“If you will kindly get out of my way Herr Verbek?” Marguerite asked politely, slender fingers tapping the butt of her pistol in emphasis. The portly merchant glanced down at the messenger and then shot glare filled with hate and frustration at the healer.

	“This isn’t over,” he muttered before climbing down the ladder and stomping away into the rain.

	“I’ll be right down,” Marguerite called to the messenger, one of the barflies who frequented the Maw unless she missed her guess. She hoisted her leather satchel over her shoulder, the stoppered phials of herbs and unguents tinkling musically as they shifted inside. Most of what she had was stored in the satchel, though a few half-finished infusions steeped in buckets and flagons scattered around the hay loft. As an apothecary's workshop went it was a poor one, but Davor’s rent was reasonable and it kept the rain off. It might have been helpful to know what kind of illness she was being called to treat, but the quickest way to determine that was simply to go and see for herself. Reaching into her tunic she wrapped her hand around the small silver pendant she wore, a simple stylized dove, and whispered a quick prayer to Shyalla before sliding down the ladder and striding purposefully out into the rain.   

	The interior of the Ogre’s Maw was dark and earthy. A miasma of pipesmoke coiled and whirled across the ceiling, flowing along the channels defined by the dark wooden beams of ancient oak. A fire blazed in the stone hearth, flames licking the bottom of an iron cauldron filled with a bubbling stew of salt pork, barely and whatever vegetables Rosine had been able to barter. Cheap tallow candles flickered and guttered in the wind of the open door before Marguerite stepped through and pulled it shut. The rushes that covered the floor had been changed recently, but the smell of stale beer lingered in the grubby plaster walls. 

	A few of the regulars, mostly idlers and loafers grunted greetings to her as she entered. The interminable dice games with which they passed the time before dinner was ready temporarily forgotten in the excitement of the evening. There were several new faces, a handsome young man in armor with an enormous sword slung across his back, another in the robes of an itinerant priest, a Sigmarite by the hammer he carried, a halfling, who it appeared she had interrupted mid boast, and finally a third man with the harsh angular face of a Bretonnian who, although dressed as a knight, seemed a good deal more disheveled than other examples Marguerite had seen. The youthful chevalier sat close to a boy he had laid before the fireplace, and was rubbing hopelessly at his mud stained doublet in a vain attempt to cleanse it. Filth he no doubt collected by carrying the emaciated child indoors. Defeated by the persistent muck the Breton leaned his back against the tavern wall, looking up at and speaking warily to a cloaked Bretonnian mercenary who stood nearby, his distaste clear as his gaze flickered from the mercenary’s face to his belt which held an assortment of weaponry including a brace of pistols. He was addressing something he’d been asked before Marguerite’s entrance, all in the flowery tongue of his homeland.

	”No, we were not attacked, at least none dared challenge me. The child…” Breton trailed off, glancing down at the boy lying unconscious close at hand. He almost seemed conflicted, and his bright blue eyes, ringed from lack of sleep ill-disguised a deepfelt confusion hidden in their depths. “I-I am uncertain.”

	When Marguerite approached the Breton urged her towards the prone form of his charge, his heavily accented voice rising with more familiar wordage. “You are a healer?” He struggled to his feet, swaying ever so slightly before catching himself, his eyelids drooping. “I must warn you; I have no intention of compensating your services. Perhaps he might work for whatever treatment you provide once he is whole again?”

	"Shallya's gift is it own reward," Marguerite said, a trifle ironically. In truth she regularly solicited donations for her efforts, Shallaya's gift did incur certain expenses after-all, but she couldn't imagine a circumstance in which having a child follow her around would be an aid to her activities. 

	Marguerite knelt beside the boy, the fire dried rushes crackling under her knees. She felt a little self-conscious doing so in front of the priest. Like all Reiklanders she had been raised to revere Sigmar and it wasn’t as though she were doing anything wrong, but there were priests and then there were priests. The boy’s pulse was erratic as she touched her fingertips to his neck, the flesh itself hot and clammy, though the moisture probably came from the rain rather than sweat. It was unlikely someone in his condition would be able to sweat naturally. Deftly, her fingers moved over his body, touching each of his visible wounds for a moment. Remarkably none of them seemed too serious, leaving his main problems as fever and malnutrition.  Opening her bag, she rifled around for a moment before retrieving a small glass phial filled with a greyish white powder, an iron spoon and a jar of dark honey. She dipped the spoon into the honey and then shook a generous amount of powder over it, coating the sticky golden liquid. She began to whisper a prayer to Shyalla, laying a small hand on the boys swollen belly, calling upon the Goddess to aid the boy. Carefully she touched the spoon to his lips, the sweetness of the honey stimulated the child’s lips to part, and she thrust the spoon into his mouth, watching the muscles in his throat work as he unconsciously swallowed the mixture. As she finished the prayer, he drew a deep wracking breath and then settled, his skin beginning to cool and his pulse slowing to a more natural pace. 

	“Shyalla be thanked,” she breathed, stroking the boy’s forehead with her fingers.

	“Might you wake him so that I may begin questioning?” The Breton interrupted suddenly from where he’d been standing, observing the entire procedure.

	“Well of course I could wake him,” Maguerite replied sourly. “But he is still half out of his mind with fever and he is as likely to declare himself Emperor as tell us anything useful. He needs rest, and nourishment, but slowly lest he eat himself to death. Whatever he has to tell us will have to wait.” She dipped the spoon into the honey again, this time omitting the powder and pressing it to the boy’s lips.

	“Shyalla bless you my child,” she whispered in pious afterthought.


[hider=Synopsis]
Marguerite walks in and provides basic medical care with both herbs and prayers for the child.
[/hider]