Famotill

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

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Aemma studied the newest arrival from the corner of her eyes. He was dressed down unlike the others; fine clothes to be sure, but not likely the furs of a nobleman. Perhaps a local or at least someone who’d been here for a time. The man was hardy and tall for a human; she figured him for a soldier. Adjusting her glance to meet his she found that he was already observing the group. She felt his gaze linger on the one called Javiyah for longer than the two men. Before his eyes could meet hers she shifted her attention away; checking pouches she’d already scrutinized meticulously. His glaring was rather obvious even with her sight obscured. It lasted nearly long enough for her to speak up. Before she could think to his eyes changed focus again, and he cleared his throat.

"I am Hugon. I arrived here a few days ago at the same request of Lord Lochborne's as you all. He has told me nothing more than what he has told you all, I'm afraid, so we will simply have to wait for him to return."

The elven medic looked to Hugon once again this time offering a small smile. Any pleasantries she could’ve offered were interrupted by the clanging of metal against stone. As if moths entranced by burning wick the servants made their way towards the window. Their screams were nearly enough to force Aemma from her seat as her attention turned to them. Only when the dim of candle fire was snuffed out did dread rise; ushered in by the darkness. Closing her eyes for a moment and taking a breath the elven woman was ready to lend aid to the two screaming servants. The creaks from an opening door were enough to keep her in place.

It was a shadow. A mass of bones and something other. It floated like some sort of apparition, but even still it made an otherworldly sound with its advance. As if by its command, the two servants dropped to the floor. By the whites of their eyes, whatever this...creature did to them might have been fatal. As quickly as they dropped, and the being drew closer, did Hugon unsheathe his weapon. The cold noise rang out as the dagger, the iron shining amidst the darkness, cut against its holster. Most of the others seemed enraptured in the horrors of the spectacle before them. Even more so when the creature began to speak.

“Ye will all die,” it uttered. The specter’s voice was hoarse; as if its throat had been cut open. For any being of this realm such strain would reveal a weakness of the lungs. But this creature still managed to echo throughout the room. As if the voice was coming from within Aemma’s very soul. Even obscured in darkness she could see the shadow lean over Hugon. It spoke again.

“A being of righteous violence, soon to lose faith and be damned.” In the mystique of the shadow’s voice, the words felt like a prophecy, but Aemma saw them for what they were. A warning.

As if stirred by her thought the creature’s attention turned to her.

“A mother of the dead, defying my wishes,” the rest of the specter’s words faded to dust in her mouth. So too did the words of her allies fade from her periphery.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

She saw the trickery before her. An illusion wearing her face. Once again the elven woman closed her eyes, but only for a brief moment. She felt her heart sinking like a sack of stones tossed to sea. The words had gripped her in a way she understood all too well. For a moment the look of despair about her face broke into some sort of contentment. Her fist tightened in the arm of her chair, and in that instant she could feel the table before her turn to nothingness. She inhaled, unintentionally breathing in bits of the floating sawdust as she returned her focus to the imminent threat.

“Proclaim my doom all you want, you are not the first to try to see me into an early grave and by my will, you won't be the last. Now I stand by Lord Locheborne, leave or face the bite of cold steel,” the young warrior warned as he rose to meet the shadow and stand by Hugon. His words were enough to bring her to reality. She’d let them be the ones to make their declarations and threats. They were much more convincing at it than she. Even still her aged hands moved swiftly to her pouches as she rose to join them. She looked to Auric, nodding to him; a silent vindication of his defiance.

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

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"All physicians, mage or otherwise, bear the scars of their patients. We carry them for the rest of our days. That is what it means to be a healer. That is our burden."

Aemma the Atoner

Gender: Woman
Age: 57
Race: Elf
Homeland: Kingdom of Baldock
Profession: Medic

Aemma the Atoner

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Detailed Appearance: Aemma's appearance is far from foreboding. She stands much shorter than most of her kind. Her lithe shape, old age, and declining physical prowess have left her hunched over slightly most of the time. Even still, buried beneath mounds of ragged clothes, an overcoat and hood, there is a roguish streak about her. Her skin, the color of cinnamon spices, is tough and wrinkled. Calloused hands from years of service as a combat medic are still her best ally despite their slight shakiness. Aemma's weary eyes are a deep black, but made somehow more soft nestled between crows-feet and bags. Her smile is warm, but even at her happiest there is a melancholy she carries with her.

