The winds have been brutal this autumn. The trees have been stripped bare and the pavements are wet and slick with slime and mud. Vahkul knew that it would be a terrible idea to build stone roads in this part of the province, but what did his opinion matter to politicians? After all, he’s only a man that spends his time saving countless lives, theirs included.

Without him, it’s likely that the Hand that rules over this side of the river wouldn’t have made it to his fortieth year, but that means little to anyone else it seems. The druid scoffs as he carefully steps over lifted pieces of the hastily constructed road.

He can’t wait until Archdruid Tith says it’s time to move on. He hates north Velshlind. It’s dirty and cold and filled with the scummiest of people. He was almost pick-pocketed within an hour of being in the town. He almost couldn’t believe it.

Why would someone rob a healer? They aren’t exactly the wealthiest men alive. And if medicine was what the thief requires, all they need to do is ask, for it’s the job of a druid to preserve the lives of the living, and make strong the bones of the weak. Their services are paid for mostly by donation, so all are welcome to ask for their help.

Not to mention that outside of the capitol, the north coastline is home to some of the wealthiest families in the empire. They built their fortune on water purification after all of the nation’s natural aquatic shrines were infected by the smaze.

How people that make money providing the land with something that everyone requires to live can’t give to the needy is beyond his comprehension.

Again he shakes his head as he rolls his hands into the folds of his robe. If only he was allowed to wear hoods. His head is freezing and the tips of his ears have gone completely numb. The boy kicks a dirty blob of fabric that’s laying in the middle of the road to the side.

He wants to go home.

He wants to be in his sparse wheat field, hiding underneath the shadows of the terribly wide crops when he’s supposed to be attending morning prayer. He wants to feel the heat of the savage sun slowly cooking his skin while he complains about the layers of robes he’s been forced to wear.

He wants to watch the children from the neighboring village creep along their side of the fence in an attempt to get a look at the ‘strange coven boy’s ashen hair’. What would he give to be back home?

Vahkul reckons the answer to that is anything.

The young healer sighs as he finally makes it to the steps of his newest patient’s house. The building is tall and quaintly sloping. It has the air of a home that used to be beautiful, though It looks as if one side of the foundations have begun to sink. He’s found that most homes look like that in north Velshlind. Vahkul swears the wooden walls bow to the side on the second floor, but before he can take a step backwards to examine it, the front door opens.

Vahkul watches as the girl that’s stepped out leans her head back in to yell, “I know, I know! I’ll be back before lunch mother!” Before a retort comes, she slams the door closed and turns forward.

The girl startles when she comes face to face with the healer. The tiniest of gasps flutters from between her lips as she puts a gloved hand to her chest. “By God! You can’t just turn up behind the back of a lady when you look the way you do! Has no one ever taught you manners?”

He doesn’t know whether that was meant to be a jab at his looks or a backhanded remark about what he is, so he tilts his head and steps to the side instead of responding.

The girl swallows, her eyes trailing up until they land on his hair. He has his answer then.

Keeping her eyes on him, she skirts around his hulking figure. Vahkul is sure that if he had a shadow on this cloudy and dreary day, she’d make sure to avoid that as well. This isn’t anything new though. Aside from the man that tried to steal from him, most northerners did well staying as far away as they could.

When people came to beg for his coven’s help, their faces always dropped when Vahkul was assigned as their healer. No one wants the boy that was reborn with disease in his veins. He had learned to brush it off and push it aside because he understands that most aren’t familiar with how the smaze works, especially in northern Velshlind.

So, with nothing but a slight shake of his head, Vahkul walks to the door and knocks. His knuckles just barely brush against the splintering wood when he hears the girl speak again. “Just what are you doing?” He doesn’t bother turning. “We have no eligible men here. The empress has already taken them from us.”

This is yet another one of their fears thrown at his feet. It had been decreed, just a few years prior, that the empress was splitting her military power into different components. There were to be four factions instead of the standard one.

Two factions are made up entirely of smazers, another made of the children of upper-class citizens, and the last composed of drafted peasants that lacked essential work orders. A lot of people assume that because he is what he is, that he must work directly under the empress. They think he’s an officer come to collect those that can’t afford to bribe their way out of the ongoing draft.

Vahkul knocks on the door again, this time with a little more power behind his fists. The anger that builds in him is unreasonable, only for the fact that there’s nothing he can do about it.

The empress has made weapons of smazers. She has taken those that lost their lives and their families, and she has made them into an unstoppable policing force. In doing this, she has caused those that have never faced the smaze to demonize the survivors of it. The empress has shown the world what horrors smazers are capable of. She has used them to gain more land and more gold and more power.

She has declared war with neighboring nations.

And now, Vahkul and many others will have to pay the price.

He knocks again, ignoring the girl. “Hey… you deaf? I said we don’t have anyone here eligible to fight in your war!” Surprise rushes through Vahkul’s body when he feels a hand grasp tightly onto his arm. He stiffens as the girl attempts to turn him around. He doesn’t fight her. Instead he falls into it.

When his eyes meet hers, he sees disgust boiling in their depths. He can’t hold them for long. “I’m the healer sent by the Untroth Coven. I am here to help your family, not take them away.” Finishing his sentence, he turns to bang on the door a few more times.

Finally, it opens to reveal a frail older woman. Though Vahkul can sense the problems rumbling within the walls of her own body, he knows that he’s not here for her. “I’m here for Triath Runiver the third.” He points to the dark brown insignia embroidered on the chest of his robes.

“Oh thank God! He’s been coughing up blood all morning. Can’t even get a word out. Come in, come in!” The healer steps through the entrance of the house, leaving the thoroughly confused and embarrassed girl standing at the door.

He knew what was wrong with the older man as soon as he laid his eyes upon him. His skin, hanging exhaustedly off of his bones has gone red. His eyes have glazed over and his hair has already begun to go white at the roots.

Instinctively, Vahkul takes a step back.

He shakes his head. “I am so sorry ma’am, but there’s nothing I can do for you besides give you advice. Vacate the premises. If you’ve come into contact with any of his bodily fluids, I’d suggest you limit contact with anyone that you care about. Once he’s… Once…”

The man, rolled tightly into decorative duvets, begins to cough violently. The druid’s eyes follow the projectile that the little splatters of his blood make as they fly from his crudely curved mouth. Vahkul’s vision begins to blacken.

He backs out of the room.

“Wait! Wait! You’re supposed to save him! Please!” The woman follows after him as he stumbles down the stairs, but all the druid can offer is a weak shaking of his head. He bursts from the house, nearly colliding with the girl waiting on the other side of the door.

Her expectant eyes try to meet his own, but Vahkul is down the street before a syllable can fall from behind her teeth.

The first thing he does when he returns to the convent is drop his robes so that he might scrub meticulously at his skin.