#gaunt chirurgeon

[pupspuppet]

Here’s my first 3 drawings for mermay

[osplague]

I like the little leech man (Gaunt Chirurgeon, new dd2 mini boss)

[bees-draws]

So the newest update, huh?

[taco-with-butter]

[darkestprompts]

the gaunt chirurgeon is a new enemy in dd2. he is immune to all damage over time and can regain both his health and his allies. but the most interesting thing about him is that he can cure our heroes diseases while inflicting abhorrent amount of pain upon them. how would our plague doctor react to such a foe?

Simultaneously disturbed by the inverted mirror and jealous of his power. She would pilfer through his corpse for materials to study later and even try an improvised autopsy if she had the time (they don't, her friends remind her as they drag her away). Everyone else is worried that she'll try some of his painful remedies on them. In her defense, she tries to alter them. The problem is if she doesn't alter them enough before trying them on herself.

[linuxgamenews]

Darkest Dungeon II slips onto the Deck via Proton

Darkest Dungeon II roguelike game update brings Verified Steam Deck and Linux support with Windows PC. Thanks to Red Hook Studios for pushing the boundaries. Available to play on Steam along with Positive reviews. Let's delve into the newest updates to the world of Darkest Dungeon II. Think of this as a guide to help you understand all the new game features without getting too deep into the details. So, first up, there's a thrilling new area called the "Chirurgeon's Table". Here, you'll encounter two brand-new foes. One of them is "The Collector", a returning enemy who's always on the lookout for treasures. The other, "The Gaunt Chirurgeon", is special since it was co-created with a fan named Sam. As you Darkest Dungeon II journey through different terrains, watch out for Champion enemies. These are the elite bosses you sometimes meet in adventures. They're tougher and will keep you on your toes, but defeat them, and you'll earn some unique rewards. Now, the torches you use have an upgrade, making your Darkest Dungeon II journey a bit more challenging. But also more exciting. This revamp is all about giving you more ways to strategize and play smarter.

Darkest Dungeon II - Launch Trailer

Big news for those who prefer using controllers: You can now use them to navigate through the Darkest Dungeon II adventure! Plus, if you've got a Steam Deck, it's fully Verified now. Since it's all about playing the game how you want to. There are other tweaks that have been made. For instance, when in battle, it's clearer now when monsters are going to take extra moves. This will help you strategise better. Plus, some monsters have new skills, and some old ones see changes to keep things fresh. Additionally, Darkest Dungeon II gets some unique items that can be found after defeating particular enemies. For example, there's an "Appalling Apron" and a "Spiked Skullcap" that you'll find only at the Chirurgeon’s Table. On the topic of items, there's a feature called "Infernal Flames". These are special torches that change the rules a bit when you're exploring. It spices up the challenges and keeps you focused. Lastly, some little bugs and errors have fixes, which means a smoother adventure for you on Linux. Darkest Dungeon II has expanded its roguelike horizons with this update. There's more to explore, new challenges, and fresh ways to play. Available to play on Steam Deck and Linux with Windows PC. Priced at $29.99 USD / £25.12 / 29,24€, including the 25% discount on Steam. So dive in and enjoy the enhanced adventure, and always remember, strategy is key.

[amoonglove]

Helping a Friend

[15 Years Ago]

“This is it, dear; your namesake,” Vione said as they approached the bush. She studied a particularly large blossom carefully, tilting it to see the sides of the petals in the soft morning light. “This one will do perfectly, Thea. Now, just like we practiced,” she said to the small girl before backing away from the bush slowly.

Anthea nodded fervently before removing the small shears from the satchel at her waist. She unhooked them and approached the blossom, eyeing it carefully; as if it were a wild beast. She measured the stem of the flower from the base of its petals carefully with her fingers before finding the right length, the distance between her thumb and forefinger and a bit more. Anthea then took the shears and cut diagonally through the stem and the blossom fell gently into her gloved hand. She looked up at Vione with a worried look.

“Ma, doesn’t this mean it’ll die? The flower?” She felt tears well up in her eyes.

Vione chuckled softly, “Having a granddaughter who cries so much means I’ll never have to buy a watering can again. Bring the flower, child. We’re going to see an old friend here in Gridania… and don’t forget to thank the plant you have taken from.”