Typically her linen are without color, a dull grey. Her overcoat and hood are a mix of steel grey and black. She wears knee high boots leather boots. On her person at all time are a number of medicinal supplies and recipes stored in pouches and pockets that line her clothing. Torn gloves do little to hide the bandages that wrap around her hands and wrists beneath. Her tattered coat flows to her shins, and her hood obscures most of her white whittling hair save for parts of her bangs.

Aemma's body is scarred nearly everywhere because of her healing magic. Her face has finer scars, save for a healed gash on her cheek, as most people who have injuries to the head either don't survive them or don't have injuries that practical medicine can't fix. Lining most of her body are stab wounds, burns, gashes, and other manner of scars from injuries she never personally received. The clothing manages to hide most of them save for the occasional wrist or neck scar.

Detailed Personality:Aemma's experiences never really changed who she was, not really. Rather, they only exaggerated many of the traits she'd had. Of course her naivete has been stripped away with age, but she still remains hopeful of better tomorrows. There is a melancholy that shadows Aemma most days. She is thoughtful- sometimes noticeably so. She often gazes longingly ahead of her. Reflection and introspection are important to Aemma, and she finds it hard to respect those incapable of facing their own faults. Aemma is very protective, not just of friends, but of everyone she deems to be innocent or good. She isn't loud or brash, but is sharp. She doesn't use wit or clever barbs to interact with undesirables. Instead, her persistent calmness, compassion, and wisdom tend to win out. She usually has an answer for most things. Even if it isn't the correct one.

She believes in treating everyone with a basic level of respect until they do something to warrant taking away said respect. She is often rather sweet, and enjoys humming elven hymns. She is a terrible cook, but enjoys it all the same. She often laughs at others being unwilling to tell her how awful her food tastes for fear of upsetting her. Not much offends her, but she is quick to defend someone who might be hurt by words. Perhaps the darkest side of Aemma is her fixation with order in the face of disaster. She will murmur spells and medical recipes to herself obsessively in times of crisis, and unfortunately may lash out at others in dire situations should they get something wrong. This isn't out of anger, but out of a compulsion no doubt brought on by her trauma.

Aemma is a caretaker above all else. She doesn't like being looked after or pitied, especially in her old age. She tends to get impatient when people pay her too much attention. She'd much rather listen- to a friend, a stranger, or a gentle breeze- than talk about herself. Her input is almost usually advice, anecdotal or otherwise. She enjoys the company of people. She likes crowds and feels safest surrounded by others- especially strangers.

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Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

Like most born in Baldock, I was a child forged by blood oaths and swords. An empire who accounted not for souls, for people, but for the shields they'd soon carry. I suppose that explains the naivete of my mother and father, Maker keep them. They were elves born to foreign lands poor and tired of rule under the Elven Matriarchs. They'd hoped Baldock would be different. Tis often I reflect on the failings of old wisdom, and how comfortable it is to simply exist. Consistency. That is what Myrran and Paeral sought in foreign lands. A sense of normalcy away from the realities of home. A neutral peace.

For a time that is what they had. I was born on the eve of the latest excursion into Orc territory. Myrran, my mother, had taken to working as a handmaiden to petty nobles. Paeral, my father, was a sheep herder. Our humble home stored one bed with a kitchen no larger than a merchant stand. I remember my father would read me stories of their homeland. Of the triumphs of our elven ancestors. He never had the courage to tell my mother that he regretted coming here. My mother was a stern women so, for that, I could not fault my father. She spent much time away from our cottage. Still, she always managed to return home with fresh bread and a new lecture.

Of all of the lessons she imparted there remained one constant. Keep your nose down, and stay out of trouble. I was never great at listening. I had little want for keeping to the shadows of the world that was. It was a different kind of naivete than my parents'. I would see the soldiers coming back from failed excursions. I watched as the physicians treated them with leeches and controlled magic. It was the same kind of power that I possessed. I could feel their life force humming in their hands.

