[center]Rémix, [i]Gaulish Barber-Surgeon[/i].
Surgery, first aid, barber, cooking, sentry, scouting, manual labour, literacy, brawling, polearms.[/center]
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Putting a hand to his forehead and arcing his back, Rémix stretched himself out to try and alleviate the typical ache of a long day's work. [i]People just don't know how to keep themselves healthy any more.[/i]

For the better part of day he'd been toiling away, inspecting those who came by for whatever ailment they suffered, fixing some, sending others to Lugurix for a more sophisticated treatment. That is to say, one that focused more on biological remedies than the physical cutting, snapping, and bandaging that made up most of Rémix's line of work. There were always more sick to treat, and always less hours in the night than needed to sleep. If it weren't for his already robust and enduring physique—compounded by a what some might call a voracious diet and a few stimulants prescribed by Lugurix himself—he fully expected he himself would be in need of some healing, if not for the body, than for the soul. Heavy bags hung from his eyes, and old grit adorned his calloused skin and his long fingernail, torn at the edges.

But a healer's work never ceased, just a disease continued to reap its crop day in and day out. Unfortunately for him, he was nowhere near as tireless as his constant opposition.

Today was no normal day, however. Though the sick and the frail and the paranoid drifted through as always, outside the meagre walls in which he toiled few others were at work. The fields mostly bare and the homes vacated, a new guest drew the attention of all but the most devoted and the least sociable. Vercingetorix had arrived with his tales of retribution and war.

Rémix had little care for their new "king". He was but another excuse for the people to throw away all their hard work. More young men and women starving and falling to the chill of the canadian winter. Why was he so focused on the South, when problems were bad enough as it was up here?

Lowering his hand again, Rémix turned to Lugurix. Nodding his direction to the door, knowing the elder man was fully aware of Vercingetorix's arrival, he approached his companion. "The king," he grumbled. "What do [i]you[/i] think of him. Does he have what it takes?"

He respected his fellow's opinion, for what it was worth. Always better to have two thoughts than one. Rémix also gave a quick cursory glance at the patients the two'd have to be taking care of. Trying as the man's motives may be, Rémix would like to see the man himself, but not if it meant leaving Lugurix to more work than he could handle.