45th of Ymiden 722
Rakvald had only been in residence at Coldheart Hostel for a few days, and already the political and economic situation of Quacia was showing itself to be the hot mess, mired in corruption and favoritism that he'd left behind. The Royal court had seemed to turn over a new leaf, but without the will to enforce reforms, things degenerated into an entropic malaise of favors owed for exorbitant amounts. Rakvald was lucky that he was able to get Coldheart Hostel, even in poor conditions, for cost.
And it was in poor condition. He had opened up his private clinic, but already the instruments and available medicines were on the low side. It was a weaker recovery than Rakvald had witnessed in his time. Perhaps a loss of morale due to the revelation that the Wounded God was a farce of sorts, and the disgrace of the Theocratum, now relegated to an underground cult.
Rakvald could see that life in the city was not good. He could imagine that the Quacians wouldn't see it any differently, as hardy and inured to abuse and disaster as they were. The Creep, by all accounts, had retreated. Whether Moseke could be believed, that it had been defeated permanently, Rakvald thought now was the time to stand and build a bulwark against that long-standing horror. The earth outside the city was ashen, burned with the flame brigades of the Dragoons. It'd be ripe for certain crops to be cultivated.
And so, the mage had sent across the taverns and dens of sin in the lair, and around the doors of the plenty, fliers advertising his requirement for hardy souls to brave the potential horrors outside the gates of Quacia. In hopes of distancing from the strife that pervaded the city streets, and starting a new place for themselves. He didn't know what to expect after sending those printings across the city, from Plenty to Lair, but he did hope to inspire some interest in the more desperate and hardy souls who were willing to brave the potential dangers outside the gates.
He was busy in his laboratory, when he heard the bell ring on the clinic entrance. Rakvald put aside his instruments, which he'd been cleaning meticulously, and began striding down the steps to the foyer. There, he saw a man with a pair of dogs, Quacian Bloodhounds, to be exact. A desireable breed, that if Rakvald's memory served, could sense oddities in the blood of surrounding people. They began barking at Rakvald now, perhaps sensing the strangeness of his blood, as a gestalt of ithecal and ascended mantis.
Rakvald knelt before one of the hounds, which was the one barking. The other appeared to shy away, whimpering. It was then he noticed the blood pouring out of its hide, the skin of its foreleg. Rakvald caressed the loud one, whipping it across the face when it tried to get nippy.
"What is the deal here?" Rakvald asked through his tentacles. His words were garbled by a mixture of slime and the strangeness of his mouth-shape. But the Quacian took his meaning well enough.
"I heard you see to wounds here." The man said, hat in hand, wringing its fabric as he stared at Rakvald's very obvious mutations. "Do you care for animals?"
"It's how I got my start." Rakvald assured him, and then looked at the animals. "One of your hounds is wounded. What of the other?"
"He's fine, chased off the scale-back that accosted our farm." The Quacian's voice quavered with rage. "Ever since they were given freedom, they've trod over our operations, taking what they want. Reparations they call it. To think! Slaves just a few arcs ago, and now grown so bold!"
Rakvald gurgled in mixed emotion as he heard this. Some of his good friends were ithecal, and he didn't necessarily look kindly upon the act of slavery himself. But he could recognize how one party might take their liberty too far in the other direction, and disdaining responsibility for their own actions.
"Very well, let me see to your dog."
