Lache tottered down the street, skittering between the heavy foot traffic of other dresell going about their business, with all the grace of a drunken sireel. He didn't leave his office nearly often enough, and as such he'd managed to become even more waif-like than an average dresall in the three years since he'd moved away from his parents' home. It didn't help that he scuttled everywhere on the very tips of his bird-like toes, to the point where it was only his overly long talons that kept him from falling right on his face.
He was on his way to visit a patient he'd been tending to lately. The young woman had been displaying symptoms of a very peculiar illness indeed, something Lache had never personally encountered before. All of his efforts to find the cause of her suffering had failed, but with everything he tried he became more and more convinced that she hadn't become sick from any natural means.
And as he turned down the alleyway that hid the entrance to her house, Lache was quick to conclude that his suspicions were correct.
The door was wide open, and hanging off it's hinges, creaking softly in the wind. Lache hurried closer and rounded the corner into the doorway. It didn't occur to him that it might be dangerous to just barge in, but Lache had never been terribly skilled at self-preservation. The scar the stretched across the bridge of his nose attested to that. Fortunately, as he shuffled inside, dancing around the scattered ornaments and broken furniture, he found the house empty. As he stopped in the centre of the room and looked around, the only remains he could see of his patient were the spatters of blood and the occasional loose feather quivering in the breeze.