Grandma's Tent

Over the course of his career, Dr. Indys Vulpin had come across quite a number of unusual things. It came with the territory, really. Cut into enough people, he figured, and you'd see some odd sights. He'd discovered live frogs inside people on no fewer than three separate occasions, a phenomenon that he often considered writing an article on. It was always quite amusing whenever he found one, especially when he had an audience. Nobody else ever seemed to find it as funny as he did, especially the patients, but he supposed that one had to be quite intelligent to understand his sense of humor. 

In all of his years of vivisections and surgery, however, Vulpin had never come across anything quite as unusual as the note he currently held in his hands. It wasn't the content of the note that was so odd, nor the method of delivery (although he had to admit that finding it lodged deep in the throat of one of his mannequins had been a surprise). No, the strange part was the sender. Who would have thought that Grandma, advisor to the captain and former Grand Vizier of the empire, would have need of his skills? It was mysterious indeed, but who was he to turn down such a high-profile request? He'd dressed in his very finest cloak and mask, the deep red fabric hiding the bloodstains perfectly. The note had mentioned discretion, and so he'd arrived in the dead of night when most of the camp was asleep. Hopefully his beloved Ms. Starling would understand, although he feared that she'd be upset with him. He couldn't very well blame her. Visiting another woman this late at night was undoubtedly improper, no matter who the woman might have been.

"Evening, ma'am," he said, stepping into the tent and glancing around. The tent was surprisingly well-furnished, bearing shelves and desks that had undoubtedly taken up enough space in the cargo hold to fit hundreds of pounds of flour or grain. He was impressed, to say the least.

"You sent for me?" he asked, raising the note. "I'd be happy to provide my services...for the right price. A surgeon never works for free, you know. First tenet in Ammad's Codes of Medicine."

Vulpin gave the old woman an exaggerated bow, bending low and sweeping his cloak out behind him as though introducing a circus act. He took the offered seat, leaning it back on two legs as he watched the smoke from her pipe rise up to the top of the tent. The doctor was silent for a long moment, gazing up at the grey wisp of smoke until it vanished into the air. How much did this woman know? She could definitely just be probing, but something told him that she knew exactly what she was talking about. If the rumors were true (and Vulpin had every reason to believe that they were), then the former Grand Vizier was likely very familiar with Vulpin's little performances. Perhaps she had even attended one or two in disguise. He had no way of knowing, but wouldn't put it past her.

"My reputation precedes me, ma'am," he said. "I must say, I was quite surprised to receive your invitation. I'm flattered, of course, but I must say that your method of delivery was more than a bit unusual. My beloved does not especially appreciate having words put in her mouth, you know."

He chuckled dryly at his clever wordplay, remembering his surprise at discovering the note. Who did she have working for her? Had one of the nurses delivered the note? A patient? He'd have to pay more attention to who came and went at his infirmary from now on.

"As for the most exotic surgery," he said, "Why, that's a difficult question indeed. I can't rightly say how exaggerated the rumors of my skill are, as the very nature of rumors is to grow and spiral into twisted approximations of the truth. In terms of what I have done, though...I suppose I could talk on that for a moment."

Settling forward in his seat, he leaned across the table, resting his elbows on the surface. The cheery mirth vanished from his voice, replaced with a serious (if somewhat maniacal) intonation.