The girl cupped the blossom gently and bowed low and slow to the sprawling bush. Its leaves shimmered in the breeze, as if waving goodbye. Anthea walked quietly behind her grandmother all the way to the city. 

* * *

“We have only a single blossom, the plant was firm in not sharing too much of its power.” Anthea only heard parts of her grandmother’s conversation with the chirurgeon. “Anthea! Bring the blossom, please.” The girl ran to her grandmother’s side, still cradling the blossom in her hands. She held it up for the chirurgeon to see.

“It’s… beautiful,” the tall Elezen said wide-eyed. “Are you sure it will do the job?” She looked at Vione seriously who simply nodded. “I shall leave you to it then. You may prepare the mixture here,” she said, indicating the small kitchen through the open door by which they stood. “I will be back to take you to see our patient… And Vione… thank you.” The chirurgeon checked her pocket chronometer before rushing down the long hallway swiftly.

“Well, then.” Vione turned to Anthea, “Do you remember my recipe for chamomile tea?” 

Anthea nodded and quickly searched the old cupboards for a kettle to boil water in.

* * *

Anthea, her grandmother, and the chirurgeon walked briskly down the hallway, turning enough corners that the girl knew she wouldn’t be able to find her way back to the kitchens. They stopped at a small wooden door, worn with age, and the chirurgeon knocked twice before opening the door. She then bowed slightly and sped back the way they had come, turning the corner stiffly. Vione waved Anthea through and closed the door behind them.

“Aniene, is that you? Have you heard from my dear Vione?” a raspy wizened voice pierced the dark silence of the room before a gas lantern sputtered to life, illuminating the walls dimly.

“Illy, it is me, darling.” Vione moved forward to embrace the woman and took a seat next to her on the bed. The woman was unbelievably thin and gaunt, her eyes were glassy and yellowed, and her movements were slow and pained.

“Vivi! I am so glad to see you. I had been asking after you for suns now. I’m so glad you could finally make it out here to the Shroud.” The woman coughed, a dry retching, that echoed loudly in the small room.

“Full glad am I to see you, Illy. Had we been in our younger years, I would be quite cross with your not meeting me halfway. But, circumstances have changed things, haven’t they?”

The woman chuckled before heaving another dry, crackling cough. “They have. And I am ready. Have you brought the Moonglove, Vivi?”

Vione shook her head and gave Anthea a stern look, “I haven’t, only my granddaughter, Anthea.”

Anthea looked at her grandmother quizzically, furrowing her brow, “But Ma-”

“Greet Illmanne, Anthea,” she interrupted sharply, “do not be rude to our host.”

Anthea bowed as politely as she could with the cup of tea in her hands. “It is wonderful to meet you Ms. Illmanne.”

“Oh, how precious. Call me Illy, child. And what’s that? Have you brought some tea?”

“Y-yes, miss.” Anthea looked hesitantly at the woman and then at her grandmother.

“Serve it to her gracefully, Thea. She’s lived a long life and deserves your respect.”

“You flatter me,” another round of hacking coughs, “I was but a humble tailor.” Illmanne accepted the cup and struggled to hold it up. Anthea quickly helped the woman to lift the cup to her lips, allowing her to drink slowly.

“That’s enough,” Vione said, her eyes glistening softly in the light of the gas lamp. “Let us get you comfortable, Illy. I suppose it is close to bedtime anyhow.”

“Quite right,” the woman said, shuffling onto her back slowly, grimacing all the while. “Promise you will come and see me again in the morning? Your grandson is lovely.”

Anthea placed the cup and saucer onto the small table beside Illmanne, turning back to her grandmother. Before she could even say a word, Vione put her finger to her lips and began tucking Illmanne’s woolen blanket around her tiny form, careful not to disturb her. 

Anthea watched the blanket rise and fall gently as the woman relaxed. She noticed, however, that with each breath the blanket rose less and less until it stopped rising altogether. She looked at Vione in panic and saw her grandmother’s tears for the very first time. 

Vione gently finished tucking her in before brushing her hair from her face and planting a gentle kiss on her forehead. “We will be together again, Illy.”

Anthea threw her arms around her grandmother and wailed into her cotton dress. 

Vione stroked her granddaughter’s hair gently, kissing the crown of her head. “She had been begging for moons, child. I’m sorry that I wasn’t completely honest with you.” She looked at Illmanne’s still form with longing, tears still streaking down her cheeks.

