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“Hey Paracelsus”
The plague doctor huffs, turning to look at the owner of the voice, a man that has quickly made quite a name for himself around the hamlet and the others in the roster, though in this case, such a thing is far from a good thing. Sarmenti. She has yet to be sent on a mission with him, though she has briefly interacted with him once or twice. Nothing worth committing to memory beyond his name and the annoying air about him.
“I prefer to be called by my last name-”
“Which is?”
She lets out another huff as she’s interrupted, though her expression seems to tell him all he needs to know.
“Campbell.”
“I need your help Camp-bell.”
She gives a long silent look, taking in a deep sigh, holding it for a moment, and letting it out.
“What exactly would that help be in this situation then?” She does her best to keep a calm tone, though the jester manages to always find a way to grind most everyone’s gears.
The jester vaguely gestures with his hands as he speaks, as if doing an act.
“I know you are a healer-”
“Doctor.” She strongly corrects.
“Doc-tor.” He doesn’t even miss a beat. “Which means you know well how to care for wounds and such.”
She doesn’t respond to that, the silence that stretches on for a moment too long clearly indicating that Sarmenti hadn’t been expecting one. A silence that makes him shift his weight.
“And I’ve heard that you like to… Try different methods than what more conventional doctors would recommend. With few patients willing to give their bodies to… “Study”. And I was pondering, if maybe… We can both get something out of a possible agreement.”
She hates that he is right. Taking in a sigh, holding it for a moment, she steels herself for saddling herself with whatever deal this jester throws her way.
“What would this involve?”
A snort is given to her in response.
“Oh we aren’t going to talk about it here .” Of course things could never be easy.
Another sigh leaves her chest, “Where are we going to talk about it then?”
“Your office.”
A tired look is given to the jester.
“Right. The office that I have.”
“I know you have a room in the sanitarium that you use.”
“I would hardly call That an office.”
The jester snorts again, clearly amused by her reply.
“Better than mixing herbs sitting cross legged on your bed.”
Only silence is given, Campbell hearing the jester mutter something about a tough crowd.
“I can meet you there at dusk Camp-bell.”
The plague doctor’s hand pinches the bridge of her nose, a headache threatening to form. It’s going to be a long day. But she has nothing better to do.
“Fine. Dusk it is.”
“Good!” The jester chirps, a sharp nod leaving his bells ringing. “See you there.”
And he leaves, Campbell shaking her head as she wonders what she had gotten herself into.
The plague doctor sighs as she makes her way up the stairs of the sanitarium, shoes clicking against the cold stone. The sun shall set soon, a few hours before her meeting with Sarmenti, wanting to at least try to relax on her terms before striking whatever deal the jester is going to offer her. Having a willing test subject… There are few terms the jester could possibly offer that would make her refuse. The door to the room the nurses let her have is still locked, Campbell fishing out the key from one of the hidden pockets of her dress. The lock clicks and clunks in the door as the mechanism moves, her relief all but vanishing entirely when she sees a figure clad in red in the room, swirling around one of her bottles.
“How did you get in here?” She snaps accusingly, taking a step in.
The fool only glances over his shoulder to look at her for a brief moment, before casting his eyes back to the bottle.
“I picked the lock.” His tone is as casual as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
She knows her tone is skeptical when replies flatly “And you locked the door behind you?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
Closing her eyes tight, the doctor lets out a sigh she hadn’t realized she had been holding in.
“Why, for all the things that the Light touches, didn’t you wait outside? ”
The jester pauses for a moment.
“Didn’t think about that.” Is the painful answer he gives, Campbell having to force herself to leave it be.
“Just- Put the bottle back and sit down.” It was almost like having to deal with a child.
And she was no motherly figure. But Sarmenti does listen, doing as he was asked. Though, the spot he chose to sit at was her table, the thing wobbling for a few seconds before settling. The jester sits there at the end of the table, eyes avoiding hers. He hadn't disturbed nearly anything of hers, which, given his reputation, was somewhat surprising. Many called him mad, but for at least now, he seemed reasonable.
“Now. What end do I need to uphold for us to make the bargain you suggested?” Campbell questions.
He's quiet for a moment, fidgeting where he sits before finally speaking.
"I don't consider myself a smart man, but I know that I don't have the skill to patch myself in every way I might need in this hellhole. I-" His voice catches in his throat, the man starting to wring his hands.
She doesn’t speak, hands folded in front of her. She is a doctor. Not a nurse. The minstrel might get on her nerves at times from the few times they had interacted before this, but his need for help appears genuine. That and she doesn't to scare away the rare chance she has to try some of her own methods, her bedside manner being anything but her strong suit. Dark eyes that she’s not able to truly see the color of glance at her from beneath his pale mask. He settles somewhat, gathering up his nerves yet again.
