Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy

mandragoraspiritus @ 2020-02-15T00:29:00

2020-02-14T23:33:35Z

In a time so full of excitement and turmoil as that of the return of the dragons and of the Dragonborn, there is little attention to be spared on simple travelers or new arrivals. The man who on one rainy day arrived at the Riften city gates did not in any way resemble some mighty warrior or a powerful mage. If anything, his somewhat travel-worn appearance drew the mind to something more like a tax collector, perhaps. He appeared to be in his middle age, dark hair graying and falling to his shoulders. He had a sharp aquiline nose and the skin around eyes that were so dark as to appear near black crinkled and creased when he smiled, something he did often though it was a pursed, closed-lipped sort of smile. The robes he wore didn’t mark him as poor or wealthy, the simple cut of the dark garments fitting his slender frame well. All in all, he made for a rather mundane figure and few would have even taken any notice of him had he moved on. However, as he had apparently decided to stay notice was eventually taken, especially so when he not only purchased a modest house but also set up shop.

Emiel Regis, he introduced himself as, giving his profession as that of a barber surgeon. After a slow start his practice eventually took off, though he found most of his patients among the poorer folk, charging nary a coin for those that could not spare them. Luckily he proved himself to be proficient with shears and a razorblade as well, cutting hair and trimming beards when his medical talents were not in high demand.

Weeks became months became a year and Regis had successfully merged himself into the community, for though he was a bit peculiar and non too rarely a bit of a know-it-all, he was a friendly and sociable man. In spare hours he could often be found at the bee and Barb, chatting away over a glass. That it was only ever tea or concoctions of fruit juices that Keerava or Talen-Jei poured into his mug, no other patron seemed to be aware.

It was in this place that this particular moonlit night found him, in an hour so late that all decent - and even most indecent - people had seen it wise to seek their beds. Two less wise people remained sitting at the counter. Regis was a man who seemed to need little sleep - though the shadows under his dark eyes did seem to suggest that he could do with more rest than he was giving himself - and on this particular night he was apparently bribing Talen-Jei to keep him company. As it turned out, though Regis never actually drank any alcohol he did make it, and tonight he had brought the barman a couple of bottles to partake of. The argonian was already getting more than a little tipsy on the potent moonshine and had launched into singing its praises when another unwise soul stepped in through the door.

As the only sober person in the room, it was Regis who turned in his seat to offer a greeting. It was not an unfamiliar person he found there, though it was not someone he had yet gotten to know. He had seen the young woman around town often enough, had even exchanged a few words with her every now and again though never much more that simple good evenings and general pleasantries in passing. Well, if she was awake as an hour such as this and choosing to come here, perhaps it was time to change that. Picking up the opened bottle he poured out a measure of two fingers into a glass and held it up in invitation to the woman - Brynhild, he recalled her name to be.

“As it would seem that I am the host of this party, I do welcome you to join if you are so inclined.”

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mandragoraspiritus @ 2020-01-11T13:39:00

2020-01-11T12:41:55Z

"Hang in there, Master witcher, we're nearly there. Just a bit further. I know, it can't be pleasant to be slung over the horse's back like a sack of potatoes, but you can't exactly stay in the saddle, can you? At least you don't have to walk, not that you could with that leg… No, no-one could walk with a leg like that… They're really not paying you enough, I'd say. Not that I think the alderman will pay you at all, not with no head nor hide from the beastie to show you killed it. Guess you didn't, and now you're all slashed up with nothing to show for it…

Hang on, it's just around the corner. There! Hmm, should I… No, better get help. Master Regis! Master Regis! Quick! There's a witcher that needs your help!"

"A witcher? My my, not my usual patient. Let's get him off the horse, I will help you. Oof, a heavy fellow, isn't he? Inside, inside! Let's get him onto the table. Will you be so kind as to see to the horse? Ask the blacksmith to put it up for now, I seem to recall him having a tidy stable. He may bill me for the feed if he feels he has a need to."

"I will, master surgeon."

"Good lad."

"The witcher… will he be alright? It's an awful wound and he's pale as a ghost."

"Your concern does you credit. I will do what I can for him, rest assured. Now, on your way, lad. Pass on my thanks to master Egert and tell him I shall be by later.