In this world very few are blessed with the tools to change their circumstances. By the time I was old enough, I traveled into the city of Dalton. I'd heard of their academy, and I had already learned to use the magic I possessed in small ways. My father pleaded that I reconsider. My mother refused every time I begged. I'd trail behind her every morning on her way into the city. It took months of my pestering, but eventually she permitted me to go.

The things I learned in that school were not at all what I expected. Instead of a place to harness my power it was a place of fear-mongering. A place that taught me to fear my capabilities rather than teach me how to use them safely. Luckily there were those in the city who disagreed with such methods of teaching. I learned what I could from them, and from the academy. I trained closely with Dalton physicians. Suturing, bloodletting, needling, alchemy, barrier projection, and of course calling on magic as treatment. I'd even managed to see a trepanning procedure before it fell out of practice. I couldn't mentor under a doctor in any official capacity, of course, I was an academy student. I was not meant to be taking lessons from mages outside of the orthodoxy. Nevertheless more practical doctors would allow me to assist them, fetch supplies, and take notes. I do remember an older physician. I never learned of his name. I remember I'd sit high on the fences overlooking the marketplace watching him work. He was the fastest I'd ever seen. I wanted so badly to speak with him. I never got the chance.

All of my greatest lessons came from my work as a medic in combat. I served as doctor to soldiers in the field. Fear of bleeding out leaves little room for error or for nerves. It was here that I would meet my husband. Lambert the Toad Knight, they called him. The old fool was a novice in soldier's armor. I think back on those days with a bittersweet nostalgia. I can remember the sting of desert sun against my youthful face. There was one particular night, I remember braving the Badlands. Our camp was forced to fall back for another water source. I remember coming face-to-face with an orcish unit- it was my first time. The orcs ripped through half of our party in minutes. We were lucky that any of us managed to escape the ambush. I remember Lambert sitting with me beneath the stars all night, after it was over. He took a hard fall, and was hardly great company. Even still, that was the night I fell in love with him. Love didn't make him a better warrior. Among my amputee patients, those with plague or rashes, was almost always Lamber with some new injury. It was how I came to know him so well. He was under my tent more than I was. I watched the fire fall from his eyes when the injuries never stopped coming. It wasn't long before he was forced to retire his sword. After returning home to him I found little reason to endanger myself again in direct combat. I saw how the Orcs brutalized our forces. At the time I had hated their kind, for it. Seeing men ripped asunder time after time will break you in ways unimaginable to most. Even the most righteous men seem monsters when they cast large shadows.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

There was another reason I chose to stay home. I was with child. I moved from my parents' cottage into the city with Lambert. My mother was overjoyed to see me settled down. But she would never see her wishes for me fulfilled. She passed away a fortnight before I delivered my son, Orym. Named for one of the fabled elven mages in the stories his grandfather read to me as a child. My mother's death left my father touched. He locked himself away in their cottage. Lambert and I ensured that the livestock, and my father, kept from starving. Eventually my father refused to eat. He passed on when Orym was but four months old. With my parents gone I was left feeling empty. I buried myself in research, and in doing so was confronted with the vision of the world I once had. I'd settled for comfort. For the world the way it was. I enlisted as a medic when Orym was seven months old.

Like my mother before me I spent most of my time away from home. I worked in the barracks, mostly. I treated soldiers returning home, but I also treated war prisoners when they got sick. It was in caring for these patients that I met some of my closest friends. Somehow it was easier forming bonds with people who never really got better. There is wisdom in a waning soul. Especially in one that had seen what they'd seen. One such Orc prisoner, Xalen, was a scholar before Baldock forces pushed into orc lands. He told me of the beautiful vistas to the south. Of his home, and of his family. The reasons he fought. Xalen was resilient. He was a brutish figure, but as the wrinkles thickened on our faces so too did our health decline. The conditions wore him down. It was a cough first, and then lesions next. I applied the treatments I'd given to every sick prisoner brought into the ward. What they ordered me to give them. It never changed much. They always lost their fight, in the end.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

Xalen soon lost his fight too. The assistant physicians carried him off like so many others. But he wasn't the others. He was one of the brightest men I'd ever met. I refused to let his body be burned without given him a prayer to our Maker. I went to the morgue at midnight. What I saw changed me forever. Xalen's body, among the other orcs, was bloated and the lesions where gangrenous. I studied his body for what felt like hours. I never studied orc physiology, but I knew what poison looked like. The reality was that I already had my answer. I wasn't studying them for some other explanation. I was trying to justify what I'd done. The orders I followed. We were't treating these people. We were killing them.

