30th of Glade, 4622
None of it made sense, Arkash resolved as he administered the numbing agent to the girl’s skin. With every stroke of the brush and swipe of the balm, the thought resounded in his head.
How was it that necromancers made so much money? The payment he was promised for the job at hand was more than any laborer’s salary, and yet, all he was contracted to do was apply some cosmetic changes to a wealthy family’s daughter. A laborer had so much to offer a community in terms of raw materials and production. What did Arkash give society?
He set the mortar aside with the brush leaned over the cusp, then swiveled in his seat to reach into his bag. From its contents, he drew his grafting needle, some carving sickles of various sizes, and a loaded Sinew Gun. He stared for a moment while the anesthetic set in, and continued to think of the situation.
Did it not make sense to incentivize the backbone of society? A Necrodoctor was allegedly one of the most well-paying jobs anyone could strive for, Arkash knew. Why? The job was easy and the highest paid tasks were all that for aesthetic adjustments to some snob’s nose?
Quietly, he seethed while he stared at the tools that rested on the table, fingers clasped together. “Pardona me, monsieur?” The young lady asked in a Gentaverse accent.
Arkash’s attention was stolen from his thoughts, and he looked to her with a raise of his brows. “Hmm, yes?” he asked as he looked over the site of the local anesthetic. It appeared to have been absorbed by her skin, as very little of the paste remained on the surface. “How is your nose feeling, little one?”
Her eyes widened at the expression, overcome with some onset fury as her brows furrowed. The top of her nose seemed to bridge a little, too. “Leettel one? Est-ce que tu sais qui je suis?!” Arkash pursed his lips while he withheld his scorn. “La Demoiselle, is vhat oo veel cull mee.”
He hated the nobility. The spoiled brat before him was probably far richer than he’d ever been and it drove him mad. Even so, it wasn’t as though he could say anything on the matter, not with her father sat just across the room from them; the man that was paying him for the surface. “…Apologies, La Damoiselle,” he continued. “Can you feel your nose?”
“Non,” she answered flatly.
“Excellent, then we’re ready to begin. Please hold still, you might feel a pinch…” With that, he collected his scalpel and pinched it between his index finger and thumb while the weight of the tool rested against his hand. Gently, he came to hold her forehead down and pressed the tip of the blade against her skin, toward the top of the bridge, and gently slid it down the length of her nose bone to open the skin completely. With some medical pliers, he gently opened the skin further, then eased the implement around her nose bone to take hold, and gently pushed to the side in an effort to align it.
Arkash might have appeared as a doctor of magnificent skill by the level of control and coordination he showed with his hands, but such wasn’t the case. Arkash’s dexterity came from his previous job and night time hobby of assassination.
As he deviated the septum’s placement to more appropriately align it with her face, he reached in with the smallest carving sickle and shaved away some excess bone on the one side. With a gentle nod, he held his hand still and turned around to fetch the Sinew gun. He’d fashioned it with a long, thin nozzle for the perfect placement of Sinew Foam. Gently, he eased the nozzle into the hold of the nose skin, and ran a trail along the area he’d separated in the beginning. As the foam set and took the composition of the sinew, muscle and bone he’d made room for, he gently released his hold of the pliers, and the septum remained in place.
A little more touching up around the site of the Sinew Foam injection saw a little excess come free before Arkash set his tools down. From what he could tell with the naked eye, the alignment was perfect. He took a marked ruler and measured the straightened septum toward her brow very carefully. Everything there was in line. With a pinch of the skin, he bent down a little to inspect the nostrils as they formed, shut one eye, then measured them with that same ruler.
A raise of both brows and an affirmative nod saw everything was in line. While he still pinched her nose skin together, he looked to her and prepared to deliver his instructions after a moment’s thought. “If you could please breathe in, La Damoiselle, that would be very helpful.” The purpose was to test her airways and ensure they were unclogged by any debris. He felt the rush of air as she inhaled, then nodded in approval.
Most carefully, he fished the shavings of sundered bone and muscle from the inside of the nose with a pair of tweezers and set them aside. Then, most carefully, he aligned his Grafting Needle and began to suture the skin closed. After twisting the implement, the skin set without scarring, and the Sinew Thread molded to her same shade and tone of dermis. Next, he cleared the dried blood from where it had run in rivulets above her lip with a few gentle dabs of a damp cloth. “There we go… I know you’re still numb, but it should wear off in the next hour or so,” he explained as he set the cloth down and fetched a hand mirror.
Steadily, he helped her sit up from the elevated bed and held the mirror so that she could see herself. His eyes watched hers as they widened at the sight of her adjusted feature, and her mouth opened wide only to end up covered by her hand.
Arkash exhaled in relief; she was happy.
“Mon noz!” She called as her breathing began to quicken. Arkash’s eyes widened; she didn’t sound happy. “Vhat heve oo done?!” Tears streamed from her eyes while she covered her mouth with both hands.
