faderift | (open) I said "doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?" I said "doctor, to relieve this belly ache"

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(open) I said "doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?" I said "doctor, to relieve this belly ache"

WHO: Étienne Guerinet Beaumanoir & the blessed souls who speak with him.
WHAT: an open post & introduction for Dr. Beaumanoir
WHEN: through April
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: some gentle nsfw, also he is generally low-key terrible in generic Thedas ways (esp re: elves and mages) and is a tool for playing out hideous historical medicine.

OPEN PROMPTS.

1.

"Behold!" He takes a step back from a man whose cheeks look a little puffy, and whose eyes could be considered a little glazed over. "He may yet be reeling from his treatment, but before you stands a man cured of the worms that invested his jaw! He has been gifted with the virility of the templars, the soldiers who give up their lives to protect our lands from powers that would overwhelm so many of us. He stands before you yet a man, but tomorrow, and in the days that follow, he will be a hero!"

He grabs the man's hand, and holds his hand over his head, in a show of victory. The crowd cheers—

Doctor Beaumanoir's Dashing Dentures is written on a nearby poster.

2.
Healing wonders! Potions galore!
DR. BEAUMANOIR'S MEDICINAL ALMANAC.
HELP HIM HEAL YOU! Inquire within.

A handsome man stands; a doctor, a hero - and so much more.

"Can I help you?"

He smiles. It's extremely Dashing™.

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Étienne sleeps. Heavily, peacefully, and without much awareness of the rifter woman in his bed. The seagulls can be heard from the windows of his very fine lowtown apartment. It is located just so as to be accessible to the poor, but acceptable to the very wealthy, with the latter being the social priority and the former being more of his personal concern. The reality, of course, was that he could do little for the pour without the favour of the rich, and he had very few regrets about the necessary sacrifices this might bring with it. (Not that living in a more terrible part of town or living in greater poverty would really be something terribly desirable; he was quite happy to give those up.)

For now he is sated, resting with his arm thrown over the waist of the rifter woman he had bedded. She could yet be a desire demon, yes, he'd not deny that, but she seemed human enough that perhaps a further bedding was justified - just to be sure. And then, of course, there was science.

Edited 2018-04-16 13:38 (UTC)

Sarah does not sleep heavily. Not anymore. She dreams, and the slightest sound is enough to send her upright, heart racing. This morning, for once, she stirs without the feeling of panic. For a few seconds, even, she forgets where she is. All she knows is she's warm in bed and there's the heavy feeling of someone's arm draped over her. But then her eyes open and she sees the unfamiliar surroundings and she remembers, and all the usual anxieties come creeping back.

She slips out from under him—Étienne, he'd said his name is—and steps softly around the room, gathering her clothes and slipping them on as quietly as she can. Her plan is to get the hell out of here before he wakes up and starts talking.

He makes a sleepy sound, rolling to lie flat on his back, and for a moment it seems like Sarah's efforts to make a sly escape could be over before they have much of a chance to begin.

Conveniently, he does not wake.

The light is low, the barely risen sun struggling to cast any light in his bedroom. Once through the door, though, the hallway stretches from relative darkness to the grey-blue of the morning light.

One of the rooms leading off it is an office with a desk, and in the faint light something colourful might just catch Sarah's attention - a magnifying glass, pestle and mortar, and a series of small glass jars containing different brightly coloured gemstones and pearls, seemingly organised by type. There's a few other things on the desk - paperwork, research materials, anatomical drawings of human, elven, qunari and dwarven skulls. The shelves that line the room are varied - jars containing things like millipedes preserved in an amber liquid that might be honey, as an example, as carefully labelled and organised, where other shelves simply have endless books, different equipment.

There's drawers, too. Many drawers.

Sarah steps softly down the hall, planning on leaving—but the sight of the room leading off from the hall makes her pause and take a closer look. She's not so much interested in what's there for knowledge's sake as much as for her own survival. She doesn't want to know what these people believe because it's interesting, like she assumes Cosima must. It's only for her own gain that she steps inside for a better look.

She runs her hands over the jars with gemstones inside, drawn to the colors, and then takes a quick look at the anatomical drawings. It's all what she expected, really, like shit out of a D&D guidebook. (Not that she's ever looked at one of those. Nooo.)

