Day Six-Eighty-Seven: Status Compromised

Ahhhhhhh, small town life. Gotta hate small town life.

I'm used to cities. I was born in a city. Raised in a city. Worked in... many cities. I suspect I will probably die in a city, because I'll be damned if I'm going to pass on in this heap of a transport. I want to be surrounded by buildings. Even a castle will do. I think it has something to do with finding places to hide, because you can hide everywhere in a city.

Pubton isn't a city. It was a shithole. Not bad by the end, and if it's not destroyed now I suspect it'll be more of a city when I get back. But I didn't much enjoy my time there. Pubtwon was better. Also not a city, but I was in charge, so...

Fareach is not a city. It's not a village, but it's definitely not a city. Therefore, I don't like it a whole lot. The people are boring farmers.

We arrived on the outskirts of Fareach as I was chewing on my breakfast bagel. It's one of the last in our stockpile, as Bora isn't around anymore to bake new ones, and I demanded first dibs since I was on watch. Everyone else was too tired to argue. Score one for the old man. I munched, and I spotted, and I ordered one of the cannoneers to unleash a volley into the hills surrounding the town.

Fareach had a few guards. The guards were pansies. Diplomacy is too easy when you're sitting in a war machine.

Fareach is one of the Imperium's famed walled towns, though it looks rather neglected. The mortar is cracking in key areas, there's a big hole in the western wall that desperately needs patching, and the soldiers are scant. They look like they've been posted here for too long and don't give a shit about the town. I'm fine with that, as their fear and apathy gave us easy entrance and access to Fareach's facilities.

... a shame the facilities are shite.

While a few other members of the crew set about collecting new supplies, possibly at a significant discount, I coralled a nice little posse consisting of Logan, Jeffrey, and Plato to escort me to the local healer. Not quite a doctor, I guess, but healers can do just as well against status ailments if they're properly trained. That, of course, assumes said healer is in their clinic when you visit.

This one was not.

"Ah," said the attendant, face shrouded by an enormous hood. Hell, his whole body was covered. I could've been speaking to three thousand intelligent cockroaches standing on one another's shoulders and not known. "I'm sorry, but the... mistress... is unavailable today. She is making house calls. You'll have to return tomorrow."

"Oh yeah?" I leaned against the assistant's desk, cleaning my fingernails. Bits of grime dropped onto the wood. "Ye suggesting we make an appointment? We've got a dying man, ye know. Very sick. Yer mistress wouldna want him te die, now would she?"

"No, of course not." The attendant shrugged. "But Madame... er... May... is not here. She won't be back for the rest of the night."

"Saaaaaaad." I spat on the floor. "Ye'd think a well-established clinic would offer better services 'n this. Eh, boys?"

My posse nodded, though I could tell all of 'em felt sorry for the poor bastard. No wonder none of them are ambassadors - they don't know how to throw their weight around. You'd figure Jeffrey, at least, could act the bully.

The attendant flapped his sleeves. "We've only been operating for a few weeks, you understand, and, ah - "

"Tell me where she is."

The sleeves drooped. "Excuse me?"

"Your mistress! Madame May! Whatever! Where is she? if she's off tendin' te patients, we'll find her on our own."

"I can't tell you where - "

"Confidentiality, eh?" I flashed two coins at the attendant. "My friends here hate secrets. Y'know? Maybe you could let them know where your mistress is lurkin'."

The attendant shook his hood violently. His back seemed to hunch and tense under his cloak. "I will not be bribed - "

I rolled my eyes. "Loyalty. Fuckin' hate loyalty. Could ye at least tell us what she looks like? This place ain't so big that we canna find her just peerin' about the streets. Whaddya say?"

He would, in fact, not say. Nothing I did could force the slightest tidbit out of the tightass, not even lying about the severity of Dragomir's injury. Left with no choice, we made an appointment for our comatose leader and departed the clinic.

Truth be told, I'm kinda glad we didn't get in today. Dragomir's unconscious, not dying, and he can stand to wait a day or two before receiving medical attention. The gap between now and tomorrow's afternoon appointment leaves me with ample time to come up with a plan for dealing with the 'healer' and her fucking buddies.

Because.

C'mon.

Newcomers?

One of whom smells of soiled dog hair and arachnid?

Living in a house reeking of an old woman who forced me to work for her for several months?

Yep. We need a healer. But we also need a plan. And part of that plan may involve disabling a witch. Not to mention our patient's psychotic son.

This trip just gets more and more interesting, you know?

Gods bless Goblinoster,

Grylock the Shrewd