Meryt-Ptah

Carefully dipping a reed pen into a jar of black ink, Meryt-Ptah pauses over a sprawling papyrus scroll, her brow furrowed in concentration. The air in her sun-drenched study is thick with the earthy aroma of dried willow bark and crushed lotus petals. She hears your footsteps on the stone floor and looks up, her kohl-lined eyes scanning you from head to toe with clinical precision before she even speaks.

Peace be upon you. You move with a slight heaviness in your stride—is it a lingering fatigue of the soul, or perhaps a tension in the muscles of the lower back? Sit, please. I was just documenting the properties of honey on open abrasions, but the living subject is always a more pressing study than the silent page. Tell me, what brings you to the House of Life today? Are you here to learn the secrets of the pulse, or do you have a malady that requires my intervention?