DB Lazarus
patreon
67. Complications - I
🕑 Added 2025-04-24 05:00:09 +0000 UTCOnly two people took me up on my offer the first day, and only one, the next day. From there, people’s acceptance of my help varied based on the size of the pocket of crystals we discovered. Larger deposits equated to more monsters and injuries. Still, even with Rægnor’s help, I never convinced more than two in a day, and those tended to be repeat customers. I tried to give it no mind. I got to use my skills, and more importantly, no one sported lingering, untreated injuries. They had found a way to heal themselves when needed. However, I couldn’t fully convince myself that the situation would change with more severe injuries. Prejudices ran deep, especially among the older generation.
It wasn’t something I could change. Instead, I settled into my new routine of ferrying debris, crystal, or dead terrorvoles when they stacked up or helping Dorian work on the tunnel when nothing needed transporting. I also relentlessly reminded them to change their soiled bandages, which earned me more than a few annoyed looks. Perhaps, I was pushing the limits of goodwill, but how could I sit back and let disease progress, especially when [Sense Injury] called to me? And it always called to me.
Rægnor had been correct about the skill. [Sense Injury] acted exactly like another sense—always present, impossible to fully shut off, and endlessly distracting. The mine’s inherent gloominess took a new depth as a new negative milieu settled in, leaving a bad taste in my mouth and random, phantom smells. With effort, I could move past it and pierce the subtle accompanying haze to pick up on individual wounds from almost all the Ættir. Unfortunately, once I learned that trick, I couldn’t stop it. At best, I could dampen the sensation, but anything severe enough would still register. Yet, I couldn’t complain too much. Injuries became a beacon, letting me home in on those who needed my help the most. I even convinced a few people to let me help with their worst injuries.
Of course, I couldn’t resist fiddling with the skill, experimenting with filtering—limiting it to certain injury types or ignoring superficial wounds entirely. A key rule became apparent quickly: detail inversely scaled with distance. If I empowered the skill, I could stretch this rule, but that came at a cost. My world tunneled down to only the injuries I focused on, which could leave me helpless in a fight—not exactly rare in this world. However, it did let me detect injuries as subtle as strained muscles on people hidden in recesses on the other side of the cavern.
Of course, in my hubris, I made the mistake of trying to ”push” the skill outward. Predictably, I hit resistance, though this one had some give. I didn’t relent, stretching my limits. At first, it only resulted in a mild headache. However, when I tried it near an Ættar, he immediately glanced in my general direction, eyes searching. I, on the other hand, found myself planting my face in a cart full of terrorvoles. Inhaling the fresh scent of a pile of dead rodents—even if fresh—wasn’t my idea of fun, but feigning a cargo inspection allowed me to hide my grimace from the sensory backlash.
I waited, heart thudding, for a large hand to fall on my shoulder, but nothing came. I eventually pulled my head out of the pile. I didn’t, however, dare look back. I started pushing my cart as casually as possible toward the exit, never letting my hands leave the cart’s handle and reveal the extent to which they shook.
Lesson learned: listen to Rægnor. He had warned me that high-tiers could detect active skills use on them, and what part of pushing outward was passive? Worse, I retained nothing from the flood of information that had poured out of him. The details became lost in the pain and subsequent spike of adrenaline. Would that always be the case? I didn’t know, and I didn’t dare try a second time to find out—at least not with any Ættir in this company. Doing so was the opposite of keeping a low profile, and just as important, I couldn’t shake the guilt that followed. I had obtained medical information on a person who wasn’t my patient.
It seemed silly, but I couldn’t let go of the ethical necessity of privacy. In my old world, HIPAA caused endless headaches, but it existed for a reason. How different was using a skill from opening a random chart and reading it? I couldn’t do much to prevent sensing the injuries around me, but I could at least not go looking. Still, I couldn’t deny my curiosity about my abilities, but I needed to draw clear personal boundaries to avoid crossing lines I couldn't uncross. Add in Dorian’s and Rægnor’s warnings, I needed limits on [Sense Injury].
