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[Jacob Amersyng]

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Folding his shirt, he places it neatly atop the rest of his belongings and shuts the lid of the foot locker, turning the key slowly. He places it in his pocket and looks around the empty room. This inn room has been his solitude and fortress from the begining, even when he ran the hospital. But those days have moved on, as have all the patients. What was a doctor without patients to see, wounds to wrap, battle casualties to attend to? He picks up his hat from the small table, looking at it with a small sad smile. The things this hat has seen...he runs a hand over the hawk's feather, its ribs now tattered and gapped. As hard as it was, he had made up his mind. It was time...the road was calling him yet again.
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In service to the body, one performs service to the soul.