In my fumbling I was sloppy, careless. I was found by night patrol guards, and imprisoned. I knew the barracks and the cells better than any of them. By the time I escaped however, it was too late. I'd returned home to a house rummaged through. Lambert was nowhere to be seen. I found my Orym, just shy of twenty, ran through on the floor. His coughs were dry and hoarse. He was burning up. I knew I needed to stop the bleeding and bring down his fever. I used my magic to try to close his wounds. As the hole in his chest closed I felt a tearing and burning at my own chest. The pain was unbearable. Through that I managed to close most of the wound, but he still was choking up blood. He'd become ill. In that moment I thought of my Orym laying there for hours crying for his mother. Shaking the thought I searched for the ingredients to try and soothe him.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk. Most of my equipment and supplies was smashed on the floor. No doubt Orym tried to fight back. A fool just as his father was. I'd managed to scrape some of the elfroot from the floor, and I had a spare bundle of swamp-seeds. In that moment I was panicked. I was careless.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk, and Nightshade. Maker, I swear I could never forget it again.

I couldn't save my son. I certainly couldn't cut through armed guards and save my husband. I contemplated residing myself to the same fate as my father. That's what my mind commanded me to do. Unfortunately, I was never great at listening.

Now I wander the realm using my body and my magic to set things right. I will atone for my mistakes. I am a healer to the sick and the oppressed. Each scar that curses this withering body is a small redemption for the lives I took. Never did I think my newfound purpose would bring me back to the Kingdom of Baldock willingly, no less under the employ of a noble family. The Lochborne's offered me clemency to move freely through their hold in return for my services. A darkness is coming.

I will not fail these people. I cannot.

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Weapons: Taran Jade- Aemma was never a skilled swordsman, but daggers were quick and discreet. A Taran dagger stolen from a patrol near the Orcish border. It's green hilt is covered by tattered bandages stained with old blood.
Armor: Tattered Redeemer's Robes-Aemma's robes are worn, but offer protection from the elements. She wants for little, and needs only her tools.
Armor: Wanderer's Coat-A sturdy overcoat, tattered and stained with dust. Its hood offers discretion in areas Aemma is better off unseen.

General Provisions:Medical Supplies- Aemma's coat and clothes are adorned with a number of pockets and pouches that hold a number of medicinal herbs and supplies. Small scrolls line her pockets as well. She keeps record of every recipe on her person, and can quickly refer to whichever one is needed in a given situation. Sutures, bandages, a small sterile blade, and other first aid essentials are among her supplies.
Magical Items:

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Magical Affinity: Aemma has very little offensive capability. Her magic is mostly used to heal the party, but can be used defensively to warn off attackers.

Spells:

Healing Hands: Aemma's primary minor healing ability. A minor spell that can heal small ailments quickly. This is particularly useful in combat as it has a very short cast time. While this ability can be used reliably, upon each use Aemma suffers from greater pain. This usually takes the form of migraines that become quite intense of repeated use. This can be enough to wear her down physically if she isn't careful.

Healer's Oath: The more potent of Aemma's healing capabilities. This is a sustained spell that can heal grave and potentially fatal wounds. There are a number of downsides to this spell. The spell has a longer cast time, and Aemma sustains damage when healing someone. Closing wounds on another may create the wound on her own body. She heals faster from these wounds than an actual injury, but still requires rest after using it.

Second Wind: A spell that allows Aemma to lend her magic to an ally. In this state the target has bolstered attack and defenses as well as limited replenished health. This comes at a harsh cost for Aemma who is rendered near immobile (often only mobile enough to try to find cover). This ability drains her of most of her magic for some time afterwards. She is also more vulnerable to attacks in this state, and has far weaker defenses in this state.

