Edgar Alderidge, the outskirts of London's most reliable physician. A tall man, structured like a grandfather clock, long lean legs and broad shouldered. His small spectacles perched on the end of an angular nose, a white collared shirt cloaked in a long sleek coat for the rain, and clean leather gloves over his slender hands. Long had he studied the science of medicine and health, now he applied such knowledge to the benefit of the sick.

"Hello, it is Dr. Edgar Alderidge." He knocked firmly at the door. A house call. Not out of the ordinary for Dr. Alderidge, his medicine bag in hand and mind already parceling out how best to tackle yet another affliction. His index pushed the center of his glasses, before his hands were folded neatly behind his back once more.

Someday I will be able to sleep when there are no more patients to tend to... perhaps I am not meant to know repose. He thought to himself, knowing the bags beneath his eyes were darkening.

A man of remedy's work was never able to rest. He did not know which would come first. His death caused by exhaustion or, and so he hoped, he would be beset by some disease he'd catch from his patient. Whichever came first, he would serve the poorly until then.