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Post by Dr de Cassar-Levant on Dec 14, 2007 12:00:11 GMT -5
There was a crass, abrupt beating on the door of his dungeon, as though some wild animal were trying to get in. No doubt the talentless, crossbred Orcish help of Lucien's, he mused as he looked up from his Tuto Medicina. More beating on the wooden frame until finally the doctor called out in a low but exasperated tone "Come in."
At this, the door swung open wide, slamming into the wall and shaking down some medical instruments hung up on what had previously been reserved for torture instruments. Artemisios' eyebrows came together, but otherwise he did not move. The large brute who came stupidly in seemed an ugly enough specimen- grey-green skin mottled with random patches of hair. His heavy brow and protruded lower lip further hinted his twisted parentage, as did the tusks that sprang from his foul mouth. Though big, he did not bear any badges or medals of merit, and the doctor most certainly didn't recognize him as any thing of great standing in the army. His mood soured instantly.
"Lord want know... war machine. How come?" Came the slow-minded but loud demand. Apparently, Lucien or one of his underlings had sent this wretched orc-thing to check on his progress. It tried as much as possible to look imposing, but the doctor was not amused. Artemisios snapped his book shut with a foul look that only hinted at his inner thoughts, and came around his workdesk, the blood on his vest and breeches becoming visible in the torchlight.
"And you are...?" He merely asked. The simple question made the orc-thing surprised; it was used to being feared or beaten. "Gro-gnash" It answered haltingly.
"Ah.... Gro-gnash. Nice strong orcish name... " Dr de Cassar-Levant began. The messenger puffed up. "It means 'Cow Brains', does it not?"
Gro-gnash bristled. The orc hadn't really known that, and looked around for some kind of reply. Finally, he decided on being intimidating again since his dignity was wounded. "You... work on war machine. What now machine? How come it?"
Artemisios rolled his eyes, bored with the idiot. "Are you asking about the status of my biological war machine project?" He asked in mockingly slow tones. The orc-thing thought a few moments, and then nodded slowly. The doctor paced lazily, as though thinking up an answer. He was irritated beyond belief at this interruption, and this lack of concern for his station. He had a feeling some upstart in Lucien's army was testing him through this underling. He decided he would not be baited. He would get his vengeance soon enough. "My good Cow Brains... " He began. "I'm afraid I need some time to compile a report so that it meet the satisfaction of his Lordship Lucien or one of his standing officers. If you would be so kind as to fetch someone of import who could deliver the report in person, I would be much obliged."
Cow Brains was in a mess here. His orders had been to come back with a simple answer on something he perceived to be a very simple thing. The doctor had spun it around on him, making it look incredibly complex (Which it was) and moreso important (Which it was as well). On one hand he had strict orders not to return empty handed. But on the other hand he couldn't very well screw this up either. If the report was so complex that he couldn't remember or comprehend it, he knew he'd be beaten or worse. Might end up like Grum and be impaled in the courtyard. He was wavering...
A rare smile lit up the doctor's face. He had him. All he had to do now was nudge... "So in that case it's settled. Report back to your master and send back someone of rank to receive my report." With the handle of a bonesaw he grabbed from a nearyby table, Artemisios steered the orc-thing out of his lair and pushed him out into the hall, slamming the door and locking it tight. Gro-gnash, perplexed at the changes which outpaced his slow mind and lacking the fortitude to attempt to go back in, shuffled off miserably. He was going to be beaten for sure, he knew it.
Back at his desk, the good doctor thought of this precious war machine. He had thought only the higher ups knew of it, but apparently someone had broken the chain of command. Truth being, he was nearly finished with his abomination. And once it was loosed, nothing Moridanu or her minions could do to stop it.
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Post by Dr de Cassar-Levant on Dec 17, 2007 23:49:45 GMT -5
Now that the orc-idiot was gone, he could turn back to his work. The patient lay strapped on the table, drugged and immobile by means of shackles. His object of medicinal interest was an Ikani guardsman; part of the caste of Cimmeri he had helped spawn in Lucien's early days. The Cimmeri were a dying breed in terms of popularity and prestige among Lucien's minions. In the dark lord's youth, he had used his powers to corrupt and rule them outright, using the lower castes for fodder and labor while using the upper caste for advisors, assassins, and magicians. But the power of the stone drained the Cimmeri race, and in his dismissal of them some years ago, Lucien had left Artemisios in charge of their problems. And there was quite the list of problems: the Dorthekas were prone to all manners of illness because of their mild diet and constant beatings; the Ikani regularly contracted illness from prisoners and died of them or went mad; the Duthi half-breeds were mentally deranged because of their treatment being lower even than the livestock, and they constantly came down with scurvy and all its charms. The Tartarin, those Lucien hadn't killed in his random fits of rage or sent on suicide missions, tended to avoid the doctor thankfully, but those he did see all showed advanced signed of susceptibility to disease. It was as if the stone which had once been the centerpiece of their religion had turned out to be the worst thing ever to happen to them. And by extension, to him, since the workload was insane.
