[table][row][center][h3]Artemisia[/h3]
[i][b]Garleton[/b][/i][/center][/row][cell]

With a heavy sigh, Artemisia placed the stack of scrawled-on papers back inside the drawer they came from and slid it shut. Disappointing. While unsure if these documents even existed, she'd put all her efforts into chatting up anyone in the treatment ward with the lung capacity to do so, but now that she got her hands on these records they substantiated what her investigation suggested. Nobody bearing pink eyes and any sort of illness came through this place within the last few months. That meant another week of her time wasted, and her search no closer to its end. Worse, Artemisia hadn't the slightest clue where to look next this time. Before she could pay any mind to her next destination, however, came the hardest part of her time at this one: saying goodbye.

A few minutes later, Artemisia poked her head around the corner of a doorway leading to the main ward. In front of her and unaware of her guest, the Sister appeared to be changing the wrappings of a man Artemisia knew to be suffering from gangrene. In his lucid moments -'lucid' being a quaint term for 'so stuffed full of painkillers as to be delirious- he'd told Artemisia about the battle that left him lying in a ditch, his flesh rotting while he still clung to life. It had been a dispute between two minor lords, with one catching wind of an assassination plot and sending his keenest ranger to take the assassin out, only for that bowman to fall victim himself. As part of her infiltration here, Artemisia helped to debride the dead tissue and wrap the sites to prevent infection, but the Sister knew the art of healing far, far better. Still, places like this never turned down help, which was the only reason why the dark mage's method of searching worked at all. As Artemisia watched now, the Sister wrapped a layer of soft, salve-soaked wrappings around the man's leg, then covered that with a thicker, dry layer of coarse bandage for sealing. Without looking up from her work, the blue-haired woman murmured, “You're not scheduled to come in for another few hours. I applaud your dedication, but I must wonder why.”

Artemisia flinched. Sheepishly coming out from behind the corner, she took her hat into her hands and held it flat across her chest. “Y-your senses remain startlingly potent, ma'am. Well, since you inquire with exactitude, I have no alternative but to oblige your requested candor. Regrettably, given your choice of words, this must contain a barb of irony, but I...I am afraid that I must depart posthaste.”

Whirling around, the Sister affixed Artemisia with stern, gray-green eyes. The winestain birthmark across her face gave her a mildly menacing visage, but those eyes held no wrath. Only disappointment. “You're leaving?”

A genuine sorrow commanded Artemisia's features, but she did not avert her gaze. “That is...accurate. I am pointedly aware of your clinic's urgent need for additional healers, and my heart does pang for the ill and afflicted, but I cannot remain. My ultimate duty is inescapable.”

Knowing flitted through the Sister's eyes. She said nothing, but she knew thanks to her proximity to Artemisia that she harbored an overriding devotion to her deity—a deity she suspected was not her own. Realizing this, Artemisia wanted to crumple in on herself. The Sister, so dedicated to her faith, tolerated the presence of an outsider without question? The urge to say something rose within her. “You have my deepest sympathies, ma'am, but I cannot stay. It was never my choice to make.” For the first time, the knowledge that she was doing the right thing wasn't enough, and Artemisia faltered. Looking at her feet, she muttered, “Hate me if you must.”

She didn't realize what was coming until it was too late. Out of nowhere, white-robed arms wrapped around her, and the Sister pulled the shocked mage into an embrace. “Never. We all have our duty. Thank you for helping us here, child. Someday I hope you will return.”

Something bit at Artemisia's heart. It caused a bubbling sensation in her throat, and water pooled in her eyes. She was a charlatan. She didn't deserve this love or forgiveness. Every ounce of help she'd provided came under the sole pretext of gaining access to information that might help her find her target.

Hadn't it?

Another few minutes passed, and Artemisia emerged from the ward onto a street lit by the noonday sun. After dabbing at her eyes, she replaced her hat on her head and glanced around. It looked like a very busy day, which meant getting ready to travel again would be difficult and tiresome. She took a few steps, then turned to look back at the entrance to the ward. What would become of its patients without her? Would the Sister, worked ragged when she first arrived, be able to take care of them without running herself into the ground? Artemisia forced herself to look away. “I cannot afford to let myself get attached to each stop on this journey,” she said aloud, trying to convince herself. “The show must go on.”

With that, she stepped into the street. Avoiding the biggest crowds for fear of being jostled or otherwise put upon added to her travel time, but before long the dark mage reached the plaza. She meant only to cut across it on her way to the market, but something caught her gaze. A strangely-dressed woman danced to music, her rhythmic motions wholly unfamiliar and fairly enchanting. Fascinated, Artemisia stopped to watch from a distance, making sure to place her back against a wall so nobody could come up behind her.[/cell]

[cell][center][img]https://i.imgur.com/wW8IBnQ.png[/img]
__________________________
Status: [color=lawngreen]Melancholy[/color]
[/center][u]Class:[/u] Occultist
[u]Inv:[/u] Vulnerary, Book of Secrets
[u]New entry                                     [/u]
[sub][i]The investigation in Garleton is concluded. No hint of my target, and no leads. Yet, I have gleaned more about non-magical healing, and something besides: the Sister is an unequivocally wonderful individual. A true commoner, unremarkable in anything save her spirit, yet surely kinder and tougher than the most revered cardinal. She deserves to be remembered. I wish I could stay, but my mission beckons me indisputably onward. Still, I am determined that time will not stain her face from my recollection. One day, when my mission is done, I will return.[/i][/sub][/cell][/table]