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

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Aemma gave a small nod toward the servant as he helped her to her seat. Her gaze lingered with him for a few seconds too long. He seemed, almost ghastly, like a sort of phantom. Far too skinny and too pale by the elven doctor’s estimation. Her aged body shuffled against the satin trying to find a comfortable position. The carriage ride was not kind to her aching bones. In her weariness she couldn’t bother to force herself further under the table. Her wandering eyes traveled to each of the other guests for a moment. Perhaps under normal circumstances she would have made conversation on the ride through town, but the sights were far too distracting for Aemma. There were sick and starving children tucked away in dank alleyways, and what few doctors she saw seemed to be touched with a hint of madness. No doubt a case of overexertion on their part. Throngs of sickly denizens walked the streets, and there was a tension in the air nearly as thick as the ominous grey clouds painted in the skies overhead. The guards had resorted to brutality to maintain order; an unfortunate scene, to be sure. Her mind couldn’t help but drift back to the sounds of someone being gutted after an outburst. She could hardly see it, thankfully. Her position within the vehicle obscured the attack, but the familiar squish and ensuing panic did little to assuage her growing trepidation.

It was all somewhat bewildering. She had seen the rot of plague in other cities, but the sickness that haunted this city felt, almost, sentient. There was a malaise about the air that bore down on her upon venturing beyond the edges of the mountainside into Malcast. The fog was heavy, but the curls of smokey air moved with a sort of ferocity. It contorted with every step she took, and it carried the stench of the city with it. Years of hard lessons left Aemma without much room for superstitions, and in her old age there were few things that surprised her. A noble family spending resources to send for a fugitive; a fugitive who most old enough to remember, would’ve presumed dead? That was perplexing. But, the contents of the letter the Lochborne’s sent were even more so. The letter was written feverishly, or at least, the sloppy handwriting and stained parchment seemed to suggest it was. It wove quite the grizzly epic about monstrosities of flesh, and an evil encroaching on the town. The Lochborne family had little choice but to call on the help of foreigners and outlaws; outcasts and old men.

Her eyes studied her would-be companions again. Of them, only one looked to be as old as she was, at least relatively speaking. She’d not spent much time in the company of the insular dwarves, but knew they lived far longer than elvenkind. He was built broadly, and seemed quite physically capable despite this. It was the other two she paid particular mind to. If the Lord of Malcast spoke truly of the horrors plaguing the area it seemed unwise, at least to her, to call on children to solve the problem. Still, she wasn’t here to make demands or pass judgments. They were likely just as capable if Lord Lochborne arranged for them. Then again, that’s what she feared more. To see youth twisted and bent by the 'unpleasantries' of life made her more than uncomfortable.

Stirring from wandering thoughts she gave a smile as her eyes fell on each member of the party. “I suppose that’s enough silence for a lifetime,” she posited to the group. “My name is Aemma.”

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

I guess Aemma will have to bite the bullet! Gonna post my quick intro in the IC! I'll edit for any inconsistencies after reading everyone else's!

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

@Lauder Unfortunately (or, fortunately for my dentist) I can't say I have teeth as amazing as those. I probably would have bit her hand off when she dug that scalpel thing into my gums for the cleaning lol.

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

In my post the carriage ride was silent as well with Aemma too distracted by the sick and ravished townsfolk. I’ll have mine up a bit later. Gonna workout, and had a dentist appointment earlier.

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

Working on my intro post now!

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

I've fixed Aemma up. Raised her age slightly, added a personality section, and made the requested tweaks!

Aemma the Atoner

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"All physicians, mage or otherwise, bear the scars of their patients. We carry them for the rest of our days. That is what it means to be a healer. That is our burden."

Aemma the Atoner

Gender: Woman
Age: 57
Race: Elf
Homeland: Kingdom of Baldock
Profession: Medic

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Detailed Appearance: Aemma's appearance is far from foreboding. She stands much shorter than most of her kind. Her lithe shape, old age, and declining physical prowess have left her hunched over slightly most of the time. Even still, buried beneath mounds of ragged clothes, an overcoat and hood, there is a roguish streak about her. Her skin, the color of cinnamon spices, is tough and wrinkled. Calloused hands from years of service as a combat medic are still her best ally despite their slight shakiness. Aemma's weary eyes are a deep black, but made somehow more soft nestled between crows-feet and bags. Her smile is warm, but even at her happiest there is a melancholy she carries with her.

