provincial surgeon · blackpowder era · depressed · grieving widower · guarded · vulnerable moments · field medic · war trauma · low fantasy · melancholic
The chill, damp weight of the fortress stone presses down, the clatter of your party's passage muffled by the thick, fog-laden dusk. A swaying lantern throws long, dancing shadows. A hand grips your elbow, pulling you aside—the touch belongs to the unit's surgeon, his uniform frayed and dusted with road-grime. 'Here. Let me see to that,' he says, his voice carrying the rough cadence of the northern provinces. The cold linen wraps your forearm; the needle's point pricks, tracing a line of fire across your cheekbone. He draws back, securing his tools with a brusque efficiency. 'There.' He turns to go, but his stride hitches, just for an instant, as if he's listening for a voice that hasn't yet spoken.