“But Ma, did she have to die?” Anthea sobbed weakly, “Did she have to die?”

“No, Thea. She wanted to. It may not make sense now, but we have done her a great service tonight.” She paused for a long time. “Come, dry your tears. Our sacred duty is to help people, especially the people we love dearly.”

As the pair quietly left the room, Anthea could swear she heard someone say, “Thank you,” in a voice as clear and light as a summer morning. It was as a whisper but right into her ear. She looked up at her grandmother, “Did you hear that?” she asked quickly.

“Hear what, darling?” Vione grabbed her hand as they walked the long hallway together.

[allycryz]

7. In darkness, light exists. For Nerys, Aymeric and Estinien.

hello time for soft aymeric

aftermath of battle with Nidhogg, T for referenced in-game violence

She expects him there.

Arms folded, long legs stretched before him, chin tucked down against his chest. He jerks to wakefulness as she closes the door. Rising to his feet. His long fingers dart to his sword belt as he focuses his gaze.

Nerys presses a finger to her lips and walks to him. He is tense as a bowstring and no wonder–she doubts he has slept much the past few days. Even with Estinien safe in the bed, recovering, he remains vigilant. 

She has a better view of Estinien’s face. Her vision–honed for caves and underground–separates shadow from flesh and bone. Finds the bags under his eyes, the gaunt cheeks, the fullness of his cracked lips. Nerys doubts Nidhogg starved him–he’d required a fit host to contain his power. But it must have been only enough nutrition to bridge what the dragon’s aether and power could not.

Nerys cannot help it. Her hand slides over the warm cheek, those sunken planes. Aymeric makes a soft noise beside her, an intake of breath that chokes and catches on its way.

And then she finds herself pulling Aymeric into her arms, gripping him with all the strength in her. The bowstring rigidity of him snaps and he sags. This man who has always stood resolute, even after his father sentenced him to pain and imprisonment; even after a knife wound should have kept him abed longer; even after he fired an arrow at the man he clearly loves; he buries his face in her hair and lets go.

He is quiet as she strokes gentle circles into his back, tracing over the soft navy linen of his shirt. When she tightens her grip even more, so does he, like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. Pain just edges the feel of his fingers into her clothes and skin, and then those slacken too. Still he remains, content for her to hold him up.

Even without the armor and with her strength, he is heavy. But there is no sweeter burden she would rather bear.

A soft grunt draws them. Nerys glances and sees Estinien blinking at the dark ceiling. He tries to turn his head and mutters a long, hoarse chain of bitter curses. Coughs.

“Estinien.” Aymeric all but falls upon the bedside, gripping his hand. “Nerys, some water? And I’ll fetch the chirurgeon-”

“No,” the other man grunts. His eyes flash with pain when Aymeric helps him lift his head, then surprise when he sees Nerys holding the cup to his lips. He sips and sips, water trickling down his chin. “No. Let me sleep. No healer.”

“Yes healer.” Aymeric says, blinking fast. Leaning forward to press a soft kiss against Estinien’s forehead. He stills as if just remembering Nerys is there.

“No,” Estinien says, and closes his eyes again. In moments he is back into a doze, breath evening out. Aymeric lets out a ragged, humorless laugh.

“Go tell the healer,” Nerys says. “I’ll watch over him.”

“...Nerys,” Aymeric says. “If I do, the healer will order me to bed.”

“And you won’t listen but I can hope.” She helps him up. Leans to kiss his cheek. “My friend, you have kept vigil all the time. Will you trust me?”

Aymeric touches where her lips pressed, a faint blush just visible to her Duskwight vision blooming upon his cheeks. His lips part, as if it is so wondrous a thing that friends as close as they have become would share such a small gesture.

But Ishgard is strange in many ways–as free in some areas as they are strict in others. She might spend years trying to understand its people. Plans on it, actually.

“I will trust you,” he says. “I have for a long time and I won’t doubt you now.”

“Thank you Aymeric.” She sinks down into the seat he vacated.

“No,” he says. “I should thank you. For...understanding in my moment of weakness, before.”

“There was nothing weak about it.” She wraps a hand around Estinien’s. “You only ever need ask.”

His smile is soft and amazed all at once. He bows to her with every bit of his usual formality, and then he is gone to inform the healers and (hopefully) sleep for a bell or two. Leaving Nerys to watch over someone dear to them both, and wait for the dawn to arrive.

