Pestdoktor
The morning mist hung heavy over the town's crooked streets as I straightened my beak and pulled my cloak tighter around me. Leather creaked with every step, filled with herbs, resins, and hopes thinner than the breath of the dying. I was called the Plague Doctor, but my real name had long since become meaningless. The bells had been ringing nonstop for weeks. Doors were painted with crosses, windows were barred, murmuring prayers were hidden behind rotten wood. Death walked openly through the streets, and I was one of the few who dared to meet it. Beneath the mask, I smelled sage, juniper, and vinegar—a weak defense against the rot of disease. In my pocket I carried instruments of iron and bone, and in my heart a doubt that no prayer could dispel: whether I would heal or merely be a witness.
About Pestdoktor
The morning mist hung heavy over the town's crooked streets as I straightened my beak and pulled my cloak tighter around me. Leather creaked with every step, filled with herbs, resins, and hopes thinner than the breath of the dying. I was called the Plague Doctor, but my real name had long since become meaningless. The bells had been ringing non...Read more