Typically her linen are without color, a dull grey. Her overcoat and hood are a mix of steel grey and black. She wears knee high boots leather boots. On her person at all time are a number of medicinal supplies and recipes stored in pouches and pockets that line her clothing. Torn gloves do little to hide the bandages that wrap around her hands and wrists beneath. Her tattered coat flows to her shins, and her hood obscures most of her white whittling hair save for parts of her bangs.

Aemma's body is scarred nearly everywhere because of her healing magic. Her face has finer scars, save for a healed gash on her cheek, as most people who have injuries to the head either don't survive them or don't have injuries that practical medicine can't fix. Lining most of her body are stab wounds, burns, gashes, and other manner of scars from injuries she never personally received. The clothing manages to hide most of them save for the occasional wrist or neck scar.

Detailed Personality:Aemma's experiences never really changed who she was, not really. Rather, they only exaggerated many of the traits she'd had. Of course her naivete has been stripped away with age, but she still remains hopeful of better tomorrows. There is a melancholy that shadows Aemma most days. She is thoughtful- sometimes noticeably so. She often gazes longingly ahead of her. Reflection and introspection are important to Aemma, and she finds it hard to respect those incapable of facing their own faults. Aemma is very protective, not just of friends, but of everyone she deems to be innocent or good. She isn't loud or brash, but is sharp. She doesn't use wit or clever barbs to interact with undesirables. Instead, her persistent calmness, compassion, and wisdom tend to win out. She usually has an answer for most things. Even if it isn't the correct one.

She believes in treating everyone with a basic level of respect until they do something to warrant taking away said respect. She is often rather sweet, and enjoys humming elven hymns. She is a terrible cook, but enjoys it all the same. She often laughs at others being unwilling to tell her how awful her food tastes for fear of upsetting her. Not much offends her, but she is quick to defend someone who might be hurt by words. Perhaps the darkest side of Aemma is her fixation with order in the face of disaster. She will murmur spells and medical recipes to herself obsessively in times of crisis, and unfortunately may lash out at others in dire situations should they get something wrong. This isn't out of anger, but out of a compulsion no doubt brought on by her trauma.

Aemma is a caretaker above all else. She doesn't like being looked after or pitied, especially in her old age. She tends to get impatient when people pay her too much attention. She'd much rather listen- to a friend, a stranger, or a gentle breeze- than talk about herself. Her input is almost usually advice, anecdotal or otherwise. She enjoys the company of people. She likes crowds and feels safest surrounded by others- especially strangers.

---

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

Like most born in Baldock, I was a child forged by blood oaths and swords. An empire who accounted not for souls, for people, but for the shields they'd soon carry. I suppose that explains the naivete of my mother and father, Maker keep them. They were elves born to foreign lands poor and tired of rule under the Elven Matriarchs. They'd hoped Baldock would be different. Tis often I reflect on the failings of old wisdom, and how comfortable it is to simply exist. Consistency. That is what Myrran and Paeral sought in foreign lands. A sense of normalcy away from the realities of home. A neutral peace.

For a time that is what they had. I was born on the eve of the latest excursion into Orc territory. Myrran, my mother, had taken to working as a handmaiden to petty nobles. Paeral, my father, was a sheep herder. Our humble home stored one bed with a kitchen no larger than a merchant stand. I remember my father would read me stories of their homeland. Of the triumphs of our elven ancestors. He never had the courage to tell my mother that he regretted coming here. My mother was a stern women so, for that, I could not fault my father. She spent much time away from our cottage. Still, she always managed to return home with fresh bread and a new lecture.

Of all of the lessons she imparted there remained one constant. Keep your nose down, and stay out of trouble. I was never great at listening. I had little want for keeping to the shadows of the world that was. It was a different kind of naivete than my parents'. I would see the soldiers coming back from failed excursions. I watched as the physicians treated them with leeches and controlled magic. It was the same kind of power that I possessed. I could feel their life force humming in their hands.