"No one besides I has seen what lies under my garb for years, and for a good reason. And I could get away with that. But here? Fighting the things we are... I don't think I can do that anymore. I-" Again, he must pause and gather his words, his eyes staring down at his gloved hands, while Campbell waits, not urging him to get it out as doing such would be of little help. "I'm going to need your help with... With wounds that I can't take care of myself. But, I'm going to have to ask something from you."
"Then ask." She replies flatly, though still trying to somewhat soften the edge to her voice. Anything to keep him from balking and taking away her one opportunity to test some of her theories…
"You have to promise not to tell anyone anything about what I look like, or anything I tell you in here." His voice cracks somewhat, and part of her can't help but wonder why.
“Sarmenti. You came to me. There is little that would make me refuse the chance you are offering me." She says, the jester being somewhat more at ease with her words. Though not completely.
"You have to promise." There is an urgency to his voice, Campbell unable to hold her in a sigh.
"I promise."
Sarmenti lets out a deep breath, his body language changing to something that while more at ease than he had been, it's still obvious he is far from being comfortable.
"Then we have a deal. What would you like to see first?"
It's obvious that the jester is anything but untroubled in this situation, though going off what little he had told her, he had his reasons. But she is not his priest. She is going to be his doctor.
"You can start with your hands."
Sarmenti laughs, pressing the back of a hand against the mouth behind his mask, finding humor in a joke only he gets. But he starts to fiddle with his gloves.
"Aye Aye, captain."
The jester pulls off his gloves, setting them down next to himself, and extending his palms toward her. Though…
There is a subtle tremble to them.
His skin tone quite a bit darker than her own, his hands covered in light patches of skin that are then somehow paler, and she can't stop her mind from going through possible reasons for such an occurrence. The scars are obvious, most of all the ones that loop around his thin wrists, though she decides to leave it be unless the jester wishes to talk about them of his own accord. Can’t have him leave before they even really start.
"May I examine them then?" She asks with her doctorly tone, and again Sarmenti's gaze shifts, staring off into a corner of the room.
"So long as you don't touch my wrists... Sure." His voice is somewhat quiet, so unlike what it typically is, loud and boisterous, demanding attention. As if his mind is somewhere else for a moment.
But she pays his words mind as she takes one of Sarmenti's hands in her own, getting first her question for him in line in her mind, starting with one of the more important ones. White patches, while rarely so large for leprosy…
"You still have sensation, correct?"
"Never lost it." Sarmenti chuckles. "I know exactly what you're thinking. Leprosy. But no, I had this Curse start when I was a lad. When I was 7, if I remember correctly. Which I rarely ever do. But that was the first thing my mother did. Had the same thought process as you. Heh…"
The jester’s gaze drifts for a moment, as if lost in the memories that swirl in his mind before he sharply shakes his head as if to help clear them from his mind.
“But you don’t need me rambling about my mother as you make the gears in your brain turn to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.” Another laugh. “Any other questions about the obvious doc?”
“First, I will need to get some background." She replies, running her fingers over his bare knuckles.
The Jester’s gaze flicks back to her for a moment, a glint of something in his dark eyes that she isn’t given time to process before he yanks his hands away. As if he wants to keep something from her.
“Since you're not going to ask then, I’ll answer the obvious,” gesturing with his hands as he starts to ramble. “I have sensation as I already told you, and while they always start small, the damn things seem set to grow. Some, I swear on the gods, are set to consume me entirely.”
As if to prove his point, he pushes up his left sleeve up past his elbow, pointing to one “spot” that looped in a band around the whole of his arm. Campbell can’t help but notice, as well, the many scars there, many of them looking defensive. And each scar has its own patch. As if the scars were causing more pale areas to bloom. Already in her mind a diagnosis was starting to form.
“Does it appear to “prefer” to originate on specific parts of your body?” She asks, cocking her head to the side as she thinks.
“Yeah. It does. It started on my hands at first. Then it liked my knees for a couple of years when I kept banging them up. Then I walked into the corner of a wall as a kid, and it started eating at my face. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if I had never done that, if it would have spared it. But pondering never changed anything.” He laughs weakly, almost solemn. “My face is the worst.”
The jester is suddenly quiet for a moment, hands growing still, though there remains a tremble to them.
“I suppose you’ll want to see that too.”
Campbell nods.
“Yes, I do. It would be beneficial to know what it looked like before if it ever comes to me having to stitch your face back into one piece.”
Sarmenti squirms at the plague doctor’s words, clearly uncomfortable.
“Promise you won’t share what you see.”
The frustration is building in her, though she tries to hold it in. To not accidentally take it out on him, and make him run away.
“I already gave you my promise.”
