Linden, Viola, Court, Bell | Operating Theater (CW: Medical Gore)
Linden glanced up at Court with that same impermanent smile as he took the tool from Viola. "Ah. I'm sure that once you both sobered up there were no hard feelings between you."
His focus returned to the patient, now, and after pressing his fingers lightly against the taught skin of the joint and its surrounding flesh, he had mentally arranged exactly where he was going to make his cuts. To an untrained eye, it might've looked careless - how effortlessly he sneaked the blade across the Marshal's knee.
"Expect blood," he warned, and as if on cue it spilled out from the wound he'd made at an alarming rate; dark, partially coagulated. Even when the flow seemed to staunch, Linden pressed again to draw out more, and more still. "Towel," he directed, then turned to the knee itself.
The scalpel made its incisions, and then he traded it out for the scissors that Viola made available without delay. These cuts were deeper, but no less decisive. Linden operated without hesitation, without fear. When he acted he knew he was correct and either his instincts in this arena were perfectly tuned, or the world couldn't help but to obey.
"Judging from additional trauma," he observed when he got to the root of the issue, "this isn't the only time he's damaged this knee." He gestured with a small set of forceps (dipped in ethanol) to point out particular areas of interest to Viola specifically. "I wouldn't be surprised if, judging from his other features, this isn't the first he's been under the knife. Confirm with him, be certain to make sure that when you prescribe the Laudanum he doesn't have a history of addiction."