[center][h1]Citadel Dundee, Year of our Empress 50, First Era of the Worm[/h1]
[color=gray][h3]The Grand Hospital[/h3][/color][/center]
 
Elspeth closed her eyes, in her nook above the main floor of the hospital. It was busy, unusually busy, this year. A disease had wracked the entire mountain, and she had pulled many long nights keeping the sick alive. The Empress had shown little care, not even bothering to leave her study. This meant that the lives of the various castes of the dwarves was in the hands of the few who knew the medical arts. The psykers had their own magic to prevent themselves from getting sick, but they were hesitant to use it on the rest of the dwarves.
 
For what reason Elspeth did not know. Nevertheless, they had sent a detachment of a few psykers, in their ever-ornate masks, to assist in the healing. Their time was limited, and they demanded many breaks. This was in sharp contrast to Elspeth and the rest of the medically-inclined craft smiths. She let out a long, weary sigh. Coughing filled the room. It was only by a stroke of luck the medical staff seemed to not catch the disease.
 
There was a sound of flapping arm-wings. Someone was coming up to the nook. Elspeth didn’t bother to open her eyes. That was, until the voice rang out. It was the elder of the craft smiths, one of the ones who had studied under the Emanciator. His name Alaisdair, he was one of short temper and shorter still kindness. “Get back down there, you shouldn’t be lazing like an oaf!” he cried.
 
“I’m waiting for the psykers. We’ve got a group of sick mothers and--” she was cut off abruptly.
“They’ve been reassigned. One of the other psykers fell sick. I told them to focus their efforts on him.” came the response, terse and short.
“What? That’s not fair! They-they--” cut off once again, this time she was looking right at him, shocked.
“Don’t ask why. Now get to work. The sick won’t heal themselves. There’s a fresh batch of herbs from the herbalists at their bedside.” a hint of irritation was creeping into his voice. Elspeth decided it was best not to continue her line of questioning.
 
She made pulled herself out of the nook, flapping down to the bedside of the mothers. She could see the psykers some distance away, focusing on an older-looking dwarf. His mask was still on, but horns still creeped through. She closed her eyes again, briefly, and turned her head back to her patients. True to his word, he had the herbalists leave more herbs on the stone outcrop at the fungi-weaved cloth bedside. Mushing some of the herbs into a paste in a pestle, she began her work, smearing the medicine on the sores of the patients.
 
She continued her work with dogged vigilance, long through the night, or what passed as night in the subterranean layers of Citadel Dundee. The psykers stayed at the bedside of the sick member of their ranks.
 
One by one, the mothers dropped like flies. The disease took too much energy from them, and they could not support themselves. She continued working on the living mothers, as her workload steadily decreased. Eventually Alaisdair walked by, and he stopped. He looked briefly at her, and then grabbed her shoulder, roughly telling her, “Stop. They’re too far gone.”
 
She froze in place. A helpless fury overtook her. She flashed out a webbed fist, catching Alaisdair in the snout. He collapsed. She screamed at him -- perhaps she pronounced actual words, perhaps not, but they were lost on her. She punched him again. She did not notice at what point the psykers came to her side, and she barely noticed being pulled off of Alaisdair.
 
He laid there awhile, while the psykers held Elspeth. Eventually, however, he climbed to his feet. One of the psykers asked, “This is your hospital. Shall we mark her?”
 
A long pause. Alaisdair’s features softened for a moment, but only a moment. Returning to his traditional angry demeanour, he simply responded, “No. We need as many trained in the medical arts as possible. Elspeth, go to another section, maybe the warrior’s beds. You’re done here.”
 
He wiped some blood from his nostril, and waved them off. They let go of Elspeth, and she just stood there. Alaisdair watched her as the psykers walked back to the bedside of their fallen compatriot.
 
“Well, why are you just standing there? Get going.” he muttered, still wiping blood off of his snout.
 
Another long pause.
 
“With the psykers, we could’ve saved those mothers. That psyker isn’t even close to death. Why?” she choked out.
 
“You don’t understand, do you?” Alaisdair said, anger creeping into his voice.
 
“You’re right. I don’t understand. And I probably never will. You sent them to their [i]death[/i]. I won’t ever understand how you could do that.” she sputtered the words out, shoving by him as she continued on her way to the warrior’s section. He didn’t look at her as she went.
 
Alaisdair let out a long, self-loathing sigh. His face hardened again, and he continued his patrols through the hospital.
 
[hider=Summary]
A disease is wracking Citadel Dundee, and we’ve got a calendar now! How long this calendar has been around is up to debate, AKA I don’t know how long it’s been since the emancatior. It’s been at least a generation, though, as one of the people who practiced under the emanciator is now old.
 
Our main character, Elspeth, is a bronze age doctor. She gets told to get off her lazy ass and get to work.
 
She finds out the psykers are assigned to one of their not very sick fellows instead of the very sick mothers. She’s outraged, but goes to work.
 
The moms die one by one, ouch. She’s getting pretty desperate, when Alaisdair, the person in charge of the hospital, tells her rather rudely to stop.
 
Fight! She punches him. Several times, until the psykers run over and drag her off. They threaten to mark her as a Shamed for beating up one of the most important people currently in Citadel Dundee.
 
Alaisdair refuses to allow that, and instead reassigns her to a less emotionally draining section.
 
He reveals that he kinda hates himself. Back to work![/hider]