After a bit, she pauses to listen for the sound of footsteps, and when she hears none, she starts to open drawers. Because of course she does.

No footsteps come. If she really listens, she might hear the slow breathing of one still fast asleep, before the sound is eclipsed by the quiet scrape of the drawers opening.

Most of them are not particularly interesting - stationary supplies, ink and parchment, and so forth. In one, however, there is a dish of small diamonds, and in another, a leather pouch of coins. It is largely silvers and coppers, but there are a few golden sovereigns mixed in.

One piece of parchment also has a fairly eclectic list of odd ingredients, which looks like it might be the product of a brainstorming session.

Yeah, this is cool and all, but money and diamonds. Sarah slips a couple of the diamonds into her pocket before opening the leather pouch and dumping some coins into the palm of her hand. She'll leave some in the pouch out of pity, but not much. It's not like this guy is starving out on the streets, right?

Money and diamonds in hand, now it's time to get the hell out of here. She gently closes the drawer, makes sure everything looks as it should, and heads for the hallway again.

She's in the home stretch— and yet. In the living area that the hall leads into, there is a table of potions, bottled and not yet labelled. They are green, with a faint metallic glow to them when the light hits them, and an herbaceous smell.

It would be a shame if someone were to... walk into them and make a sound. Also there's some more money next to them.

Sarah probably shouldn't be taken in by the mere sight of money at this stage in her life, but also: she's been sucked into a strange universe, and in this universe, if she wants money she has to work for the Inquisition. Which she does not want to do. So she beelines for the extra cash. Her hip bumps the table, the potions jostle, and she freezes—but nothing falls or crashes open, so she continues on, slipping the money into her pockets.

Oh, bless. That's just some casual loose change. Only a few gold and silver coins, nbd.

Étienne was drifting to awakeness. He'd forgotten, actually, about the woman who had been in his bed, until he hears the quiet rattle of glass being jostled. A memory trickles back in and he smiles as he pushes himself up out of bed, and starts walking near-silently down the hall. Unlike the rifter, he does not take the time to grab clothing.

He's sleepily running a hand over his eyes as he draws closer, until he sets his hands on her hips, and draws her back. It takes him a moment before his memory helps him out.

"Bonjour, Sarah," murmured, as his arms wrap around her waist.

Oh, Jesus. Sarah manages, barely, not to startle at his touch. A tiny sound escapes her mouth—kind of a squeak, but that's all. She tries to relax into his grip, only half succeeds. This was not what she wanted to deal with this morning.

"G'morning," she says, falsely pleased.

He does not detect any falseness, largely because... why would it be false? He's wonderful. She's the weird rifter.

"You're awake early. Rushing off to Inquisition duties?"

"Yeah, something like that." As if the thought of working for the Inquisition doesn't fill her with anxiety and disgust. "I'm really just an early riser." As she speaks, she turns, trying to extricate herself from him.

He makes a quiet humming sound as she eases away, and he makes no move to try and detain her. He also resists making any flirtatious comments around the theme of early rising.

"If you must. Before you depart, though, I've a proposal for you. A matter of business, if you're interested."

"Yeah? What kind of business matter?"

If this guy is about to ask to be her medieval-style pimp, she's going to crush his bollocks with her bare hands and then hang them out her window for everyone to see.

"Well," he starts, leaning against the wall in a very charming and beautiful way, because that is how he does everything, "you've access to rifters and potentially access to items from rifts. I would like to be able to acquire such materials to experiment with their medicinal merits."

There is a pause, not to allow her to digest this request, so much as for her to appreciate the gravity of it.

"I would, of course, expect to be the only person that you supply with such goods. Locks of hair, for example, but for certain things I would pay a premium. Blood, for example." Or organs, should the unthinkable happen, but he'll build up to that one.

For several moments, Sarah just looks at him, open-mouthed.

"You want locks of my hair?" When he'd said "items from rifts," she'd been thinking of... Cheetos. Teapots. Other weird shit. Hadn't Helena found an entire crate of peanut butter? Anyway, things like that. Not her hair and blood.

