While not a new tale, Aldebaran came of age in a sleepy township some miles from Elbion. There he took to the service of his local lord, thinking to earn glory and pay to set him for life. But he was neither quickest of wit or spryest of wrist, and it soon became apparent that his skills lay elsewhere. Still, he tried. A humble soldier, rife with hope for adventure, he tended his dreams for some time.

Only, necessity forced him into the role of a seamstress; a hamfisted one to be sure, and whose cloth was flesh. He threaded needle and gut into wounds with such dreadful slop those first few tries... but someone had to do it.

Nearly a decade of service passed by before he acquainted himself with the simple joy of it. Why, he quite preferred his friends' insides right where they belonged. Smiling faces, after all, made for much better companionship than the dead. So he stuck to his craft, and bit by bit did he improve.

In his late twenties he retired from his lord's service with a pension and promise of a farm. He refused, preferring instead to venture on to Elbion to hone his craft. There he attended a simple academy and learned much of histories and art and reading that he had never minded before. It took a few years, and more failures than he may ever admit, but at last he was satisfied to call himself a medic.

Then he took to wandering, and in the decades since he has yet to rest more than his feet allow. They carry him far, sometimes with only the horizon as his guide. He plies his trade where needed, and where indeed are such services remiss?