In this world very few are blessed with the tools to change their circumstances. By the time I was old enough, I traveled into the city of Dalton. I'd heard of their academy, and I had already learned to use the magic I possessed in small ways. My father pleaded that I reconsider. My mother refused every time I begged. I'd trail behind her every morning on her way into the city. It took months of my pestering, but eventually she permitted me to go.

The things I learned in that school were not at all what I expected. Instead of a place to harness my power it was a place of fear-mongering. A place that taught me to fear my capabilities rather than teach me how to use them safely. Luckily there were those in the city who disagreed with such methods of teaching. I learned what I could from them, and from the academy. I trained closely with Dalton physicians. Suturing, bloodletting, needling, alchemy, barrier projection, and of course calling on magic as treatment. I'd even managed to see a trepanning procedure before it fell out of practice. I couldn't mentor under a doctor in any official capacity, of course, I was an academy student. I was not meant to be taking lessons from mages outside of the orthodoxy. Nevertheless more practical doctors would allow me to assist them, fetch supplies, and take notes. I do remember an older physician. I never learned of his name. I remember I'd sit high on the fences overlooking the marketplace watching him work. He was the fastest I'd ever seen. I wanted so badly to speak with him. I never got the chance.

All of my greatest lessons came from my work as a medic in combat. I served as doctor to soldiers in the field. Fear of bleeding out leaves little room for error or for nerves. It was here that I would meet my husband. Lambert the Toad Knight, they called him. The old fool was a novice in soldier's armor. I think back on those days with a bittersweet nostalgia. I can remember the sting of desert sun against my youthful face. There was one particular night, I remember braving the Badlands. Our camp was forced to fall back for another water source. I remember coming face-to-face with an orcish unit- it was my first time. The orcs ripped through half of our party in minutes. We were lucky that any of us managed to escape the ambush. I remember Lambert sitting with me beneath the stars all night, after it was over. He took a hard fall, and was hardly great company. Even still, that was the night I fell in love with him. Love didn't make him a better warrior. Among my amputee patients, those with plague or rashes, was almost always Lamber with some new injury. It was how I came to know him so well. He was under my tent more than I was. I watched the fire fall from his eyes when the injuries never stopped coming. It wasn't long before he was forced to retire his sword. After returning home to him I found little reason to endanger myself again in direct combat. I saw how the Orcs brutalized our forces. At the time I had hated their kind, for it. Seeing men ripped asunder time after time will break you in ways unimaginable to most. Even the most righteous men seem monsters when they cast large shadows.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

There was another reason I chose to stay home. I was with child. I moved from my parents' cottage into the city with Lambert. My mother was overjoyed to see me settled down. But she would never see her wishes for me fulfilled. She passed away a fortnight before I delivered my son, Orym. Named for one of the fabled elven mages in the stories his grandfather read to me as a child. My mother's death left my father touched. He locked himself away in their cottage. Lambert and I ensured that the livestock, and my father, kept from starving. Eventually my father refused to eat. He passed on when Orym was but four months old. With my parents gone I was left feeling empty. I buried myself in research, and in doing so was confronted with the vision of the world I once had. I'd settled for comfort. For the world the way it was. I enlisted as a medic when Orym was seven months old.

Like my mother before me I spent most of my time away from home. I worked in the barracks, mostly. I treated soldiers returning home, but I also treated war prisoners when they got sick. It was in caring for these patients that I met some of my closest friends. Somehow it was easier forming bonds with people who never really got better. There is wisdom in a waning soul. Especially in one that had seen what they'd seen. One such Orc prisoner, Xalen, was a scholar before Baldock forces pushed into orc lands. He told me of the beautiful vistas to the south. Of his home, and of his family. The reasons he fought. Xalen was resilient. He was a brutish figure, but as the wrinkles thickened on our faces so too did our health decline. The conditions wore him down. It was a cough first, and then lesions next. I applied the treatments I'd given to every sick prisoner brought into the ward. What they ordered me to give them. It never changed much. They always lost their fight, in the end.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk

Xalen soon lost his fight too. The assistant physicians carried him off like so many others. But he wasn't the others. He was one of the brightest men I'd ever met. I refused to let his body be burned without given him a prayer to our Maker. I went to the morgue at midnight. What I saw changed me forever. Xalen's body, among the other orcs, was bloated and the lesions where gangrenous. I studied his body for what felt like hours. I never studied orc physiology, but I knew what poison looked like. The reality was that I already had my answer. I wasn't studying them for some other explanation. I was trying to justify what I'd done. The orders I followed. We were't treating these people. We were killing them.