“What’s wrong?” Arkash asked. “It’s perfectly aligned, I don’t understand,” he explained. He’d recounted the measurement s to the millimeter, what had her so worked up?
“Eet is ruened! Je ne t'aime pas si je suis honnête !” She all but spat.
Arkash’s jaw pressed hard while he stared. What had he missed? The bridge was almost unaltered with the correct taper, her nostrils were both equal in diameter, the angle of her septum was perfectly aligned. Was there something she saw that he couldn’t? Was the eye of an entente superior to measuring instruments?
“That’s quite enough,” declared the patriarch of the house, who spoke much better common than that of his daughter. “I think it’s time you leave, mister Caro. What did you say your last name was?”
It took everything in him not to grit his teeth while he stared the Veir down. His look apparently bled enough of his agitation to give away his thoughts, as the Veir rose a brow at his continued stare. “Caedimire, my Veir,” he said as he turned around and set the mirror down. Quickly, he began to pack away his kit. All the while, the girl screamed and cried. Something didn’t sit right with him; everything about the situation felt off. A glance over his shoulder saw him meet the patriarch’s expression, who smiled quite proudly at his daughter while Arkash had his back turned.
Quickly, he returned to his packing and set all his implements in their proper places. “We won’t be needing your services again, Caro Caedimire. Now run along before I have the Halamire pay your office a visit,” he warned.
“Ne le paie pas père…” The girl sobbed and sniffled.
“Oh I know darling, don’t worry. I wouldn’t pay someone to treat you so cruelly,” the father continued as Arkash took both his bags, then hurried for the door.
On his way out, he looked over his shoulder again, and caught the smile of the young girl, arrogant in the cruelty of her eyes. Arkash’s heart began to beat faster, his breath quickened and his arms grew tense below his pressed jaw. The door was slammed quite hard on his way out, but nowhere near his full force. Arkash growled through a snarl as he made his way through the Veir’s estate, and let himself out the front door with the Valran on his tail. It was a rouse, Arkash was convinced the family had played him.
There was nothing wrong with her nose, they just didn’t want to pay him for his work. His mind flooded with bitter resentment and the spiraling of thoughts, Arkash looked back on the revolution with vindication. Catherine Florent had a hundred of those executions coming if she’d behaved anything like the Entente. It was all those times that higher society had robbed him of what he’d deserved, what was rightfully his, that set him against them in the first place. Did they not see the consequences of their actions?
One day they would.
One day, they would all see.
None of it made sense, Arkash resolved as he administered the numbing agent to the girl’s skin. With every stroke of the brush and swipe of the balm, the thought resounded in his head.
How was it that necromancers made so much money? The payment he was promised for the job at hand was more than any laborer’s salary, and yet, all he was contracted to do was apply some cosmetic changes to a wealthy family’s daughter. A laborer had so much to offer a community in terms of raw materials and production. What did Arkash give society?
He set the mortar aside with the brush leaned over the cusp, then swiveled in his seat to reach into his bag. From its contents, he drew his grafting needle, some carving sickles of various sizes, and a loaded Sinew Gun. He stared for a moment while the anesthetic set in, and continued to think of the situation.
Did it not make sense to incentivize the backbone of society? A Necrodoctor was allegedly one of the most well-paying jobs anyone could strive for, Arkash knew. Why? The job was easy and the highest paid tasks were all that for aesthetic adjustments to some snob’s nose?
Quietly, he seethed while he stared at the tools that rested on the table, fingers clasped together. “Pardona me, monsieur?” The young lady asked in a Gentaverse accent.
Arkash’s attention was stolen from his thoughts, and he looked to her with a raise of his brows. “Hmm, yes?” he asked as he looked over the site of the local anesthetic. It appeared to have been absorbed by her skin, as very little of the paste remained on the surface. “How is your nose feeling, little one?”
Her eyes widened at the expression, overcome with some onset fury as her brows furrowed. The top of her nose seemed to bridge a little, too. “Leettel one? Est-ce que tu sais qui je suis?!” Arkash pursed his lips while he withheld his scorn. “La Demoiselle, is vhat oo veel cull mee.”
He hated the nobility. The spoiled brat before him was probably far richer than he’d ever been and it drove him mad. Even so, it wasn’t as though he could say anything on the matter, not with her father sat just across the room from them; the man that was paying him for the surface. “…Apologies, La Damoiselle,” he continued. “Can you feel your nose?”
“Non,” she answered flatly.
“Excellent, then we’re ready to begin. Please hold still, you might feel a pinch…” With that, he collected his scalpel and pinched it between his index finger and thumb while the weight of the tool rested against his hand. Gently, he came to hold her forehead down and pressed the tip of the blade against her skin, toward the top of the bridge, and gently slid it down the length of her nose bone to open the skin completely. With some medical pliers, he gently opened the skin further, then eased the implement around her nose bone to take hold, and gently pushed to the side in an effort to align it.
