The tools of her trade lay spread out across the hearth, illuminated by the dull orange glow of a dying fire. Three bone handled scalpels, bartered from a cheap Ul'dhan trader, two sets of forceps, showing hints of rust on the handles, and a pair of fine nosed tweezers formed the first row. Below them rested rolls of gauze, linen dressings, woolen bandages, and rolls of marmot gut in a sad state of frayed disorganization. On the far left rested needle nosed scissors and a wickedly sharp bone saw, which had long since grown tarnished. Opposing them was a bottle of antiseptic spirits, now half empty, along with several assorted jars.
Klynzahr was a sawbones in the most literal sense of the word, trained to handle the more gruesome tasks required of a seafaring arcanist. While her teacher oversaw the more learned chores of physicking patients and calculating wind velocity, she had provided a pair of willing hands to set bones, remove embedded objects and keep a firm eye on ale-addled crewmates when they staggered back aboard after a night in Limsa's taverns. It had been said that she grasped the trade with remarkable speed, outstripping her predecessor after less than two years of tutelage. Considering the other boy's experience, she had not been expected to serve half as well. He had been selected, like most of the arcanist's preferred assistants, because he had served his apprentice years with a well reputed butcher of livestock. Klynzahr lacked even this advantage.
If the equipment spread out before her smacked of neglect and disuse, it was little compared to how unprepared she was herself. Five years ashore had dulled her skills and left the once nimble hands rough and clumsy. In the orange firelight a list had been growing, written with a stub of pencil on half a parchment sheet. Various potions, supplies and replacement tools were noted, each set down next to an estimated value in gil. It had been the work of three bells to find the measure of her odd collection and outline it's transformation into a proper field medic's kit. Making a proper field medic out of a rusty sawbones, would be another matter entirely.
"Wait fer yer shoulder ter heal." She had insisted earlier that evening, while Eva outlined her plans in the deep recesses of the Forgotten Knight.
The lie had slipped easily from Klynzahr's tongue, covered by her genuine concern for Evangeline's safety. However it was plain to the stubborn Roegadyn that her friend was already well recovered. The initial fever had burned itself out over the first night and the wound was discharging clear. Evangeline had bounced back from the infection with her typical exuberance, shaking off the weariness in a matter of days. The hearty elezen could have safely embarked for the Dusk Vigil that night.
It was Klynzahr herself who need more time.
Scowling she lifted an old jar of ointment from the hearth. Gummed shut, with the label worn completely off, it took several moments for her to wrench the lid open. It was burn salve, long since gone rancid. Wrinkling her nose, Klynzahr replaced the lid and added a note to her list of supplies.
" 'Vangeline" She mumbled to the dying fire "I donna think ye realize what ye be askin' o'me."
Placing her cheek against the wall, the Roegadyn finally set her notes aside. The tools of her gristly trade stared accusingly up at her, bathed in blood red light. From the recesses of her bag a long disused grimoir peeked out furtively. Closing her eyes against the daunting sight, Klynzahr resolved to hide the evidence of her clumsy preparations before Evangeline wandered in, but sleep claimed the Reogadyn first.
Klynzahr was a sawbones in the most literal sense of the word, trained to handle the more gruesome tasks required of a seafaring arcanist. While her teacher oversaw the more learned chores of physicking patients and calculating wind velocity, she had provided a pair of willing hands to set bones, remove embedded objects and keep a firm eye on ale-addled crewmates when they staggered back aboard after a night in Limsa's taverns. It had been said that she grasped the trade with remarkable speed, outstripping her predecessor after less than two years of tutelage. Considering the other boy's experience, she had not been expected to serve half as well. He had been selected, like most of the arcanist's preferred assistants, because he had served his apprentice years with a well reputed butcher of livestock. Klynzahr lacked even this advantage.
If the equipment spread out before her smacked of neglect and disuse, it was little compared to how unprepared she was herself. Five years ashore had dulled her skills and left the once nimble hands rough and clumsy. In the orange firelight a list had been growing, written with a stub of pencil on half a parchment sheet. Various potions, supplies and replacement tools were noted, each set down next to an estimated value in gil. It had been the work of three bells to find the measure of her odd collection and outline it's transformation into a proper field medic's kit. Making a proper field medic out of a rusty sawbones, would be another matter entirely.
"Wait fer yer shoulder ter heal." She had insisted earlier that evening, while Eva outlined her plans in the deep recesses of the Forgotten Knight.
The lie had slipped easily from Klynzahr's tongue, covered by her genuine concern for Evangeline's safety. However it was plain to the stubborn Roegadyn that her friend was already well recovered. The initial fever had burned itself out over the first night and the wound was discharging clear. Evangeline had bounced back from the infection with her typical exuberance, shaking off the weariness in a matter of days. The hearty elezen could have safely embarked for the Dusk Vigil that night.
It was Klynzahr herself who need more time.
Scowling she lifted an old jar of ointment from the hearth. Gummed shut, with the label worn completely off, it took several moments for her to wrench the lid open. It was burn salve, long since gone rancid. Wrinkling her nose, Klynzahr replaced the lid and added a note to her list of supplies.
" 'Vangeline" She mumbled to the dying fire "I donna think ye realize what ye be askin' o'me."
Placing her cheek against the wall, the Roegadyn finally set her notes aside. The tools of her gristly trade stared accusingly up at her, bathed in blood red light. From the recesses of her bag a long disused grimoir peeked out furtively. Closing her eyes against the daunting sight, Klynzahr resolved to hide the evidence of her clumsy preparations before Evangeline wandered in, but sleep claimed the Reogadyn first.