The Ikani's grey face was wrinkled with a scowl, and the sweat beaded liberally down his temple. Though strong and lean, the iron shackles kept him well in place. Dr de Cassar-Levant had opted to keep this one somewhat awake so that he could monitor the effects of the operation on a conscious patient. Slipping his gloves on, he grabbed his small brush and knife. With the brush he traced thin lines around the temple and forehead of the patient, deliberately and with a practiced talent. This went on for many minutes, the doctor patiently applying the lines of incision as he occasionally forced the patient's head into the proper position. Finally, the drawing portion was over and he replaced the brush on the desk, turning instead to his favorite knife, a small one-edged precision cutting instrument. Starting at the left ear, he began slicing the skin towards the right across the forehead, the cut filling with red. The blood came down quite a bit, obscuring the drugged patient's vision as the doctor worked, but the Ikani did not cry out. Apparently the dosage was sufficient enough, Artemisios mused. He resumed cutting, until the skin above the ears from front to back was removed. He tugged it gently away using his fingers, leaving behind the criss-cross of the pale muscle beneath just on top of the gleaming skull itself.
"Now for the fun work." The doctor was performing an open leukotomy in order to see its effect on the mental illness of the Ikani. Previous attempts at using herbs, spices, even liquor had yielded no good results. He was anxious to see the brains themselves to see if they had changed at all.
With the knife he cleanly severed muscles around the temples and pulled them back, fastening them to the patient's ears via a series of hooks. He then cleaned the area with a rag, and checked the patient's heartbeat, timing it with a rusted old pocket watch. The anesthetic aconitum (Or wolfsbane, as it was more commonly known) had not caused a toxic reaction in this specimen as it had the last, and the slowed heart rate and numbness was a complete success. Still, he had some opium dosage available should its effects fall off during the procedure. No use having a thrashing patient while he was opening the skull.
Sizing up the frontal cranial suture, he then reached for the mallet and the pick. Placing the latter firmly into a niche, he gauged his strength and made the first tap... The pick pushed through the resistance of the fibers and plunged into the brain cavity, clear fluid trickling out of the hole. He pulled it out slowly, and replaced the pick at another part of the suture, again tapping it with his mallet. The entire process, done with his obsessive deliberate pace, took perhaps forty minutes. He stood back finally, the sutures being cleanly punctured, and proceeded to pull the skull fragment off.
Inside, the brain matter looked oddly gelatin compared to the rest of the flesh and muscle, and for some time he studied the frontal lobe. He noticed a growing degeneration of the grey matter. "Another one." He mused. "Well, time to clean this one up." The intricate part was still ahead- removal of a portion of the frontal lobe. He had considered severing the connection to the frontal lobe and the remainder of the brain, but in this case he felt the grey matter was atrophied enough; it must be removed. Using his fine, thin knife, he went to work...
.....................................
Two hours later, he was running stitches through the flesh of the Ikani, replacing his skull with a level of perfectionism that had everything to do with vanity and nothing to do with the patient who sat drooling stupidly. There had been an extremely marked difference since the procedure reached the removal stage, and the Ikani was simply limp and nonmoving, though still alive. The patient's heart rate had not fluctuated much if at all. Artemisios was wondering if removal of the diseased tissue might actually have been a worse decision then simply injecting alcohol in or severing the connection.
"Up you get" He said to the stupid thing, removing the shackles that kept the Ikani on the bed in the first place. "Look alive." The doctor added, a smirk on his face. However, the dosage may have been too much for the patient, as it simply looked at him dully. No shimmer in the eyes, no real recognition. "Stupid brute." He muttered, going back to his journal.
Open leukotomy performed on Specimen No. 23, Ikani. Subject diagnosed with dementia contracted from contagious living fluid. Isolated and given moderate dose of aconitum. Anesthetic successfully allowed operation to proceed without any issues. Removal of partial frontal lobe a success, taking out all damaged grey matter. Unfortunately, the subject seems to have recovered slowly from the dosage. Success of overall procedure pending.
He set down his pen, yawning. It was nearly dinner time. Oh, how this work made him hungry! He went over to the stove on the room and was pleased to see that the tub of water he boiled early was still simmering. He plunged his hands in, washing his hands excessively even though he had operated using his customary leather gloves. A quick change of clothes into his black frock coat and he was out the door, making his way down to the kitchen for a bite to eat.