"Not much," he says, imagining himself to be very reassuring, when in reality he is just leaning nakedly against a wall. "I would not wish to see beauty sabotaged, even for science. No, just a little, for experiments. If you were able to get hair or anything from other rifters, I wouldn't say no."

"Uh... yeah..." Before she found out she was a clone, an experiment, Sarah probably wouldn't have had qualms with handing over a few pieces of her hair to some guy for his "experiments," if it meant she would get some cash in return. What could it hurt, as long as the hair wasn't going to show up at an active crime scene? But now her mind goes to all the unethical shit this guy could end up doing with her hair. A piece of her. Dyad doesn't exist in this universe, but Cosima'd mentioned other groups, religious cults. And even if it weren't her hair or blood, it would be someone else's.

"Let me think about it," she says finally. "I'll get back to you."

A sigh. Alas, she was not immediately convinced - but there would still be time. With a smile, he steps forward and catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"As you wish, Sarah." He holds her hand a moment longer, insistent. "Get back to me as soon as you can. My future lies in your hands."

He's just finished with a patient when he spots her. The client is high brow, encrusted with jewels not usually seen in lowtown, and accompanied by a considerable bodyguard. "Now, my Lord, I insist. When next you desire a consultation you need only send a message to me, and I will attend with all due haste."

There is a general exchange of words, reassurances, and both of them seem satisfied by the exchange. His smile turns a shade lascivious, and he leans against the table she's looking over, hand sliding down her back - settling just low enough to be distinctly improper.

"Back so soon?"

Cosima isn't a jumpy person, exactly, but she was not expecting to be touched by a random stranger, and she jerks away from him. "Wow, what the fuck, dude?" she asks, more flustered than angry (yet). At this close range, it's not only her hair and accent, but her whole demeanor that is unlike her sister's.

(In her defense, Sarah's only been in Thedas a few weeks, and Cosima's gotten out of the habit of thinking about potential clone mix-ups. She'll probably get there in a moment.)

At least his hand had not strayed entirely southward. His brows raise, though it’s shcoked so much as amused surprise. His accent, Orlesian, plays over his words, gives them a certain emphasis. “My dear, there is no need to be coy.”

Although he takes in the accent, the hair— “unless this is some... role play, hm?”

Dude, indeed.

Edited 2018-04-18 00:38 (UTC)

"Nope, no, definitely not that." She steps away, putting some healthy space between him and her, but then:

"Oh, shit, the person you're thinking of... looks like me, but sounds kind of like she's from Ferelden?"

She is almost positive he's not mistaking her for Helena. She is initially torn between Sarah, why and Sarah you can do better.

His eyes narrow very briefly. The way she moves has changed.

“Yes,” he replies, rather slowly. “And rather more friendly.”

"Yeah, that's my sister. You and I haven't met." And what a memorable first meeting this is turning out to be. She is aggressively not thinking about the context in which he and Sarah might or might not have discussed roleplay.

"I'm Cosima." Her manner is guarded but neutral -- of course he's going to apologize, obviously.

"Cosima, a pleasure," he says, as if this were not at all awkward, and inclines his head in a bow. "I am Doctor Beaumanoir."

Is an apology forthcoming?

Eventually, probably. Maybe. "What brings you here today?"

O...kay.

"Uh, shopping. The thing you usually do in a marketplace. You?" Knowing Sarah, it probably doesn't matter if Cosima is outright rude or not, but on the off-chance she actually cares about Beaumanoir's good opinion, Cosima will stop short of casting aspersions on his medical skills or entirely disengaging.

On the other hand, is it any of his business what she's buying? She remains unconvinced.

He smiles, the smile of someone not easily put off, and who is very aware his smile is quite charming. Smiling in the face of her manners seems the better tack.

"A momentary break from providing my own services," and he nods to the stall not so very far away, being supervised by a couple of staff while he's away.

Helpfully, he has a business card of sorts to hand, one of the posters advertising DOCTOR BEAUMANOIR'S MEDICINAL ALMANAC, with information on some of the offered medicines. Dentures! Healing Potions! Bezoars! Tonics for skin and hair and stoutness of heart! And so on.

