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But still they come, the paupers, the street waifs and the discarded slaves. All of them too frail, or ill, or wounded to fetch a spare sequin or two in the flesh markets or even keep around on the off-chance they recover to resume work. And it is not like this side-chapel of the holy church has much to offer in the way of medicine and aid either. Supplies are in constant shortage, always, and are viciously rationed by the sisters for those whom it make a bit of difference. The best the majority can hope for is a shelter in this stinking hot room, a meal in the form of watered down gruel and a dry-eyed sister to speak a prayer over their expired body. Not that they even believe in your God, but it must beat dying in an alleyway somewhere around the corner. And it is not such a bad thing if a pretty foreign witch casts a spell on you or whatever they believe goes on here.
All this misery you have seen in the single day. At least the sisters will have clean bandages today and tomorrow thanks to your recent contribution, but by Salve Reginae’s holy wounds you regret your offer of aiding personally following your latest visit to the Sanctum.
<span class="mu-i">“Cain on the Cross.”</span> You gag, flinching at the sight of the good sister drawing puss from the enormous growth on a boy’s forehead the size of a juggler’s ball. The sickly yellow colour, laced with that thin stream of blood… <span class="mu-i"> “Oh Godsgrace, I think I’m going to be sick…”</span>
<span class="mu-i">“Gird your loins and pass that ointment, sir knight. ”</span> The sister’s voice is business like, a reprimand even, but she is all focused on the ails of the next patient rather than your own squeamishness. <span class="mu-i">“Mine own eyes have borne witness to you running at an undead abomination in the dead of a dark forest night with nought but some attitude and an unruly horse. This battlefield hardly compares. Sister Genevieve, take over for me while I fetch fresh bedsheets.”</span>
While you don’t consider yourself anymore morbid than the average Romani, you have had cause to dwell on what fate you’d prefer if choice could ever be a factor. It’s not being eaten alive by a monster, or bleeding out slowly from a wound to the gut on the battlefield. It’s not Not anymore, Saints, no. Not anymore. It is dying in a Pit of a place like this, too weak to even feed yourself as you lie wallowing in your own filth.
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