“ Well, give it again. ” There is somewhat of a bite to his words, though… It seems defensive. A tone Campbell often used when professors refused to take her seriously. “Just-!”
He grumbles deep in his throat, pressing his masked face into hands.
“Please.” The desperation can’t be denied.
She takes in a breath, holds it, lets it go. She must bear this. Just as she did many injustices in her college years. He wants her help. She must remember this.
“I promise I shall tell no one of this.”
“Alright then.” There is a tremble to his voice. “I guess that will have to work.”
Patched hands go to the top few fasteners of his capelet, fingers unsteady as he loosens them. As he moves and shifts, the plague doctor realizes how the slightly stiffer white fabric of his mask is stitched into the patchwork fabric of his cap. The jester’s shaking hands clutch the collar of his capelet as if for dear life.
“M… Maybe we can just skip this part-” He's stalling
“Sarmenti. If you want me to be able to help you, I'll have to see it eventually anyway. Do it yourself, or I'll have to do it myself.”
Dark eyes look up at her, a glint of something shining back at her.
And he starts laughing. Just like so many of her professors at any of her suggestions.
The bells sewn into his cap ring loudly as she grabs a handful of tassels of the cap and yanks it off, slamming the thing onto the edge of the table with a huff. The only way this was going to get done was if she does it herself.
The jester jumps harshly, long black hair tumbling down his back, reaching to half way down his arms. Though, long streaks of white are mixed in with the much darker strands. Sarmenti stares back at her, a look of shock written all over his face, a face where all its features are sharp and pointed. As if it was trying to mimic the man’s wit, something it never truly could. And just like with his hands and arms, his face shares the patches. While far from mirrored, the pale swaths of skin, there was still a vague symmetry to be found. Though not even his face seems to have been spared from scars. While some are par for the course, such as the one that splits his left brow, most are.. Concerning.
Ringed by milky flesh are several spots where it seems his face had been torn at till the flesh was raw. As if something, or someone, had clawed at the lighter skin till it had been bloody and ragged. Though the scars don't seem self-inflicted…
As Campbell’s takes in the appearance of the man’s face, the jester starts to chuckle, and then to laugh again, shoulders shaking as he grasps the front of his capelet even tighter. His laughter grows louder, almost more desperate.
"Disgusting, no? Horrid, disturbing, distressing?” Despite his laughter, which grows louder and harder, the plague doctor could tell that he wasn't joking. That these things he spoke he meant utterly and fully, his cackling turning in loud peels of screeching laughter. “Oh, I've got a better one! Revolting! I'm absolutely Revolting !"
A fist pounds against the table, bells ringing from the force of it.
“Nightmares! You'll be having nightmares!” He hollers, head thrown back, body shaking with the force of some emotion she can't recognize.
Her heart is starting to race, swallowing thickly.
“I don't think that.” She replies, trying to calm him down. Trying to keep this from escalating. “I don't think that at all.”
He snaps his gaze to her, those dark eyes looking right into and through her, a chipped tooth grin spreading across his face, his voice suddenly taking on a dangerous tone.
" Liar. "
Campbell takes a step back, silent, holding a hand to her chest, forcing herself to take a steadying breath despite her pounding heart.
Something in Sarmenti's face shifts, and the jester’s head falls, as if suddenly exhausted. A shaking breath taken in, and a shaking breath let out.
“I’m sorry… I-... Just… Don’t lie to me like that…” his voice is so quiet compared to what it had just been, as if something has been drained from him. “I’m tired of being lied to…”
He cups his face in his hands, letting out another trembling breath.
“And don't look at me like that… just… don't look at me at all…”
“I-...” For once, she's at a loss. “I'm sorry. I…”
She looks to the side, guilt lodging itself deep in her chest.
“I didn't mean to upset you like that.”
The fool lets out a shaking sigh, face still clutched in his trembling hands.
“Let's just get this over with… Please …” His voice still shakes but he seems… Calmer.
She nods, not wanting to upset him again. “Alright. We can do that.” An anxious edge still lingering in her voice.
Though Campbell can’t help but to hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do. What to say. This was… So unlike anything she has had to deal with before. This was nothing like the tight spaces of the dungeons, nor the somewhat calm of bloody clinics with near dead patients with little to say. But… The man has clearly been through a lot. His scars imply… Something horrible had happened to him. She turns her head away, trying to find what to say.
The plague doctor shifts her weight, feeling compelled to ask. Compassion does not come naturally to her, but… he deserves to be asked gently.
“What… What happened to you, Sarmenti?”
The fool’s eyes stay locked to the ground, appearing so very tired. Tired in a way she realizes she has never seen him before, not even when he had returned from a mission that had dragged on for a day longer than expected. Back arched down, elbows resting on his knees. Silent, as if carefully choosing his words for once.
“My mother died. And they needed someone else to laugh at.”