advance when you plan t'go out there. Feller by t'name of Kreisan takes mail and messages at t'Castle in them Hollows. It's a big-arsed building, used t'be an old manse, now it's a shithole. If you ain't comfortable walkin' in them hollows, well, plenty of messenger boys'll deliver it for a threepence or a half shillin', dependin' on the weather and their mood."

So no more questions from the sellsword, then. Either he's retained enough information he deemed necessary, or he's was finding this affair tedious and decided to take the job anyway. He isn't even sure at this juncture.
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Re: A Sore Thumb

Postby girl » Fri Aug 15, 2014 5:09 am

It's not that she doesn't understand his position, it's that they're in the same position. She opens her mouth to interject, but thinks better of sticking her foot further into it, and presses those lips back together. Serrus regales her on some of the broader points of staying alive while earning cash via your sword, and her gaze turns back down to her hands. Admonishment, even with such a fine and friendly delivery, is recognized when it is handed to her.

When he accepts the job she perks a little, surprise coloring her expression in the lift of brows, the spreading of lashes, the slight drop of her bottom lip (before she recognizes she's partially agape). She drops a hand to her side and pats around for the leather purse with her budget in it. That hand fishes only for a few moments before purchase is made on that soft leather satchel. She pulls it up, and empties the contents into the palm of her hand. Fifteen silvers are counted out meticulously, stowed between the fingers and palm of that counting hand, and she offers the money to him without pretense.

After he claims the money, the young physician speaks again, "I would like to state that I was not purposefully trying to mislead you. I have only speculation and the accounts of others to go off of. So, at this moment, you and I are in the same boat. Heading into the unknown." She tries to put a positive spin onto that last sentence, voice quirking up unnaturally, the timbre shifting upwards into a range far more appropriate for her gender and age. "I will send word when everything is all shored up." A pause, and she smiles again at Serrus. "Thank you for your time, Ser Belcaw. I..."

It is at this point that the attendant from before comes quite briskly from the direction of one of the wards, feet clacking with purpose on the floorboards. "Mercy, Mercy. Your patient is awake, an' angry. I'll not have any more food whipped at me, this day. Yer up."

Mercy rather quickly stashes the paltry remainders of her purse back inside, and hides it within the folds of her skirt. She looks up to Serrus, apologies written on her mouth. "If you'll excuse me, then?" She doesn't wait for an answer--with a swish of skirts the physician moves at a good clip from the waiting room, the sounds of her footfalls rapidly disappearing down the hall.
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