[owlespresso]

Tremble, Duck & Weave

It's a cold night when Aymeric de Borel trims the unnecessary fat from Ishgard's governing body and seizes that power for himself, but the day that brings you into the city is surprisingly warm.

Reader is the Warrior of Light. This is an AU.

The pairings are as follows: Urianger Augurelt/Reader, Aymeric de Borel/Reader, Haurchefant Greystone/Reader, Estinien Wyrmblood/Reader.  Also on my ao3, which can be found HERE.

The archbishop summons him at an unfathomable time of night. The office is dimly lit, the wrinkles of the man’s gaunt face illuminated by a lamp rested in the corner of his room. The door creaks as it gently clicks closed behind him. He looks the same as ever, beard and face much too long, eyes sunken. Aymeric, in the back of his mind, wonders if he too will look this way, when age drains him of his beauty like the dark of night drags the sun below the horizon.

“Aymeric,” Thordan VII smiles and his face shifts grossly with it. He was never meant to smile, Aymeric realizes for the umpteenth time, “Mine apologies for calling for you at this time of night.”

“It is no trouble at all, Father,” he stands spine straight, shoulders squared, expression soft but impassive. How he’s been carefully molded and taught to stand, to look, to be, “I have faith that this matter is of the utmost importance. My sleep can wait.”

“Thank you for your understanding,” Thordan VII replies, as though he doesn’t constantly demand it, “We’ve received news from Coerthas—” he erupts into a string of spluttering coughs that he muffles first into his hand, and then into his sleeves. The bitter cold has never done him any favors. Especially not now, when it’s started settling in his bones and tearing its teeth into his soft, wrinkly hide, “The Warrior of Light is on their way to the city gates.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. A meeting they attended with their cohorts in Ul’dah went awry. From what I understand, a military coup or something of the sort was staged and they were caught in the crossfire, injured near terribly. They are accompanied by an elezen boy named Alphinaud. I believe you’ve met him? Child of Louisoix, member of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn. They are coming to seek succor. They’ve proven to be our shield against the Dravanians, so I am granting them asylum,” that made Aymeric’s eyebrows raise. He had turned in reports on his meetings with the vaunted Warrior and their companion, but never had he expected his father to actually read them.

Never had he expected his father to pay attention to something he had painstakingly tracked and hand crafted.

“I presume you would ask me to give them shelter?” his meetings with you had always been between times of great strife and the subject matter usually revolved around whatever opponents you would be thrown at next. As far as he was concerned, it was a relationship that revolved purely around business.

You were used as one might wield a spear or sword, tossed in the way of whatever monster or god saw fit to threaten Eorzea’s city states. It was a pitiful existence, he believed, to be used so mercilessly by people who couldn’t defend themselves or do anything to assist you.

“Heavens no,” Thordan VII huffs in amusement, “The Fortemps bastard has their full trust and will be taking care of them. I wish for you to keep a careful watch on them. The Scions are renowned for their campaigns against our Ascian allies, and I will not have them get in the way of the plans I have labored over since I took up the honorable position of archbishop.”

“Ah,” Aymeric says, recalling the dozens of meetings where those ominous, robed figures flanked his father on either side, wearing their crimson masks and wry, smug smiles, “Is that truly wise? I’m sure you’re aware of the Ascians… unfortunate track record with the way they treat their allies. The Garlean’s Baelsar is testament to that.”

His voice is smooth and stable. His gaze is steeled as it always is when he steps foot inside here, this office which feels more like a gladiator’s arena than an office. Yet, his stomach tosses and turns because never has he dared to argue with his father. His father, who has towered like a giant over him for his entire life. It’s not something he regrets, not even as silence lapses between them and fills the air.

“Should all go according to plan, no longer will we need to live in fear of them,” Thordan says slowly, exploratively, “All I do is in the name of Ishgard’s liberation, Aymeric. I thought you would have understood that by now.”

“I understand you enough to know that you are… overestimating yourself,” the words claw themselves out of Aymeric’s throat, his mouth, and they feel like sandpaper.

Then Thordan VII’s eyebrows nettle into a scowl at his meager defiance. It makes his blood boil. How long has his father gone unchallenged? How long have his suggestions and commands only been met with a chorus of resounding yeses?

