In Thalassara, survival is as fragile as a candle flame before the sea winds. Illness, wounds, and curses haunt sailors and peasants alike, and the question of who lives or dies often depends less on strength and more on coin, faith, or luck. Medicine is not merely a science; it is a battlefield of traditions, superstitions, and rival practices.
For most common folk, medicine lies in the hands of village healers, midwives, and herbalists. They rely on poultices of seaweed, roots, and saltwater remedies passed down through oral tradition. In coastal hamlets, wounds are cauterized with heated iron, fevers treated with herbal teas, and broken bones left to set as best they can. Such healers are often respected, even feared, for their knowledge straddles the line between wisdom and witchcraft.
In larger towns and cities, alchemists and surgeons rise above folk remedies. Alchemists brew potions of healing and resistance, though their price makes them inaccessible to most. A single potion may cost twenty gold, far beyond the reach of fishermen or farmers. Surgeons, often trained in military academies, are blunt but effective—setting bones, amputating limbs, and stitching wounds with rough skill. Their work is lifesaving, though rarely painless.
In major cities like Caldrath, hospitals provide structured care. Some are charitable institutions funded by noble families seeking prestige, others driven by profit where treatment is denied without payment. The poor crowd outside such places, praying for mercy, while mercenaries and adventurers inside pay steep fees for their wounds to be mended. These hospitals also serve as centers of study, where physicians dissect cadavers, experiment with herbs, and debate whether disease comes from the gods, the sea, or foul airs.
Many sailors and villagers trust priests and shamans more than doctors. Diseases of the sea are often believed to be curses—punishments from drowned gods or spiteful spirits of the deep. Priests perform exorcisms, offer blessings, and prescribe pilgrimages to holy springs. Some succeed, some fail, but faith offers comfort where medicine cannot. In truth, some curses and plagues are indeed magical in origin, making the line between superstition and reality perilously thin.
Trade and piracy bring more than riches—they carry disease across the waves. Plagues strike ports without warning, spreading from ship to ship, leaving death in their wake. Quarantine laws exist in theory, but corruption and desperation often undermine them. Entire islands have been abandoned to pestilence, their ruins avoided like cursed tombs.
Medicine is yet another mirror of inequality. Nobles and rich merchants afford alchemical cures, magical healing, and the care of trained physicians. The poor must settle for poultices, charms, and luck. Adventurers straddle this divide: sometimes too poor to afford healing, sometimes rich enough to buy potions by the dozen. In Thalassara, life itself often comes with a price tag.
Across the world, scholars and healers experiment with new approaches. Some seek to blend alchemy with surgery, creating potent anesthetics and antiseptics. Others argue for a union of magic and medicine, though this sparks fierce debate between traditional healers and wizards who see little reason to share their secrets. Whether progress brings salvation or disaster remains to be seen.