In my fumbling I was sloppy, careless. I was found by night patrol guards, and imprisoned. I knew the barracks and the cells better than any of them. By the time I escaped however, it was too late. I'd returned home to a house rummaged through. Lambert was nowhere to be seen. I found my Orym, just shy of twenty, ran through on the floor. His coughs were dry and hoarse. He was burning up. I knew I needed to stop the bleeding and bring down his fever. I used my magic to try to close his wounds. As the hole in his chest closed I felt a tearing and burning at my own chest. The pain was unbearable. Through that I managed to close most of the wound, but he still was choking up blood. He'd become ill. In that moment I thought of my Orym laying there for hours crying for his mother. Shaking the thought I searched for the ingredients to try and soothe him.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk. Most of my equipment and supplies was smashed on the floor. No doubt Orym tried to fight back. A fool just as his father was. I'd managed to scrape some of the elfroot from the floor, and I had a spare bundle of swamp-seeds. In that moment I was panicked. I was careless.

Elfroot, Swampseed, two cups of Blight Milk, and Nightshade. Maker, I swear I could never forget it again.

I couldn't save my son. I certainly couldn't cut through armed guards and save my husband. I contemplated residing myself to the same fate as my father. That's what my mind commanded me to do. Unfortunately, I was never great at listening.

Now I wander the realm using my body and my magic to set things right. I will atone for my mistakes. I am a healer to the sick and the oppressed. Each scar that curses this withering body is a small redemption for the lives I took. Never did I think my newfound purpose would bring me back to the Kingdom of Baldock willingly, no less under the employ of a noble family. The Lochborne's offered me clemency to move freely through their hold in return for my services. A darkness is coming.

I will not fail these people. I cannot.

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Weapons: Taran Jade- Aemma was never a skilled swordsman, but daggers were quick and discreet. A Taran dagger stolen from a patrol near the Orcish border. It's green hilt is covered by tattered bandages stained with old blood.
Armor: Tattered Redeemer's Robes-Aemma's robes are worn, but offer protection from the elements. She wants for little, and needs only her tools.
Armor: Wanderer's Coat-A sturdy overcoat, tattered and stained with dust. Its hood offers discretion in areas Aemma is better off unseen.

General Provisions:Medical Supplies- Aemma's coat and clothes are adorned with a number of pockets and pouches that hold a number of medicinal herbs and supplies. Small scrolls line her pockets as well. She keeps record of every recipe on her person, and can quickly refer to whichever one is needed in a given situation. Sutures, bandages, a small sterile blade, and other first aid essentials are among her supplies.
Magical Items:

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Magical Affinity: Aemma has very little offensive capability. Her magic is mostly used to heal the party, but can be used defensively to warn off attackers.

Spells:

Healing Hands: Aemma's primary minor healing ability. A minor spell that can heal small ailments quickly. This is particularly useful in combat as it has a very short cast time. While this ability can be used reliably, upon each use Aemma suffers from greater pain. This usually takes the form of migraines that become quite intense of repeated use. This can be enough to wear her down physically if she isn't careful.

Healer's Oath: The more potent of Aemma's healing capabilities. This is a sustained spell that can heal grave and potentially fatal wounds. There are a number of downsides to this spell. The spell has a longer cast time, and Aemma sustains damage when healing someone. Closing wounds on another may create the wound on her own body. She heals faster from these wounds than an actual injury, but still requires rest after using it.

Second Wind: A spell that allows Aemma to lend her magic to an ally. In this state the target has bolstered attack and defenses as well as limited replenished health. This comes at a harsh cost for Aemma who is rendered near immobile (often only mobile enough to try to find cover). This ability drains her of most of her magic for some time afterwards. She is also more vulnerable to attacks in this state, and has far weaker defenses in this state.

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

No worries! Just offering my support and letting everyone know I'm flexible!

The Hanged Man [A Darkest Dungeon Inspired RP]

While I do love my granny- if I have to make a different character to better suit the party I'm fine with it.