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Post by Dr de Cassar-Levant on Jan 19, 2008 11:55:02 GMT -5
The kitchen of the cold, near-desolate castle was surprisingly clear, all the troops in camp or mustered in their barracks for the coming action against Bendelsain. Being altogether outside of the loop where the war was concerned, Artemisios didn’t give it much thought. While a well-prepared gourmet meal might better suit his tastes, the cretins and knuckle-draggers which paraded around this place would be fortunate to put the mashed in mashed potatoes. Instead, he found himself some decent salted beef and ale in the pantry, and proceeded to mix them up in an available pot. Boiling the beef with the ale might help the over salted taste, and with luck, make it soft enough to chew. As he stirred it, his mind rolled over the best possibilities to preserve food without resorting to killing them with condiments or drying them out. Apparently, moisture aided the breakdown and rot of food but did measures to help its taste when cooking. If only one could freeze the food without add of mountain-scraped ice...
Twenty minutes later, he was in mid-thought, thinking of the ways in which food might be sealed to prevent outside spoilage when the semi-jerky was ready for eating. Chewing distractedly, his mind went again to the masterpiece of his labors. The Abomination, he called it. Hideous. Monstrous. Destructive. Painstaking to make, of course. Exact science is not an exact science, so the trial and error to produce some of the results needed to make the final product had been horribly painstaking. Notes hastily jotted down after days of no sleep. Differences in chemicals and herbs used, wood and metal if necessary, etc. Poor test subjects despite Lucien’s initial reassurances (The Dark Lord hadn’t so much as called in on him in person since he had moved his lab to his place) and complete idiots for assistants. He would give much to have a semi-intelligent assistant in the lab.
It took a minute before he realized he had company; another one of Lucien’s mud-crunchers was standing there, obviously ready to ruin his sour mood.
“Yes?” His look indicated that if it were anything less than the end of the world, it should wait. The messenger hesitated before replying: “Doctor... One of our generals. He’s.... he needs your assistance. Hopefully if you’re not too busy...”
The good doctor sighed deeply. Always another case with this army. You would think they were made of glass the way he had to attend to them. “Which general? What are his symptoms?”
The messenger hesitated again, perhaps confused. “Lord Altermaar. Ah.... symptoms?” The word was foreign, apparently.
“Yes, symptoms. What is his ailment?” This was clearer to the errand boy, and he nodded before stating: “He is tired, gravely sick, spots, fever....”
Artemisios was up and out of his chair before the sentence was finished. Quickly, the messenger lead him to the generals camp, where the aristocratic and surprisingly human general lay in his bed, obviously sick. Lord Altermaar, a human chieftain from the north with a bit of decent tastes in clothes and furnishings, was grey like death. His lips were dry and cracked, eyes dull and red around the edges. His breath was shallow. Sweat matted his black hair to his skull. The doctor slipped on some leather gloves he had in his pocket, and bent over to inspect the patient. Immediately, he thought contagion, but of what origin?
“I see you are down in spirits, Altermaar.” He said amusedly, almost to himself. The lack of a military or aristocratic title made the messenger stiffen, but the general paid no heed, merely moving his eyes slowly and nodding. “How long?” The general spoke weakly, indicating he had been sick only a day or so. “Stick out your tongue.” The general, after a moment’s pause, complied. “More. Say ‘ah’, please. There. Splendid.” The condition of the tongue, with its blisters and spots, confirmed an earlier suspicion. “Well, I believe I know what your condition is, Altermaar.”
The doctor helped himself to a quill and ink vial on the desk, quickly jotting down some herbs and liquids he would need to treat the infirm lord. Paying no mind at all to the fact that it was written down on official dispatch from His Lordship, Artemisios handed it to the messenger.
“I need these to treat him. The more the merrier. I trust you can read?” He said with a sneer, but the messenger nodded. “Good. You’re useful after all. Go find this and do not come back until you do.” No further details necessary; the messenger was gone like a shot.
“Doctor.... what...” Lord Altermaar was struggling to sit up, anxious to know what his fate would be. The army was moving out, and he did not want to trust his men to his lieutenant, a power-hungry tiefling. Impatient and caring less about the military, the doctor pushed him back down onto the bed with a scowl.
“No, you rest. This fever you have. It is a gift from your nightly labors with a camp girl, no doubt?” The general, even sick as he was, paled even more. “Never mind that. Let this be a lesson to be more picky in your partners, Altermaar. But all lessons in life are painful. You must keep down, save up your strength, and take plenty of brew.” Nasty brew, he thought inwardly with a smile. “If you are fortunate, the sores and fever will die down within two nights’ time. If not... “ He let it hang eerily in the air, the weight of his knowledge making even the whimsical sentences carry nothing but dread for the helpless patient. Though more at home with mixing chemicals and sawing bones, part of being a personal physician brought out the sadistic evil within him.
Perhaps there was some benefit to being the only worthwhile doctor among lords and generals.
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