- Pronoun
- they or she
Frontier Town had its fair share of quacks and snake oil merchants, but it had one credible GP, and they said that if the reaper came for you while in her care, they wouldn't take you without a fight.
The indeedee doctor, who gave her name as Drungfield, ran a small practice succinctly titled "Drungfield's Remedies, Tonics, Salves, & Medical Consultation" – although nobody, not even the doc herself, ever called it that. The sign simply read "Apothecary" and displayed a small icon of a winged allium bulb. The doc was at once the town's physician, pharmacist, and psychiatrist, though only very reluctantly would she perform the latter service. The Gazette once quoted her as saying "you can catch crazy, if you go out of your way to spend time with it".
Pushing through the wooden door produced a deliberately-neglected creak, and caused a clutch of bells to chime overhead, in order to be heard over the bustle of Frontier Town. The scent in the air was a strange brew of aromatics and antiseptics – mingling notes of lavender and Heal Powder with the sharper tang of rubbing alcohol. The room was dim, lit by miserly gas lamps, which glinted off shelves and racks of jars, containing medicinal herbs like cheri and rawst, tinctures and ointments of every kind, medical alcohol for disinfectant, cheap whiskey for anaesthetic, and even a few dubious vials containing what appeared to be scolipede extract, presumably for manufacturing antivenom. Sitrus and oran berries hung in nets, their colors muted in the low light.
The space was divided not by walls, but by indoor curtains and folding stands, and one corner was given over to spare medical beds stacked on their ends, and a cushioned leather examination table that looked collapsible for transport. Various medical implements were laid out on a wooden table near the doc's desk: precision scales for measuring herbal doses, tweezers for extracting poison barbs, and an old leather-bound book – perhaps a medical journal, or a catalogue of local maladies and cures.
Drungfield herself looked like a male indeedee at first glance, though she was very quick to correct anyone who made that mistake – or any mistake. She wore a pair of half-moon glasses, and a stern gaze. When not working with a patient or out of her office, she was generally to be found reading at her desk. A sign hung just over her shoulder, engraved with the doc's distinctively blunt philosophy: "Real medicine doesn't taste sweet".
The indeedee doctor, who gave her name as Drungfield, ran a small practice succinctly titled "Drungfield's Remedies, Tonics, Salves, & Medical Consultation" – although nobody, not even the doc herself, ever called it that. The sign simply read "Apothecary" and displayed a small icon of a winged allium bulb. The doc was at once the town's physician, pharmacist, and psychiatrist, though only very reluctantly would she perform the latter service. The Gazette once quoted her as saying "you can catch crazy, if you go out of your way to spend time with it".
Pushing through the wooden door produced a deliberately-neglected creak, and caused a clutch of bells to chime overhead, in order to be heard over the bustle of Frontier Town. The scent in the air was a strange brew of aromatics and antiseptics – mingling notes of lavender and Heal Powder with the sharper tang of rubbing alcohol. The room was dim, lit by miserly gas lamps, which glinted off shelves and racks of jars, containing medicinal herbs like cheri and rawst, tinctures and ointments of every kind, medical alcohol for disinfectant, cheap whiskey for anaesthetic, and even a few dubious vials containing what appeared to be scolipede extract, presumably for manufacturing antivenom. Sitrus and oran berries hung in nets, their colors muted in the low light.
The space was divided not by walls, but by indoor curtains and folding stands, and one corner was given over to spare medical beds stacked on their ends, and a cushioned leather examination table that looked collapsible for transport. Various medical implements were laid out on a wooden table near the doc's desk: precision scales for measuring herbal doses, tweezers for extracting poison barbs, and an old leather-bound book – perhaps a medical journal, or a catalogue of local maladies and cures.
Drungfield herself looked like a male indeedee at first glance, though she was very quick to correct anyone who made that mistake – or any mistake. She wore a pair of half-moon glasses, and a stern gaze. When not working with a patient or out of her office, she was generally to be found reading at her desk. A sign hung just over her shoulder, engraved with the doc's distinctively blunt philosophy: "Real medicine doesn't taste sweet".
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