“I’ll not hear that from the pitiful welp I raised, the child who has never stood in my shoes,” his voice raises, face gnarled with offense. His calm, patient veneer finally lapses, exposing the ugly, festering mess that lays underneath his skin. Long has Aymeric waited to agitate him this way, and the satisfaction outweighs the trepidation of breaking free from all he’s ever known.

The floorboards behind Thordan’s desk creak. The aged elezen jolts and whips around, another series of coughs rattling his form as a figure, clad in inky black and deep crimsons steps into the dim light. The newcomer clutches a slender, freshly-sharpened glass. The tangy scent of blood and metal hits the air.

“Bold words for a man within striking distance,” Estinien’s voice rumbles deep and low, armor clanking with each slow, purposeful step.

“What is the meaning of this!?’ Thordan VII grips the arms of his chair as he thrusts himself to his feet, stumbling, hands resting flat against the table’s surface as he whirls around and attempts to scramble to the side. His eyes are wide, the fluster that had dusted his cheeks twisted into something terrified. The visage of a cornered animal.

Aymeric’s eyelids lower as he feels his idee fixe finally culminating. He sees himself, briefly, in lessons on etiquette and literature and all subjects in between. He sees himself knocked to the ground for the umpteenth time as he spars, his father staring down at him from across the courtyard, perched on the marble stairs with nothing in his eyes. He recalls a lifetime of pressure, of watching his father make poor life choices and being told what he should be rather than receiving praise for what he already was.

“You were there for the citizens of Ishgard when they needed you,” he begins and tries to find some words to convey the macabre collage of emotions and experiences, but ultimately fails. His words will never reach Thordan VII, his father, in the way he wants them to, “But now they require someone with a more delicate and refined touch. They need me, father, and you’re standing in the way.”

Thordan VII spits out a bitter laugh that descends into a deep, wailing cough, stumbling over his own ornate robes as Estinien backs him into a corner. Swathes of red and black aether swell around the dragoon’s form, a fantastic phantasmagoria that’s never failed to fascinate Aymeric.

“If you think I’ll just stand idly by and—” Thordan’s beady eyes stare up, his fear betraying him. Estinien smells it and his nostrils flare.

“I know,” Aymeric says and Estinien shoves his lance forward. Simultaneously, as though their minds are perfectly wound together and connected. The metal eats into and slices clean through the flesh. He briefly recalls watching a local butcher dismember a recently-slain boar whilst his father’s servants spoke to a merchant, eyes wide with awe and fascination as living matter was broken down into subsistence.

Blood splatters against the polished wood, fortunately missing the carpet. Aymeric remembers the price of that carpet.

“Beautiful work, Estinien,” he says softly, stepping over to Thordan VII’s body and kneeling. His palm lights with sacred blue energy as he works to seal the incision that the spear had so accurately made, the corpse clean of the evidence.

The archbishop’s eyes are still wide with fear. There is nothing better Aymeric would like than for as many people as possible to know the man had been helpless in his last moments, but it won’t do to have suspicion cast upon them. He does his father a final favor and shuts his eyes for him, just as Estinien sweeps back across the floor, to the window here he had entered. A frosty breeze sweeps into the room as Aymeric bundles Thordan VII’s body in his arms.

“The evening watch should be changing by now. They won’t see you,” he informs his companion helpfully, rewarded with a grunt as the dragoon heaves himself over the sill and jumps into the night sky, leaving not a trace behind him. Fitting. Estinien has never cared for their quibbling little politics. He answers to whoever promises to sate the hunger of his steel, to whoever waters his crops with draconic blood.

When he leaves, he takes his warmth with him. Silence settles over the room. He feels as fragile and trembling as the icicles which cling to the gutters.

He could linger in this space, Aymeric realizes, cling onto the normality that existed a mere half-hour ago. He could pretend Thordan’s responsibilities hadn’t just been hoisted upon his shoulders, allow his status to stand still if only for a precious, few moments.

But Ishgard is outside these gold glazed halls and he won’t keep them waiting for another moment. He nudges the door open with his arm and steps into the corridor, seeking the first chirurgeon he can flag down.

The news of Thordan VII’s death floods the streets mere hours later. Perished due to the sickness that had held him in its clutches for the past sixth months. He fought valiantly against the virus until he could no longer, and left ser Aymeric de Borel, his sole son, as his heir.

