Up on the ridge, Morgan's picket must have got a signal from the column, for one of the riders suddently grunts "Right, you can join the dwarf," and then raising his voice to address the pilgrims, "and you lot to the train."
The riders then spur their mounts into a trot and head back to the column, through the mud and drizzle. Morgan shrugs before marching down the muddy slope to where he sees Dorgan near the head of the column.
By the time Morgan arrives, the Miester has found Dorgan. He is an absurdly old and gaunt fellow, his bald pate is a hash of freckles, sun sores, and liver spots. He is bent and white, and accompanied by an orderly who holds a large umbrella aloft to shield the ancient from the rain. Dorgan could hardly imagine a more frail figure.
The Miester wears tiny specticales upon his hawk nose, fogged in the rain so that his eyes are invisible, and is constantly chewing his gums and muttering to himself. "the dwarf, the dwarf is it? the dwarf is ill, is he? the dwarf, the dwarf..." he mutters as approaches. The beefy orderly has a great black physicaian's bag slung over his shoulder.
Without further introduction The Miester begins to examine Dorgan as if he were a piece of livestock, muttering to himself all the while. He checks Dorgan's eyes, ears, teeth, tongue, and fingernails, and presses him awkwardly around the neck and spleen, chewing his gums and mumbling as he does so, and indirectly asking no one in particular "is he ill is he? and how did he take ill, hmm? was he careless, was he? will he live? will he die? was it posion hmm? what poison was it hmm?" and so on and so on...
the Elf Medium (MV 12", AC 9, HD 1, hp 1/1, AL N) great cloak, lantern
; spells: color spray; scrolls: sleep, sleep, charm person
Hirelings: Georges; torch