Arkash might have appeared as a doctor of magnificent skill by the level of control and coordination he showed with his hands, but such wasn’t the case. Arkash’s dexterity came from his previous job and night time hobby of assassination.
As he deviated the septum’s placement to more appropriately align it with her face, he reached in with the smallest carving sickle and shaved away some excess bone on the one side. With a gentle nod, he held his hand still and turned around to fetch the Sinew gun. He’d fashioned it with a long, thin nozzle for the perfect placement of Sinew Foam. Gently, he eased the nozzle into the hold of the nose skin, and ran a trail along the area he’d separated in the beginning. As the foam set and took the composition of the sinew, muscle and bone he’d made room for, he gently released his hold of the pliers, and the septum remained in place.
A little more touching up around the site of the Sinew Foam injection saw a little excess come free before Arkash set his tools down. From what he could tell with the naked eye, the alignment was perfect. He took a marked ruler and measured the straightened septum toward her brow very carefully. Everything there was in line. With a pinch of the skin, he bent down a little to inspect the nostrils as they formed, shut one eye, then measured them with that same ruler.
A raise of both brows and an affirmative nod saw everything was in line. While he still pinched her nose skin together, he looked to her and prepared to deliver his instructions after a moment’s thought. “If you could please breathe in, La Damoiselle, that would be very helpful.” The purpose was to test her airways and ensure they were unclogged by any debris. He felt the rush of air as she inhaled, then nodded in approval.
Most carefully, he fished the shavings of sundered bone and muscle from the inside of the nose with a pair of tweezers and set them aside. Then, most carefully, he aligned his Grafting Needle and began to suture the skin closed. After twisting the implement, the skin set without scarring, and the Sinew Thread molded to her same shade and tone of dermis. Next, he cleared the dried blood from where it had run in rivulets above her lip with a few gentle dabs of a damp cloth. “There we go… I know you’re still numb, but it should wear off in the next hour or so,” he explained as he set the cloth down and fetched a hand mirror.
Steadily, he helped her sit up from the elevated bed and held the mirror so that she could see herself. His eyes watched hers as they widened at the sight of her adjusted feature, and her mouth opened wide only to end up covered by her hand.
Arkash exhaled in relief; she was happy.
“Mon noz!” She called as her breathing began to quicken. Arkash’s eyes widened; she didn’t sound happy. “Vhat heve oo done?!” Tears streamed from her eyes while she covered her mouth with both hands.
“What’s wrong?” Arkash asked. “It’s perfectly aligned, I don’t understand,” he explained. He’d recounted the measurement s to the millimeter, what had her so worked up?
“Eet is ruened! Je ne t'aime pas si je suis honnête !” She all but spat.
Arkash’s jaw pressed hard while he stared. What had he missed? The bridge was almost unaltered with the correct taper, her nostrils were both equal in diameter, the angle of her septum was perfectly aligned. Was there something she saw that he couldn’t? Was the eye of an entente superior to measuring instruments?
“That’s quite enough,” declared the patriarch of the house, who spoke much better common than that of his daughter. “I think it’s time you leave, mister Caro. What did you say your last name was?”
It took everything in him not to grit his teeth while he stared the Veir down. His look apparently bled enough of his agitation to give away his thoughts, as the Veir rose a brow at his continued stare. “Caedimire, my Veir,” he said as he turned around and set the mirror down. Quickly, he began to pack away his kit. All the while, the girl screamed and cried. Something didn’t sit right with him; everything about the situation felt off. A glance over his shoulder saw him meet the patriarch’s expression, who smiled quite proudly at his daughter while Arkash had his back turned.
Quickly, he returned to his packing and set all his implements in their proper places. “We won’t be needing your services again, Caro Caedimire. Now run along before I have the Halamire pay your office a visit,” he warned.
“Ne le paie pas père…” The girl sobbed and sniffled.
“Oh I know darling, don’t worry. I wouldn’t pay someone to treat you so cruelly,” the father continued as Arkash took both his bags, then hurried for the door.
On his way out, he looked over his shoulder again, and caught the smile of the young girl, arrogant in the cruelty of her eyes. Arkash’s heart began to beat faster, his breath quickened and his arms grew tense below his pressed jaw. The door was slammed quite hard on his way out, but nowhere near his full force. Arkash growled through a snarl as he made his way through the Veir’s estate, and let himself out the front door with the Valran on his tail. It was a rouse, Arkash was convinced the family had played him.
There was nothing wrong with her nose, they just didn’t want to pay him for his work. His mind flooded with bitter resentment and the spiraling of thoughts, Arkash looked back on the revolution with vindication. Catherine Florent had a hundred of those executions coming if she’d behaved anything like the Entente. It was all those times that higher society had robbed him of what he’d deserved, what was rightfully his, that set him against them in the first place. Did they not see the consequences of their actions?
One day they would.
One day, they would all see.