The sunlight streams in through the window, the curtains bunched to their sides.

He had slept a mere four hours, barely able to shake off the clinomania in order to clamber out of his bed. Nobles and servants flanked him left and right, the entire city sent into a buzz over the news of his ascension. Only now, when the sun was beginning to touch the city, did he get a moment of peace.

“Milord?” or not. He opened his eyes to look at the timid servant who peered into the room. The meager sunlight caught off her flaxen hair, which was tied into a tight bun. Stray strands dipped down to her forehead, “The Warrior of Light is here, and they are… grievously wounded. Several chirurgeons—”

“Have ser Augurelt attend to them personally,” he ordered, voice gentle yet resolute. She blinked, but nodded quickly and vanished, gently shutting the door behind them with a resounding “yes sir!”

Again, he was left to his silence. He shut his eyes, willing the tension of the night and fear of the upcoming day away for just a moment. Having Ishgard’s head astrologian tend to your wounds would send a message to the citizenry and the nobility who were aware of your presence. You were a valuable resource, an individual worth protecting. He would not see you harmed whilst within the city’s walls.

And anyone who defied that firm, incredible message would have to answer to him.

[whenfrasermetbeauchamp]

I had seen a number of good hospital matrons in my time, and a few of the really excellent ones, who had exalted a job into a vocation. With Mother Hildegarde, the process had been reversed, with impressive results.

Hildegarde de Gascogne was the most suitable person I could imagine to be in charge of a place like L’Hôpital des Anges. Nearly six feet tall, her gaunt, rawboned frame swathed in yards of black wool, she loomed over her nursing sisters like a broomstick scarecrow guarding a field of pumpkins. Porters, patients, sisters, orderlies, novices, visitors, apothecaries, all were swept up by the force of her presence, to be tidied away into neat heaps, wherever Mother Hildegarde might decree.

With that height, plus a face of an ugliness so transcendant as to be grotesquely beautiful, it was obvious why she had embraced a religious life—Christ was the only man from whom she might expect embrace in return.

Her voice was deep and resonant; with its nasal Gascony accent, it bonged through the corridors of the hospital like the echo of the church bells next door…

L’Hôpital des Anges became a refuge for me. The blunt and unsophisticated directness of nuns and patients was a wonderful refreshment from the continual chattering intrigues of the Court ladies and gentlemen. I was also positive that without the relief of allowing my facial muscles to relax into their normal expressions at the Hôpital, my face would quickly have frozen into an expression of permanent simpering vapidity.

Seeing that I appeared to know what I was doing, and required nothing of them beyond a few bandages and linens, the nuns quickly accepted my presence. And after an initial shock at my accent and title, so did the patients. Social prejudice is a strong force, but no match for simple competence when skill is in urgent demand and short supply.

Mother Hildegarde, busy as she was, took somewhat more time to make her own assessment of me. She never spoke to me at first, beyond a simple “Bonjour, Madame,” in passing, but I often felt the weight of those small, shrewd eyes boring into my back as I stooped over the bed of an elderly man with shingles, or smeared aloe ointment on the blisters of a child burned in one of the frequent house fires that beset the poorer quarters of the city.

She never gave the appearance of hurrying, but covered an immense amount of ground during the day, pacing the flat gray stones of the Hôpital wards with a stride that covered a yard at a time, her small white dog Bouton hurrying at her heels to keep up.

A far cry from the fluffy lapdogs so popular with the ladies of the Court, he looked vaguely like a cross between a poodle and a dachshund, with a rough, kinky coat whose fringes fluttered along the edges of a wide belly and stumpy, bowed legs. His feet, splay-toed and black-nailed, clicked frantically over the stones of the floor as he trotted after Mother Hildegarde, pointed muzzle almost touching the sweeping black folds of her habit.

“Is that a dog?” I had asked one of the orderlies in amazement, when I first beheld Bouton, passing through the Hôpital at the heels of his mistress.

He paused in his floor-sweeping to look after the curly, plumed tail, disappearing into the next ward.

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “Mother Hildegarde says he’s a dog. I wouldn’t like to be the one to say he isn’t.”

As I became more friendly with the nuns, orderlies, and visiting physicians of the Hôpital, I heard various other opinions of Bouton, ranging from the tolerant to the superstitious. No one knew quite where Mother Hildegarde had got him, nor why. He had been a member of the Hôpital staff for several years, with a rank—in Mother Hildegarde’s opinion, which was the only one that counted—well above that of the nursing sisters, and equal to that of most of the visiting physicians and apothecaries.