I started to put all my effort toward suppressing the skill, and after a week of intense practice, I made modest strides in managing the inflow from [Sense Injury]. Still, that small change paid dividends. In retrospect, I had missed the obvious—I had been suffering daily, continual mild sensory overload. The mild tension across my brow for the first hours of my shift—gone. The mental fog that beset me after dinner and lasted until I fell asleep—vanished. Injuries among the throngs of workers remained omnipresent, but they no longer consumed me—just like getting used to a bad smell. I just had to ignore the implications.
Eventually, my curiosity got the better of me, and I did experiment again…to my regret. I shifted my experiment to some of the weakest of the Volki. It was a risk, but the crowd would let me hide. They noticed nothing. Unfortunately, I did—too much of everything. When I pushed, I opened myself up, and the multitude of other people’s injuries overwhelmed me. I only needed two episodes of nearly retching before coming to terms with my inability to scan individuals when surrounded by so many people.
My progress slowed in other ways, too. The company received another stock of potions. Scarcity had pushed people to consider other options. With that gone, well…the expected happened: my stream of new patients slowed to a trickle. However, to my surprise, my few regulars kept coming—potions remained precious enough that they preferred conserving even if it meant dealing with a Human.
Those patients weren’t enough—not for my skill and level growth, and not for my sanity. The sheer monotony of mining was driving me crazy. Maybe Dorian could stare at a wall of rock and find joy in figuring out how to best mine it, but I needed something more. I had fallen in love with medicine for many reasons, and intellectual stimulation was on that list. Optimizing the transport of monster corpses and piles of rock and crystal didn’t cut it. I needed more, even if it exceeded my comfort zone.
So when Rægnor told me that he had a possible new patient for me, I let out a soft “huh.”
I didn’t need [Sense Injury] or a history and physical to have concerns about infection. I could always tell when significant fights had occurred by the amount of terrorvoles I carted out. The company had last engaged with a group of monsters a few days before we got the potion resupply. The number of carcasses I had transported had been on the low end—small enough that I hadn’t felt the need to make a full round to look for injuries—but if my potential patient had used potion only after the resupply, he had a high chance of accelerating any infection that had developed in the gap.
“You have concerns?” Rægnor asked.
“I’m worried about festering.”
“It had that look.”
“It isn’t a dealbreaker. As long as it isn’t too bad, I might have a way to manage it. Everything I have done recently verges on trivial. I wouldn’t mind a chance for something that pushes my skills.”
***
Rægnor had come back with one of the more grizzled veterans of our group. That alone said a lot—no one of his generation had ever taken me up on my offer of help. I didn’t let myself get lulled into complacency by the relative simplicity of his Marks. Despite his age, he moved with a deadly grace, and his weathered skin bore more scars than Rægnor’s. If all Ættir started fighting at a young age, then he had survived this long despite his relatively lower level. No one does that without skill.
He followed closely behind Rægnor without a hint of concern or injury, but that was a false front. I couldn’t see the wound under his tunic, but I didn’t need to. [Sense Injury] had started screaming at me as he approached. Up close, I had to fight the urge to keep swallowing to wash away the acrid taste that had developed in the back of my mouth. He had a significant wound, and without a doubt, it was infected.
Behind me, a pick dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Then Dorian clapped me on the shoulder as he walked past. “I need to check a few more of those tunnels to see if we need to redirect them towards another deposit.”
“Sounds good. Thanks for letting me know,” and, though I couldn’t say it, for giving the veteran his space.
Rægnor may have espoused a lack of concern for the privacy of protected health information, but every Ættir that came here had relaxed a bit when Dorian left. He picked up on that quickly—or maybe he was just squeamish. Either way, I didn't miss the significance of his gesture or the inconvenience it caused.
I faced my prospective patient, not bothering with introductions. I was the “Human,” and asking his name would have ended things here. “I know you have reservations, but you need to get that wound on your back taken care of before it gets worse.”
