Written By Wrakjon
Jan. 15, 2020, 1:01 p.m.(7/25/1012 AR)
Somewhere in the upper boroughs: The drugs wear off after leading me astray, out of the comfortable gutter and into social elevation. A truly miserable state of affairs that runs contrary to the physics of self-abuse. Usually this sort of thing reliably puts me somewhere downwind, but something in the mix paddled me upstream without a boat.
I shout for chemical assistance and the first man I see slaps me directly in the face. That much, at least, is comfortably familiar, and helps me get my bearings. I am in a poor excuse for a bar, the floor is cleanly cold instead of comfortably insulated with blood and vomit. How do people LIVE like this?
The man who slapped me is Richard Wyrmguard. Holy shit! One of the Valardin! Now those are people who know how to handle this world, they take no guff from the mercantile cuckolds who tell honest citizens like me to stay out of their elitist stores because they don't want their precious ill-gotten goods touched by a salt-of-the-earth individual such as myself.
Richard gives me a drink and a sniff of something that unfortunately clears my head. I explain to him that I am a man of medicine. I try to make my way back to the Murder of Crows but my legs are evil betrayers. Richard gives me another drink and some soup while I'm on the floor, he knows the trials and travails of dealing with traitorous limbs, he is my sword and shield against the vicissitudes of earthly matters and a lack of proper medication.
There are others in the room but I pay them no mind. This is a meeting of men of science. I explain my theories. He is suitably impressed. He is now taking me in for a medical consultation. I'm sure he'll understand the needs of alternative homeonaturopsychopathic medicine, and how it sometimes involves medical cadavers and/or medically-induced cadavers.
I shout for chemical assistance and the first man I see slaps me directly in the face. That much, at least, is comfortably familiar, and helps me get my bearings. I am in a poor excuse for a bar, the floor is cleanly cold instead of comfortably insulated with blood and vomit. How do people LIVE like this?
The man who slapped me is Richard Wyrmguard. Holy shit! One of the Valardin! Now those are people who know how to handle this world, they take no guff from the mercantile cuckolds who tell honest citizens like me to stay out of their elitist stores because they don't want their precious ill-gotten goods touched by a salt-of-the-earth individual such as myself.
Richard gives me a drink and a sniff of something that unfortunately clears my head. I explain to him that I am a man of medicine. I try to make my way back to the Murder of Crows but my legs are evil betrayers. Richard gives me another drink and some soup while I'm on the floor, he knows the trials and travails of dealing with traitorous limbs, he is my sword and shield against the vicissitudes of earthly matters and a lack of proper medication.
There are others in the room but I pay them no mind. This is a meeting of men of science. I explain my theories. He is suitably impressed. He is now taking me in for a medical consultation. I'm sure he'll understand the needs of alternative homeonaturopsychopathic medicine, and how it sometimes involves medical cadavers and/or medically-induced cadavers.
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