"There are two kinds of surgery," he said. "That's what I've always said. The first kind is a simple task, a job to save or preserve lives. The surgeries I do these days, I'm sorry to say, fall into this first category. Amputations, extractions, repairs...important work to be sure, but any sorry sack with a saw and scalpel can do the same. The second category, where my true passion lies, is art. Creating something new from flesh and bone, crafting that-which-may-have-been from that-which-is. The seamless integration of unassociated parts and structures into something new, something greater. It's a hundred times more complex than even the most imaginative sculpture, but a thousand times more rewarding. Creating a new type of being, the likes of which has never walked these lands...there's no feeling quite like it. What was my crowning achievement, you may ask? My magnum opus, the masterpiece of my career? Why...it must have been the All-seer. One thousand, two hundred, and sixty-seven eyes, extracted from eight hundred and twenty species and implanted into a single body. The All-seer could see colors of light no human has ever seen, could see temperature and heat, could even visualize the waves of sound itself. Not even the invisible could escape the All-seer's sight. Eight hours, ma'am. Eight hours of perfect, full-spectrum vision in all directions before the All-seer rejected the transplanted eyes and expired. His ravings are recorded in my notebooks, along with sketches and details on the surgery. It took ten full to complete, working day and night with no sleep. He saw so much, I believe he could have forseen the future if he'd survived long enough to process such perfect sight. If only I'd had some way to bind his soul to his body, not allowing him to slip into that dreary unkindness that awaits us all. You ask of my most exotic surgery? The All-seer is the one. Not a single night passes that I don't dream of creating a second, even better than the first. My mind is filled with incisions and stitches, plagued with visions of thousands of staring eyes. I seldom sleep well, thanks to the excitement and anticipation. An artist's mind is a troubled one, I'm afraid. "

As he spoke, Vulpin's eyes grew glassy and distant behind his mask. He was very clearly proud of his achievement, but his failure to keep the amalgamation of flesh alive obviously still pained him to this day. If she looked closely, Grandma would see a single teardrop appear at the corner of his eye, glittering in the dim light of the tent for just a moment before falling and vanishing beneath the mask.

Vulpin nodded, watching Grandma's little smoke pictures with interest. It was a neat little parlor trick, one that he'd have to learn one of these days. He wasn't sure how he'd be able to smoke a pipe through the mask, but it sounded like an interesting challenge. Perhaps he'd pick up a pipe and give it a try one of these days. After all, what was life without a bit of challenge and experimentation from time to time? 

"I'm glad to have found a fellow aficionado of the arts," he said, nodding appreciatively. "I agree, few people these days seem willing to put in the time and dedication to properly devote themselves to their chosen callings. It's quite sad, really. So much wasted potential. I suppose that's how I got into my own craft. I allow people to achieve- no, exceed the potential of their bodies. I create the finest creatures to ever walk these lands, beings that the gods themselves could never even have imagined. The pinnacle of human possibility, the perfection of flesh."

When Grandma asked about chimeras, Vulpin nodded. So this is what the old woman wanted. He should have figured, knowing her reputation. He'd heard rumors of the secret research she'd funded back in the old empire, underhanded deals to allow for mysterious experiments beneath the old asylum. Only whispers of the sort of things they'd created had ever reached Vulpin's ears, and he'd always wondered if they had actually existed. Perhaps the rumors really were true.

"I'm familiar with chimeras, ma'am," he said. "I've attempted to create a few myself, although I've never had one survive post-operation for longer than an hour. They're tricky things. If I had more time, more resources, more bodies...I could build masterpieces. I've already heard what the scouts have said about this island's wildlife, and they sound very promising. Would you have me craft chimeras, ma'am? I could do it...but the rank and file may not be as receptive to my art. A bunch of philistines, the lot of them."

Vulpin leaned back in his seat once more, tapping a long, pointy fingertip against his chin as he considered the offer. The ability to conduct his research at his leisure without fear of retribution or pitchfork-wielding mobs was valuable indeed, and he knew what a powerful ally Grandma would be. To have someone like her on his side would mean wonders for his work, allowing him to create creatures and beings the likes of which had never been seen on these lands. A private location to work would be invaluable as well, as he couldn't very well craft abominations in the infirmary. People tended to get upset at that for some reason. Still, the woman's offer gave him pause. It seemed to be too good to be true. What was she hiding from him?

"A deal usually benefits both parties," he said, eyeing the outstretched hand. "Tell me, ma'am. What's your stake in this? What do you get out of my art? It's a generous offer for sure. I'm always glad to meet a fellow lover of the arts, but I like to understand the full terms of a contract before I agree to anything. I'm sure you understand, ma'am. You seem like the careful sort."

He looked up at the woman, surprised at her height. Surely she hadn't been this tall before? Perhaps she'd been experimenting on herself, extending her bones and lengthening her legs. An interesting hobby to be sure. Did she already have a surgeon? He doubted it. As far as Vulpin knew, he was the only surgeon on this whole god-forsaken island.

