It was a cool morning when she ventured out. A scarf was wrapped over the lower half of her face, her haphazardly cut hair sticking out the top of it.
Moving to close the door was . . . to say the least, difficult. There . . . there used to be someone there, on the other side. Someone to see her off . . .
Lyra’s eyes stung. She forced the heartache to quell, for a moment, just a moment please, when she shut the door. She whispered a spell, knocking on the door three times before stepping back. The ward that she placed there coalesced into a thick sheet of magic, initially spreading like molasses over the grain before crackling and disappearing in a flash.
Shrugging on her travel bag, her gloved hand dug into the contents to pull out a map, starting from the shop-
-to a number of clinics throughout the area, treating victims of the plague.
Two hours later, and she still wasn’t having any luck. The clinics she visited were at capacity already, and despite needing extra hands, there was not enough people to teach her the basics to assist.
This place was her last hope.
She glanced up at the front of clinic. It was on the smaller side, to be sure, yet busy. She threw open the door, strode in, and pulled down on the scarf that was covering her mouth.
Getting the staff’s attention, check. Impulsively, she proclaimed, “Is there a doctor that needs an assistant!? I’ve tried everywhere else and no one’s taking me!”
Her eyes wandered over everyone, until her gaze locked onto a very tall doctor wearing a beaked mask, red glass covering their eyes.