Now then, witcher… Let's see what we have here… It must have bled terribly. I congratulate you on a tourniquet well done, it has absolutely saved your life. That it sits too tight now I will credit to the swelling brought on by the obvious infection. Or, hmm… Venom? Yes, I think so.

Pulse, not particularly high. Temperature, very high, very high indeed! High enough that for any other patient I would be fearing a seizure. But with you, who knows? Your guild is simply too secretive about such matters as your mutated physiology.

I feel I must tell you that under normal circumstances - ah, poorly phrased I admit - I would not make much effort to save this leg. Not with a wound such as this, not with an infection such as this. An amputation would be the far safer option. But as I suspect that a witcher would find it more difficult to adapt to a wooden leg than, say, a farmer or craftsman, I shall do my very best. Besides, they say you witchers are resilient creatures, perhaps we will manage.

It would have been interesting to know what did this, to know the nature of the venom, but perhaps it doesn't matter. Surely by now the venom has done its damage and with the reputation of your resilience, I would hazard a guess that it must have been rather potent. Something with long, sharp claws… A basilisk, perhaps?

Ah, but I ramble… Are you conscious at all? Barely. Certainly delirious, from fever I must deduce, even though I don't know what a normal temperature would be for you. In case you are aware enough… I am Emiel Regis, a barber surgeon. You were brought here by one of the local lads, though how he found you I really couldn’t say. I must ask that you stay as still as possible while I see to your wound. Hmm, let us hope that opioids will work on you as it would anyone else, to numb the pain…”

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I'll take my memories with me

2019-07-02T21:15:10Z

Regis had never suspected himself of any truly masochistic tendencies. No matter how hardy the constitution of his species, pain was pain and not something to be enjoyed, nor was hardship and misery. Yet as he trudged through the snows of the Malheur pass, retracing a path he had last trod near a decade previously, he began to question his own knowledge of self. For what else could possibly have possessed him for him to chose this particular route? The cold might not be a danger to him and this might be the shortest trail south, though that still made it far from pleasant. Surely he could have afforded himself to briefly veer north and go along the foothills of Mount Gorgon to head through the Theodula pass and into Mag Turga rather than brave these wretched passes?

The wind tugged at his clothes, making the scarf he'd wrapped around his neck whip about in the gale and giving more openings for the whirling snowflakes to find their way under cloth and to his skin. Frostbite was no concern but that did not mean that he didn't feel the cold. More than that, though, he felt the memories. It was not so dramatic as to say that he was walking with ghosts but every so often he would pass places, little landmarks that broke up the drifting white of the snow and in his mind he would hear Milva's biting comments or Angoulême's laughter, or see the shadow of Cahir bundled up against the cold. And Geralt, always Geralt... The vampire heaved a sigh - such an unnecessary thing to do, such a human thing - and hoisted his pack higher onto his shoulders. Geralt would be fine. Perhaps the comfort of an actual home would keep him safe and quiet the tug of the Path for a time? Perhaps he would set his swords aside for a pair of pruning shears? Regis almost laughed at that. No, he could not quite see that but he liked to think that the witcher would find some peace, something he had certainly earned many times over. Perhaps Regis would find out in time, for on the eaves of the houses of Corvo Bianco and in the trees around the vineyard ravens still remained, ever watchful and clever.

Finally the path trailed down from the mountains, leaving the snows for the milder climate of Sudduth valley. He knew that he was not yet far away enough, not by far, and so he pressed on. The journey was easier now though he still felt flanked and followed by the memories of past friends. If he stayed on this trail he would eventually reach Stygga castle, or rather the ruins it had been reduced to. What would be the point of that? By the banks of the Sylte river he finally allowed himself a time to rest, just a day and night in a secluded nook, to actually sleep and to think. West, he finally decided. He would head west, towards the sea. Perhaps he would find a ship to take him south. If not then he would follow the coast. Better that than the shortest route, to cross the river and continue on this too familiar path. What good would wallowing in memories do him? Yet still, sitting there by the riverbank, a near empty bottle of moonshine dangling from his fingers, he could not help but to turn his gaze north, to remember and to wish that things could have turned out differently, that things could be be different. Sometimes, one clearly had no choice but to wallow.

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