Her eyebrows climb a bit as she peruses the poster. "I see." She doesn't sound especially charmed. "I hope the tonics for skin, hair and 'stoutness of heart' are at least different tonics."

It's only halfway a joke.

"The tonic that best suits and the ailments it best suits vary patient to patient. If they should happen to aid with more than one trouble or inadvertently assist the patient with another matter that is troubling them..."

He spreads his hands - so be it, but in a self-congratulatory way. Suffice to say, at least some of them totally aren't different tonics.

"I wonder, have you consulted with anyone concerning your eyesight?" Perhaps if she had better eyesight she would be charmed. But also girl, glasses? Gauche af. This is the Dragon Age, not the Glory Age, dang.

"Uhuh. What's in these tonics?" She doesn't bother replying to the question about her eyesight; if standard healing could have fixed it, she assumes she'd know it by now, and this guy doesn't really radiate serious medical expert.

"Madam, please," gurl, "you cannot expect me to give up the secrets of my medicines. The formulas are ones of my own crafting."

Make up your own freaky tonics.

"Yeah, that's totally how medicine works." You'd love big pharma, Etienne. "Hard pass on ingesting anything where the ingredient list is secret."

If Thedas wants to invent the fantasy FDA, call her.

"So I guess I don't have to ask how you met Sarah."

"Isn't that how everything works?"

Way to be a square and a buzzkill, Cosmo.

Ah, but he grins. It's a terrible grin. "It was a meeting of minds."

She doesn't say gross, but her face sort of does.

"I see." Cosima doesn't entirely want to continue talking to this dude who is certainly not a doctor at all, but for Sarah's sake, she adds, "It's nice having family here. You know, someone to watch your back."

"I'm an only child," he replies, with a lackadaisical shrug, "but I had a wonderful time watching Sarah's back."

cool cool cool

"Alright, so, you probably want to get back to your stall, but I'll tell Sarah we ran into each other when I see her."

It was nice to meet you is a little more than she can manage.

“As you say,” he says, but before he departs, the good doctor takes her hand and kisses her knuckles. Then he sweeps away.

“Adieu, Cosima.”

"Uh," says Salvio. It's a tentative response, almost drowned out by the sound of parchment crumpling against his chest as he clutches it reflexively close.

The parchment is actual a bulletin, similar in content to the one posted nearby. Having carefully removed it from where it was posted, Salvio has been carrying it around with him for a few days now, working himself up to this moment.

Dr. Beaumanoir's smile is extremely dashing. Salvio finds himself briefly, appropriately, dazzled. He blinks and uncrumples the bulletin and turns it around, so the doctor can see his own handwriting, or the handwriting of whoever crafted the eye-catching bulletin on his behalf.

His eyebrows raise, a gently encouraging sort of expression, before his gaze drops to the bulletin and he smiles.

"Ah, of course. I am Doctor Beaumanoir." It's said... not quite with a flourish. It's just a very slight bow, hands held out to his sides and the palms facing Salvio, in a move that might seem like a humble presentation, if it weren't so confident and set in the certainty that no humbleness were actually required.

"Please, how can I help you?"

"Yes," Salvio says. He is Doctor Beaumanoir. And he is intimidating, in his grace and self-assurance, and then Salvio realizes that it was not a question but a statement and an introduction and he recovers, and hurries to make his own introduction. "Sorry. Yes. Salvio Pizzicagnolo. That is who I am, I mean, my name, not the name of the problem."

Arguably.

"Sorry. Ah, it's-- rose cold? If you are familiar? Though of course you, uh, must be."

"Monsieur Pizzicagnolo, a pleasure." His manner is immediately empathetic. "Of course. Please, come, sit." He gestures to the table and chairs set up, although he does not immediately go to sit, himself.

"Can you tell me a little more about your symptoms? I realise discussing conditions of any sort can be difficult, but if the more you can tell me, the better I can try to customise a treatment for you."

Edited 2018-04-18 03:46 (UTC)

Almost cautiously, Salvio goes to sit in the offered chair. He takes a moment to consider his surroundings as he does, as surreptitiously as he can. It's not very surreptitious. Subtlety is not his strong suit.