Vulpin resisted the urge to turn as Grandma swept behind him, her towering figure looming over his chair and casting a shadow over him like a gnarled old oak. Her words made sense, of course. The settlement's defenses (so far as he'd seen) seemed pitifully scant, little more than a few guards walking around with halberds and crossbows. They made a good show of it, but Vulpin was certain that they'd be of little use if any beasts larger than a chicken came calling. More importantly, he knew that if enough disgruntled citizens got together, they'd overwhelm the meager guards with sheer force of numbers. Grandma was correct. They needed to create monsters, and Vulpin was just the one to build them. He nodded, rising to his feet as the old woman strode off and bent to peer out the tent flap.

"I figured as much," he said, "but I like to hear things with my own ears. It's a deal, Ma'am. I'll craft your chimeras. I'll build you weapons of flesh and bone, masterpieces sufficient to deal with any sort of threat that may befall our beloved captain. How soon might I be able to begin? It's been so long since I've been able to really indulge, I simply can't wait to get started. Simple medical surgery simply doesn't scratch the same itch."

He extended a gloved hand to her, looking up to meet her gaze. When had she gotten so tall, anyways?

Rune stones. Vulpin eyed the smooth rocks and their painted symbols with no small measure of curiosity, trying to memorize a few of the glyphs to sketch them out later. He'd never been a magic user himself, but had always had a passing interest in the discipline. There was no doubt in his mind that magic would allow him to finally perfect his art, but he had always resisted the urge to enlist the help of a magic user. It seemed like the easy way out, a cop-out that would cheapen his art and sully the beauty of his work. Would he have to lean on Grandma's magic in order to create her monsters? It seemed likely, especially if she wanted them done in an expedient manner. The thought stung a bit, and Vulpin wondered if he was selling out. In binding souls to his art, would paradoxically be making it soulless? It was a troubling thought, but he shook his head and put it out of his mind. Every living being had an innate spark of magic that made them alive. It would be silly to think that he could reproduce such a thing without the use of magic. Very silly indeed. Had he really been so silly for all these years? Vulpin chuckled to himself, the sound muffled through his mask.

"Hunters indeed," he said, nodding slowly. "Luckily for us, this island is rife with poor sods who fancy themselves hunters. I daresay the difficult part will be separating the grain from the chaff. How many of them can actually bring down the beasts I will need to produce my masterpiece? I wonder how many will bite off more than they can chew and fall prey to such imperfect creatures as what simple nature can produce. Some of them may die. Hopefully the survivors don't take up too much of my time in the surgery."

He chuckled again, humorlessly. How sad it would be to have a multitude of parts simply rot away while he was trapped by his duties as the chief medical officer. It would surely be one of the bitterest ironies of this new island, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stand it.

Pulling a flexible wire bonesaw from his pocket, Vulpin fiddled with it, twisting the thin steel wire between his fingers like a cat's cradle. It made for a rather macabre toy to anybody who recognized it for what it was, but Vulpin didn't seem to mind. He had no doubt in his mind that Grandma would be able to find hunters that would fit the bill. After all, she had found him easily enough. Artists like himself weren't exactly common, but the old woman seemed to have a particular talent for finding people. Her mention of training other people gave him pause, and he considered her question for a few moments before answering.

"Simple surgery?" he asked, nodding thoughtfully. "Amputations, extractions, removals? Those are easy enough. Any person can learn such bland, flavorless work, just as anybody can become a carpenter or a baker. I could teach people, but this lot? I sometimes wonder if they're people at all. Many of them are little more than uneducated animals, dullards fit for little more than turning a millstone. I'm shocked that some of these imbeciles are able to put their shoes on each morning. If you can find me promising individuals, however, I can turn them into surgeons."

The prospect of having to train idiots in the delicate art of surgery left a sour taste in Vulpin's mouth, but he couldn't deny the utility of having so much extra time on his hands. Perhaps well-trained and obedient ones could be used as surgical assistants for his more delicate work.