Some of the latter regarded him with suspicious aversion, others with jocular affability. One chirurgeon referred to him routinely—out of Mother’s hearing—as “that revolting rat,” another as “the smelly rabbit,” and one small, tubby truss-maker greeted him quite openly as “Monsieur le Dishcloth.” The nuns considered him something between a mascot and a totem, while the junior priest from the cathedral next door, who had been bitten in the leg when he came to administer the sacraments to the patients, confided to me his own opinion that Bouton was one of the lesser demons, disguised as a dog for his own fell purposes.

In spite of the unflattering tone of the priest’s remarks, I thought that he had perhaps come the closest to the truth. For after several weeks of observing the pair, I had come to the conclusion that Bouton was in fact Mother Hildegarde’s familiar.

She spoke to him often, not in the tone one generally uses for dogs, but as one discussing important matters with an equal. As she paused beside this bed or that, often Bouton would spring onto the mattress, nuzzling and sniffing at the startled patient. He would sit down, often on the patient’s legs, bark once, and glance up inquiringly at Mother, wagging his silky plumed tail as though asking her opinion of his diagnosis—which she always gave.

— Dragonfly In Amber

Photos: Starz, Season Two, Episode Three, April 23, 2016

Book: Dragonfly In Amber, Diana Gabaldon, 1992

Tumblr: September 29, 2018, WhenFraserMetBeauchamp 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿❤️🇬🇧

WFMB’s Tags: #Outlander #Season Two Episode Three #S2E3 #Useful Occupations and Deceptions #Dragonfly In Amber #Chapter Twelve #L’Hôpital des Anges became a refuge for me #her small white dog Bouton hurrying at her heels to keep up #Claire Fraser #Mother Hildegarde de Gascogne #Bouton #86 #092918

[whitelotus-ffxiv]

.rebel girl, part 1

Beautiful. Beautiful and far away and a little bit shattered. 

That’s how Kage described me once. I found myself mulling over those words with a cigarette between my lips as I searched for a light in my jacket pocket, feeling the tension grow in my jaw. Who was he to say that I was shattered? ...Was he right? Agitated, I ripped, rather than pulled, the matchbox from my pocket and lit the end of the cigarette, fixated on the orange glow as I took a long, slow drag and exhaled the smoke to the wind. 

The oyabun -- or, rather, his spies -- were feeding me new information, albeit slowly. They were still planning on going through the attack on the geisha house. I had argued against it, insisted against it. In the short time I spent undercover in Kugane, I had found nothing incriminating against the geiko called Misaki Ito. She was charming, bright, a show stopper that had a look in her eyes that told me she could take over the whole damn world if she wanted to... but she was gentle. She smiled. She laughed with her friends, kept a handsome guard around that she exchanged sweet glances with. Even still... Even still, there was something else in that dark gaze. Something... broken.

Beautiful and far away and a little bit shattered.

“Do you know how much the pilus is paying us to get that bitch out of the okiya?” the oyabun had snapped at me over whiskey and paperwork. “It’s just one girl. Going soft, Xiu? We won’t be killing her.”

“What about the rest of the women in the okiya?” I had asked, knocking the tension out of my voice and watching the papers on his desk. 

“Collateral is collateral. We make it look like an accident. That way the Sekiseigumi won’t poke their noses around too much. A big fire - that ought to do it. Besides, they know about the little dragon bitch that the pilus is aiming for. It could very well have been an accident. She gets scared and runs off...”

“That doesn’t sound like her,” I replied, glancing up at him. “I’ve been watching her. She wouldn’t run. She’d stay with them.” 

“Then we fake her death-- Do I have to hold your hand through this, Xiu? Pull it together. This is your job. I want the throat of the old woman running the place slit by your hand since you seem to be getting a little shaky. Prove to me that you still deserve the life I’ve built for you. How about that? Now take this paperwork, look it over, and do as you’re told.” 

In that moment, I did as I was told, with my teeth gritted tightly behind my lips. I clenched my fist around the parchment I was handed and moved swiftly, silently, back to my chambers, evading the eyes of guards and the loud rooms where other members of the Kinoshita-gumi were partying or planning. Only when I was settled in my own room did I smooth out the paper. 

