e
8th Spring 514AV
Late morning
Joseph Watersong's house.
Melissa Watersong was a lovely woman. Caridan would often see her passing beneath his window as he was tending to his precious plants. She'd wave to him with a radiant smile upon her face and so he would wave back, equally as pleasant. Sometimes they'd exchange a quick conversation. Once or twice he had invited her up to indulge in afternoon tea and her lovely, fresh baked cakes.
It wasn't at all surprising that when her father had came down with a terrible fever, Caridan was the first person to hear about it.
From what he knew, Melissa and her father's relationship had never been a close one but her heart was soft as those very cakes she indulged Caridan with. And her pocket was't empty either. Having no wish to care for her elderly and partially disabled father herself, yet fearing that the Healing Hand's services may prove inadequate for the severity of the man's condition, she had entrusted Caridan with the task for somewhat a heftier sum than he was used to. Mr Wastersong was handed to far too many doctors in his 67 years of life and none ever seemed to fix him or even understand his condition which was chronic and had been ailing his for longer than anyone could remember. His daughter trusted in her friend's skills and the care with which he treated his patients; which Caridan himself referred to as professional practice.
That same day they visited Mr Watersong together s that Caridan would know the way to his house. He examined the old man. Took note of his terrible memory, a large sore running all the way down his arm which looked as though he might have fell over and scraped it on something unsanitary. The yellowing of his eyes. A swelling around his neck and groin where the lymph nodes were and most of all, a terrible cough which sounded as though he'd relinquished his lungs to tobacco for the better portion of his life but which indeed was not true. The man's temperature clearly risen.
It was all noted down in Caridan's note pad. Volumes of rushed yet still legible writing describing every detail of the man's illness. He had a habit of doing so. A form of diary of his practice which he then arranged into formal documents on parchment, having it signed by himself and his patient; or in this case the primary caregiver of the patient. Never before had he the trouble of his practice being disputed or held accountable by the unfortunate demise of some patients but still he'd rather be safe than sorry. Medicine was a far more dangerous profession than many would believe. It opened the door to unbecoming scrutiny or even murder if the medic did not know what it was they were doing. And truthfully Caridan had no time to dirty his hands with such unpleasantness.
e
8th Spring 514AV
Late morning
Joseph Watersong's house.
Melissa Watersong was a lovely woman. Caridan would often see her passing beneath his window as he was tending to his precious plants. She'd wave to him with a radiant smile upon her face and so he would wave back, equally as pleasant. Sometimes they'd exchange a quick conversation. Once or twice he had invited her up to indulge in afternoon tea and her lovely, fresh baked cakes.
It wasn't at all surprising that when her father had came down with a terrible fever, Caridan was the first person to hear about it.
From what he knew, Melissa and her father's relationship had never been a close one but her heart was soft as those very cakes she indulged Caridan with. And her pocket was't empty either. Having no wish to care for her elderly and partially disabled father herself, yet fearing that the Healing Hand's services may prove inadequate for the severity of the man's condition, she had entrusted Caridan with the task for somewhat a heftier sum than he was used to. Mr Wastersong was handed to far too many doctors in his 67 years of life and none ever seemed to fix him or even understand his condition which was chronic and had been ailing his for longer than anyone could remember. His daughter trusted in her friend's skills and the care with which he treated his patients; which Caridan himself referred to as professional practice.
That same day they visited Mr Watersong together s that Caridan would know the way to his house. He examined the old man. Took note of his terrible memory, a large sore running all the way down his arm which looked as though he might have fell over and scraped it on something unsanitary. The yellowing of his eyes. A swelling around his neck and groin where the lymph nodes were and most of all, a terrible cough which sounded as though he'd relinquished his lungs to tobacco for the better portion of his life but which indeed was not true. The man's temperature clearly risen.
It was all noted down in Caridan's note pad. Volumes of rushed yet still legible writing describing every detail of the man's illness. He had a habit of doing so. A form of diary of his practice which he then arranged into formal documents on parchment, having it signed by himself and his patient; or in this case the primary caregiver of the patient. Never before had he the trouble of his practice being disputed or held accountable by the unfortunate demise of some patients but still he'd rather be safe than sorry. Medicine was a far more dangerous profession than many would believe. It opened the door to unbecoming scrutiny or even murder if the medic did not know what it was they were doing. And truthfully Caridan had no time to dirty his hands with such unpleasantness.
e