"Yes," he says, almost absently. Wait, that was a question. "Ah, I mean--yes. It is not very serious, mostly it is--an itching, in the eyes. They can look red in color. And there is an itching in the nose and throat, too. Sneezing, coughing. Um, some--" He gestures, toward his nose. "Congestion and drip and. That sort of thing. It has been a plague since I have been in Kirkwall, which-- has been for some time, and I had hoped that perhaps it would cure itself or else--I mean, I have an onion poltice for other small, um, problems, and there was a healer who I spoke to, and he suggested the poltice might--help with rose cold, as well. But it has not."

It's okay, not everyone can be Orlesian.

As Salvio speaks, the doctor carefully re-rolls up his sleeves, with the efficiency of one used to the action. Somehow they look crisp and fashion-ready while simultaneously work-functional. It's a talent.

"There are many skilled healers who have struggled to find ways to ease rose cold. It is a tricky affliction to find yourself with, especially in a place with so many bad airs as Kirkwall. Rest assured, however, that although we may need to trial some different recommendations before we strike the right one, we will see your humours balanced and all in proper order once more." He holds out his hands to Salvio, indicating the other's neck. "If I may?"

Already nodding at the first part of Beaumanoir's sympathetic assessment, followed by his confident assurance, Salvio again registers that he's been asked a question.

"Oh," he says, "uh, yes, of course," and he tries to make himself relax. It takes some effort, as his shoulders have jumped up defensively, almost up to his ears. "Are there many who have come to you with, uh, this affliction?"

Firmly, but carefully, he feels down the sides of Salvio's neck, checking for any swelling.

"It is not an uncommon condition," he confirms, "but, of course, I cannot go into the details. I pride myself on my discretion." Not that Salvio asked for details, but he likes to advertise his good qualities. "You've no swelling here, so I think you are correct in your diagnosis, rather than it being an affliction of the throat. Does it feel tender at all? Even so, I would like to be certain it is rose catarrh and not some lingering weakness of the lungs."

Let's get some ear trumpet action happening.

"Oh--yes. Sorry."

--To have even hinted at prying into the privacy of others. Salvio means that quite genuinely. Any hint of falseness can be put down to the tension still stiffening his shoulders and neck, which makes his voice warble slightly. Trying to clutch onto some measure of composure, he swallows. It does not feel tender.

"Yes. I mean, not-- quite tender. A little strangely, if I think on it." Or does his throat always feel this way? Why is weakness of the lungs even a possibility? Because of course, if anyone is going to have weak lungs, it will be Salvio, that is just his fate and just his luck. "Um. What do weak lungs feel like? I mean--please, yes. If there is a way to make certain, besides-- my word."

"It can be a matter of strain, or falling victim to extreme temperatures. From my understanding, Kirkwall had a particularly gruelling winter. Where you here, during that time?"

Beaumanoir offers a reassuring smile as he goes to his collection of tools, and collects a monaural stethoscope - wooden, a pole with two slightly cupped dishes of wood on either end.

"Weakness of the lungs could be— a rawness of the chest, coughs that small but persistent, the feeling of struggling to breathe. The faintest exertion might leave you uncomfortable. It is not always a signifier of some dire malady, but I would sooner be thorough. May I listen to your heart, Monsieur Pizzicagnolo?"

"I was, yes. It was-- My previous assignment put me at Suledin Keep, you see, which was--worse. Though not as damp. I think." Is there such a thing as a dry cold? Certainly the Gallows feel more damp than the accommodations at the Keep had been, even with its drafts and poor shutters and so on. "A damp cold winter might be worse, and I think the damp would-- well, it might make breathing more difficult?"

But what does he know, he's no healer or doctor or anything, really. Salvio eyes the tool in Beaumanoir's hand with some apprehension. It is not much different than his usual look. But the thought of some dire malady makes him nod, quickly, and scoot forward a little on his chair.

"Um. Yes, of course. If it's necessary."

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(open) I said "doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take?" I said "doctor, to relieve this belly ache"

SARAH MANNING - low-key nsfw

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COSIMA NIEHAUS - low-key terrible.

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2 (many tags from me)

unpossible

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