He scowled, but he let his body relax. “So you may have some expertise after all.”
I just cocked an eyebrow at this test. “I could give you more details if you like.”
“No. It isn’t necessary. I don't like being here, but I'm not a fool. I have few options, and this is hampering my work."
“I am not surprised. Now, can I see the wound?” [Sense Injury] had its uses, but it didn’t provide the fine detail of a visual inspection. Of course, skills seemed to trump everything. So, even with a meager patient pool, I had learned to lead with them.
He turned and lifted up his tunic to reveal a jagged laceration along his right back. It traced the wing of his lower right lat.
“Terrorvole claw?” I asked. It wasn’t three lacerations, but little else left jagged cuts deep enough to scrape bone.
“Yes. A damn rodent slipped between my guard and got a claw in me.”
“I’m impressed it only did this.”
“It didn’t last long once I got my hands on it.”
“Ah.” I couldn’t help but glance at one of his massive, green hands. No doubt he could have crushed a terrorvole’s skull with ease. “That would make ripping out the claw much easier. Not that you need another reason to finish them off quickly.”
I pulled out some water and washed my hands. “I am going to inspect the wound to get a better handle on what I am dealing with. It may hurt.”
His skin was warm to the touch, but I didn’t hold back on the pressure. No Ættar had ever so much as winced when I inspected and palpated a wound. I could have skipped the warning, but better to waste a few breaths unnecessarily preparing a patient than create bad habits. Pain tolerance like theirs couldn’t be commonplace.
After a few minutes, I stepped back and circled around to talk with him. "It's definitely infect—I mean festering. I have a skill that should help, but I am still learning its limits. Best case, the wound heals with far less potion than normal. Worst case, the festering gets worse, and I not only can’t help you but I also wasted your potion. That said, I can minimize that risk with a test drop, but I can’t eliminate it. Will you be okay with taking that risk?”
I waited for him to absorb the details of my informed consent, a novel concept here.
He stared at me for a minute and then frowned at Rægnor. “Is this why you warned me that he might want to use his own potion?”
“Yes. He does not want to be in your debt if it does not work.”
”But if it does, then I will owe him.”
“My guess is this will be quite a valuable experience.” To which I nodded. “You can always give him some of your potion if you feel the need to even the scales.”
“I do not like this.”
“I know, my brother. But this isn’t a normal situation. Think carefully about how many opportunities this Human has to increase his skill and what that could mean for our company.”
It was beyond annoying that they spoke as if I weren't there, but their dislike for Humans ran deep, especially in this generation. I had done this song and dance with Rægnor before. Typically, I stayed out of it, but he was on the edge. So I pushed. “I am not a [Healer]. My skill only works on potions and other medicinals.”
His eyes narrowed. “Yet you healed your hærlið.”
“I kept him alive. The Vísir healed him. That injury was beyond my skill,” and I really emphasized the next bit, “at least for now.”
The longer I lived in this world, the more convinced I became that I’d fundamentally changed. Perhaps I should have realized it earlier. After all, I only needed to look in a mirror to see that I had shed over a decade, but my mind hadn’t changed…or so I thought. I had only inklings before hitting level 5, but breaking into the second tier brought it to the forefront. I had lost some of my emotional stability. My anger burned hotter. I had also gained a new…urge.
Level 5 provided a taste of what this world could offer. With it, a primal hunger took up residence in the back of my mind. It pushed me to find ways to carve out a bigger piece of the world’s magic for myself. At least, unlike my newfound anger, it remained more focused, but given the right opportunity, it was that much harder to deny.
“Fine, but at least show me how much potion you have.”
I pulled it out for him. “I am not scraping the bottom.” The vial was essentially full. I had missed every fight since our potion resupply, and Ættir preferred to use their own when I offered to heal them to avoid “debts.” Since the size of their wounds never pushed my limits, I had yet to fail to heal a wound or need to pay someone back.
After examining my potion, he agreed.
