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

[sangsues]

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™.

Comments

[sangsues]

"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."

[assistente]

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."

[sangsues]

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?"

[assistente]

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?"

[sangsues]

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.

[assistente]

"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."

[sangsues]

"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?"

[assistente]

"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."