It was a dossier about a Garlean doctor -- a Primus Medicus named Laelia lux Caelius. The surname was familiar. Her father... yes. Her father had been a high-ranking member of the Garlean military, though I’d never met him. In the top corner of the page, the oyabun had made a note: 

This is the woman that is to be the geiko’s personal physician when she arrives at the Castrum. Look into her and assure that she’s trustworthy, loyal to the Empire. 

Personal physician... She was a chirurgeon. What kind of sick experiments were they planning to do to the geiko? Were they going to cut her open and see if the dragon guts replaced that of a hyur’s? Were they going to torture her? My skin was crawling. I don’t know why -- I don’t know why I was struggling. I was an assassin, highly skilled and highly trained. I had learned to harden my heart, to not give a fuck about whose life I was ruining. It was a hard lesson, but necessary, if I was meant to survive. This time... this time, there were too many innocent people. Girls my age, even younger, who hadn’t done anything to anybody. I wasn’t killing Misaki. I was sentencing her to life as a science experiment and as a toy for a man to keep captive. 

Laelia lux Caelius had an impressive résumé. She’d entered medical school at just sixteen winters old and been at the top of her class, did her residency at Garlean’s most well-known hospital as a trauma and general surgeon. She’d flourished there before making the move to work in the field... here, in Doma, as a combat medic. She wasn’t far. 

I watched her, in the shadows. I watched her closely. Medicus Caelius was just as impressive as her résumé would have you believe. She was efficient, quick on her toes, willing to work all night and the next night to tend to her injured legionaries. Younger looking than anticipated. I knew the dossier said she was only twenty four, but I was expecting a woman that looked at least thirty five or older, considering her profession. And, just as I had found with Misaki, I found that I could not harden my heart to Medicus Caelius either. There was true compassion in her work. One night, I found her sneaking out with another woman to tend to a village that had been razed by the Garleans. She treated every Doman she could there, covered in soot and blood and sweat. 

Beautiful and far away and a little bit shattered.

Here was the most famous geiko in Hingashi and an extremely well respected doctor in Garlemald, about to be pitted against each other. Did Medicus Caelius know what she was getting into when she agreed to work on the strange case of the dragon girl born to Hingashi? I had to think that she didn’t. There was too much kindness in her gaze, in the way she carried herself... and too intelligent to willingly walk into a trap. As for the geiko... They knew what was coming, her and her people. Security was heightened. She was seen less and less of out and about. The yakuza guarding them were quiet and efficient, but they didn’t have the same numbers as us. I pitied them. 

A message had to be delivered to the medicus. I wouldn’t have been able to get one to the geiko, I knew. The journey to Kugane was dangerous and few were willing to make it. A letter would have been intercepted. But the medicus was here, here on the hallowed ground of my people, helping rebels and legionaries of her own nation. I could talk to her, get some sort of message to her. I knew it. 

The question of how lingered in the air as I looked down at her dossier. Strolling into a Garlean military camp was out of the question. I could sneak in, easily, as I had done before-- but she was a cautious creature. A masked woman descending from the rafters with an ominous message would be sure to set off some red flags that could bring unwanted attention. And, with the question of how, came the understand of what I was doing, after twenty years: 

I rebel. With the brothers and sisters of my razed nation, I rebel.

Inhaling sharply, I looked up. My dressing mirror reflected my face back to me; gaunt, tired, angry. Fingernails dug into the dossier until I loosed a scream, ripping it to tiny shreds before pushing it off of the table I sat at. It was like something had come alive in me after being gone for so very long. A fire had been reignited in my chest, one that I feared had been extinguished by the oyabun and every horrible trick he had up his sleeve. 

Flashbacks came as I sweated and panted over the table, the realization of what was happening to me hitting me like a fever, like I’d been running ten miles with no stop or rest in sight. 

Men in wide-eyed fear of me. A slit across the throat. Crimson blood soaking my gloves. A silent exit. The scream of a maid or a spouse as she discovered the corpse during my departure. Cold. Emotionless. Moving so lightly and quickly that I didn’t even leave footprints in the snow; only a droplet of blood from my dagger, marring the peaceful white as I disappeared into the night. 

“A monster,” I mumbled, glancing back up at my reflection. “But the good guys need monsters too, right? To do what they won’t do.”