<img style="" style="max-width:100%;float:left;" src="http://i1105.photobucket.com/albums/h341/ratoly/fada4433-6d65-4b2a-8c4e-b7c643e89c8f.jpg]He wasn't so used to dealing with caravans that he really could get a fix on the elder's actions. He processed them slowly. The notion that he was sick being important enough to warrant mention, apparently. Of no surprise, he supposed. It was uncommon that people wandered around in his style of garb unless they were sick or worse. In his case, his illness wasn't contagious, but the idea of eating dinner with a leper was still repulsive.
His books had been clear enough in their discussion of what he suffered with: People didn't understand it then, and now, long after the books writers were gone, people still didn't seem to understand it. His expertise didn't sit well in his stomach alongside the knowledge that he was still stuck with the body he had. If he could have, he would have traded for something more approachable. Something less... dreg-like. But he was trapped in his skin, and had to tolerate that. So he did.
Following Bajazet was a slow process, as the night wore on, he felt his muscles starting to ache from the day's journey. The stress of his encounter with the caravan starting to wear on him as he settled in by the fire and let her words bounce off him like pebbles off a car tire. Then she addressed him again, asking his name, and for a moment, he considered taking off the lenses that afforded his eyes the privacy he felt like they deserved. But he left the lenses on for now.
"Cauldo."
He considered bringing up his nickname among the dreg, but thought better of it. His name was information enough. That he had occasionally been referred to as both the "Butcher" and "Healer" of his old group wasn't really anything he felt comfortable parting with. The books had given him knowledge, but time and experience had given him caution. Judging by the elder's reaction to his presence, these folk were just about ready to slit his throat as talk to him, and only Bajazet's willingness to vouch for him had spared him any violence. Not that he couldn't handle himself in a fight, but an entire caravan was simply out of the question.
No way he was coming out of that fight unscathed, and even less likely he'd have enough supplies to fix what was broken at the end of it all, considering he was currently running on fumes as far as supplies went. That was why he was taking this chance in the first place, after all. Still, as far as trading supplies went, he was lacking anything substantial. If he was honest with himself, most of what he could trade could be summed up by calling it his 'skill.'
He was, by no means, a trained doctor, but he was very knowledgeable. More knowledgeable than anyone really had a right to be in a world like this, but it was why he was still breathing. He could mend wounds, fix broken limbs, and treat most diseases, once he figured out what they were. It was just a question of supplies. If he was lucky, he'd be able to offer his services to this caravan for a short time. Maybe get something back in return. Something he could use.
"I'm a doctor."
That was all he felt like sharing about himself for now. She knew he was sick, after all. He didn't need to share what he was sick with.
His books had been clear enough in their discussion of what he suffered with: People didn't understand it then, and now, long after the books writers were gone, people still didn't seem to understand it. His expertise didn't sit well in his stomach alongside the knowledge that he was still stuck with the body he had. If he could have, he would have traded for something more approachable. Something less... dreg-like. But he was trapped in his skin, and had to tolerate that. So he did.
Following Bajazet was a slow process, as the night wore on, he felt his muscles starting to ache from the day's journey. The stress of his encounter with the caravan starting to wear on him as he settled in by the fire and let her words bounce off him like pebbles off a car tire. Then she addressed him again, asking his name, and for a moment, he considered taking off the lenses that afforded his eyes the privacy he felt like they deserved. But he left the lenses on for now.
"Cauldo."
He considered bringing up his nickname among the dreg, but thought better of it. His name was information enough. That he had occasionally been referred to as both the "Butcher" and "Healer" of his old group wasn't really anything he felt comfortable parting with. The books had given him knowledge, but time and experience had given him caution. Judging by the elder's reaction to his presence, these folk were just about ready to slit his throat as talk to him, and only Bajazet's willingness to vouch for him had spared him any violence. Not that he couldn't handle himself in a fight, but an entire caravan was simply out of the question.
No way he was coming out of that fight unscathed, and even less likely he'd have enough supplies to fix what was broken at the end of it all, considering he was currently running on fumes as far as supplies went. That was why he was taking this chance in the first place, after all. Still, as far as trading supplies went, he was lacking anything substantial. If he was honest with himself, most of what he could trade could be summed up by calling it his 'skill.'
He was, by no means, a trained doctor, but he was very knowledgeable. More knowledgeable than anyone really had a right to be in a world like this, but it was why he was still breathing. He could mend wounds, fix broken limbs, and treat most diseases, once he figured out what they were. It was just a question of supplies. If he was lucky, he'd be able to offer his services to this caravan for a short time. Maybe get something back in return. Something he could use.
"I'm a doctor."
That was all he felt like sharing about himself for now. She knew he was sick, after all. He didn't need to share what he was sick with.
The mind is a fantastic, dangerous place. Don't go alone.
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