Garden of the Prophet > Chantry of Medicia

Beware the Physicen

Let not the Brethren of the Order stray from the Chapel Medicis to the physicen of the low decks and village they knew as children. The exhortation of armor and long-cannon is your shield, just as the word of the Prophet upon the flesh of the Faith is theirs. The Prophet's seed is clenched beneath the never-healing scar in shield of our hearts; we live the life of years in His service. The medicia of peasant and least of the faithful is not for we dutiful Hands of the Prophet.

Watch you those peasant physicen with faith foremost in the heart and you will be guided by the Prophet. These least of the faithful might speak with the Prophet's words, or be the riverbed upon which whispers of Contagion flow. It is the duty of the Medicist to watch for such, just as Preachers look to the hearts of the peasantry.

Motificen, flux, plague and ague are cast upon the faithful as a judgement of the Prophet: faltering of Faith; punishment of the Unhallowed untethered from ancient tower-ruins; whispers from the Void made apparent upon the flesh. The fall of but one soul into the sickness of Contagion may bring bloody flux upon a fortress - but a warning of what will come lest Brethren of the Order root out the seeds of heresy.

In times of plague the devoted Medicist seeks first the physicen of peasant superstition, who give not instruction in the Faith, and cast madness upon the lowest decks. Bring forth these physicen and search their hearts most closely for the signs of Contagion. In wisdom and long service to the Prophet's will, I give you this charge.

[ Posted by Reason on September 24, 2006 | Permanent Link ]

Physicen of the Half-desert Beyond Turyth

You who have come, show yourselves, show yourselves! The dark is for sleep and the Void, not the strong of this realm. Come forth, come forth. I am but old, and this is but my home.

Peasants of the fortress, by my eyes, worn from sand upon the winds and come in search of medicia. Set down your charge, with care now, for this is the Vault of the Prophet's Footstep - yes, once a Holy of the Faith. In truth, it is a Holy yet, for the Prophet's touch upon the Red Realms will never fade. It can only be forgotten a while by Brethren who tend war-shrines and the Cathedral high upon Great Olimpan.

There is water here, and roots if you hunger. Those who brave the wild sand-winds of Awe and hunt thin serpents by night are my friends, and repay my care of this Holy with what little I require. But let us turn to your charge, and the reason for your pilgrimage from the forgen decks of Turyth.

See now, stench is thick about the pocks, and pus gathers fit to leap from his wound. He is heated as a Brother in battle, and such a battle he fights now! There are hearts given to dark whispers in Turyth when the Prophet's name in prayer cannot ward such ills from the least of the Faithful - but you have done well by his soul in your journey, whatever may come.

You have brought a gift well and generous for an old man, and the more so for your hearts in the giving of it. I will be as much in return, and may the Prophet guide your charge to his sense and duty once more. He shall spend this night atop the Prophet's mark in the least-vault below, anointed with amrith from far realms and prayer-pennon of the holy Brother Eryhan about his wound. We can do no more but pray with faith foremost in our hearts.

[ Posted by Reason on September 25, 2006 | Permanent Link ]