Quoted By:
“State your intentions.”
“Some o' my tribe are sick,” you begin, falling back into the persona of the tribal chieftain. “I'm here to fetch the means to heal 'em. I've got drafts, I can pay.”
“Entry permitted,” she blandly replies and nods to her colleagues. The soldiers who barred the way step aside, granting your merry band entry to the Sanatorium. “Do you know how to read?” Hesitantly, you nod. “Good. Proceed to the pavilion with the designation B1 and take a seat. Any attempt to access other facilities without an escort will not be tolerated.”
One by one, you awkwardly file past the guards.
The name made you expect a single structure. Instead, the Sanatorium is an orderly tent city. The shelters here are clean, white, uniform and airtight, unlike the primitive structures found elsewhere in the town. As for your destination, it's not hard to find. The open-air pavilion towers above the other structures and is much broader as well. It appears to be split into two sections, rows of chairs where patients are expected to wait and a line of desks, behind which Spitalians wait – the first ones you have ever seen without masks.
There's enough chairs that your whole entourage are able to seat themselves without causing a fuss. There are roughly a dozen others who were there before you arrived. Some cough profusely while others nurse paw at the dirty gauze that dresses their wounds. One by one, the doctors see to them and discuss their troubles in excruciating detail – all except for an elderly woman dressed in red robes. She remains seated and observes every patient with varying degrees of interest, though you seem to draw her gaze far more than other. Eerie. By the time that your wait comes to an end, over half an hour has passed.
A rather pudgy physician peers at you over the rims of his spectacles before he waves you over. The black and white membrane doesn't compliment his ageing physique. As you walk over to take a seat in front of the Spitalian's desk, he looks rather pensive and sceptical.
“Good morning,” he begins with a polite enough tone. Though he speaks Frankan, he has a strong Borcan accent – he's likely from the Protectorate, like Herrmann and Karlee. “Or afternoon, perhaps. Tomas Oberheim, at your service. I cannot help but note that you appear to be in perfect health. Do you seek medical aid on the behalf of another?”
>Give him the truth. Your tribesmen are infected with Sepsis and you wish to find a cure.
>Remain vague. Your tribesmen are sick and need healing. He doesn't need more detail than that.
>Get to the point. You have drafts, the Spitalians have medication. You're here to trade.
>URGE: He will escort you to wherever they keep their medicine for treating Sepsis.
