“You’re lucky, Raivo.” The village healer, a large man named Dewett, prodding at the month old wounds on Raivo's freshly unbandaged chest. “You’ll barely have a scar here. Some of my finest work, if you’ll forgive me my pride.”

Raivo sat quietly in front of the healer, trying not to flinch as the man continued to probe the mostly healed wounds with clean fingers, checking for signs of inflammation and rot.

“Strewth, this has healed better than even I expected.” Drewett withdrew his hands, apparently satisfied with whatever he’d felt.

“Now that that’s out the way, let’s take a look at this one, yes?”

He reached his hands to Raivo's face and with a gentleness and deftness that seemed out of place for a man of his size unwound the bandages covering the young man's face from scalp to chin. He finished unwrapping it and took a step back inspecting his face with pursed lips.

“Well, you won’t be winning any beauty contests, but we managed to keep the shape of your nose and face together, at least yes? As for the scars, they’re reduced from what they could have been. Not so different from a blade wound across the face, though three wounds parallel to each other will likely draw some questions.”

Dewett let out a gruff laugh.

“Who knows? Maybe some fool will mistake you for a Wraiconian. I hear they sometimes mark themselves with blades. The gods only know why.” He laughed again at the thought.

Raivo had never seen a Wraiconian nor was he familiar with their practices, but it seemed foolish to him that anyone would do such a thing.

His hands probed at his face gently, ignoring the slight ache that remained. He traced his fingers along the scar lines from above his left eye to his right chin. As Raivo got to his lips he was relieved to find that the previously torn flesh on his upper lip had fused and healed well, feeling almost no different than it had before.

“Thank you Dewett. I was expecting much worse.” He bowed his head to the healer.

“Doubted my abilities did you? I’ll have you know I was a First Class Knight back when I still served in the Odunian Templars.”

He'd heard the healer wax on about his days of glory and conquest often enough to recognize the start of a monologue and cleared his throat before Dewett could get going.

“Of course not. It’s just that the wounds were deep and the face is always tricky. Still, I appreciate it. What do I owe you?”

Raivo reached to his belt where a coin purse hung and grasped it, trying not to let the coins jingle and give away how little remained inside.

“Well now, usually I’d take a couple of silver for my time and materials, but for you we’ll say just materials and call it five copper.”

He held up a hand as Raivo opened his mouth to protest. “Don’t start, boy, if I say that’s the price then that’s the price. Five copper and not a copper more.”

Raivo held back a brief frown and instead just bowed his head in thanks again.

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“Thank you Dewett. I will see if I can find some more of those healing herbs you drew for me the next time I venture into the forest.”

“There’s a good lad, now do us a favor and help us to that stool over yonder.” The young man stood and reached out, offering his arm to the large man, which he took. Together they made their way over to the stool, which the Dewett settled on heavily with a sigh of relief.

The healer reached down and rolled up one of the legs of his trousers revealing a wooden device that extended from above his knee to where it ended in a boot on the ground.

“My old bones don’t tolerate a day on my feet as well as they used to.”

It was strange to hear him say, as he didn’t look a day over thirty, but those who reached higher Aura Realms often looked younger than they were. Something to do with the process of Excavating the Well. It was rare to find people who had reached those Realms in the village though. Aside from Dewett, one would be hard pressed to find more than one or two others outside of the local Templar branch.

“There’s a good lad, don’t let this old man keep you. I’m sure the Old Missus will be waiting for you.” He waved Raivo off, dismissing him.

Bowing his head in gratitude one more time, he left the healer to his hut and walked back out into the fading sunlight of a cool autumn day. As he stepped back into the street he heard the familiar sounds of Thornstrand. The usual hollering of mothers and fathers trying to wrangle restless children inside for dinner, the clickety clacking of wheels on pavements as carts drawn by drab horses and oxen made their way to barns, and the low hubbub of people and animals that happened whenever people gathered together in such numbers.

Raivo walked in the direction of the orphanage where he knew Sister Agnes would be waiting impatiently for him to return so that she could have his help to wrangle the younglings together to wash before supper.

The sun had nearly dipped below the town walls, so he hastened his pace towards the orphanage before the light faded. A few glances his way drew grimaces from passersby. If he was someone else he might mistake it for a reaction to his new scars, but Raivo knew better.

The Plague-Touched, as most folks liked to call those who survived the affliction that had swept the Kingdom of Siniel a decade past, were tolerated at best in the village. It wasn’t anything like a fear of catching the Soul Plague that drove the dislike. More like some combination of resurfacing grief for those who had lost loved ones that most would rather turn to a dislike of the survivors than face combined with the familiar disdain.

After all, who would bother to hide their dislike of the Plague-Touched when there were no consequences for expressing it. Well, not unless Sister Agnes happened to catch one of them about it. For such a small woman, her will-enhanced strength was feared by even the most notorious of the village drunks.

It was rumored that the innkeeper of the Thorny Rose, the local watering hole, had tried to get her to forsake her vows and come work for him as a bouncer, only to have to respect her eloquent refusal as a testament to her faith in the Benevolent.

Raivo had managed to catch Dewett in his cups one night and ask him about the rumor, and had been given the truth of it: the innkeeper’s offer had been for a great deal more than just a job and her rejection, while indeed difficult to refuse, had little to do with eloquence and more to do with why the man now sported a limp when it rained.

Continuing on as the light began to fade, he arrived at the Orphanage to see, as predicted, Sister Agnes with her arms crossed, foot tapping, and a disgruntled look on her face.

“Took you long enough.” She closed and locked the gate to the Orphanage behind him as he hurried through it.

“Sorry, Dewett started in on the olden days again and I had to beg off.”

“Well, hurry and wash up then. Make sure that Alexander uses soap this time. The Benevolent does his best to protect from illness, but only great fools and children tempt fate.”

He felt a grin stretch his face, bringing a slight pain to the scars; he didn’t stop though. For a Sister of the Church of Benevolence, Agnes sometimes seemed as cynical as Dewett when it came to the gods.

He didn’t pause in his stride, however, as he recognized that he truly was late this time. Hurrying, he quickly went to gather the children to wash up, resolving to keep an eye on Alexander as they did.

For all that Agnes was cynical, the last thing the Orphanage needed was someone catching ill.