Nightingale stood, arms folded, on a vantage point on the roof of the temple. All around her as far as her eye could reach there was the bustle of activity.
The beds of herbal plants were laid out and seeded. Local druids murmured incantations over each, encouraging the seeds to root and grow swiftly. Behind her a small ship docked at the wharf and stevedores prepared to unload the beds and other furnishings it was delivering. To her right the door of the living quarters opened and a pair of red-robed Clerics emerged and made their way past the guardian Templars and into the main Temple building to take up their duties for the day and permit those who had worked through the night to rest. To her left the Shrine of Light sent its beams into the skies.
A wagon pulled by a pair of mules and driven by a stocky gnome approached along the pathway leading to the front of the temple.
The driver looked upward and called to the white-clad figure, "Sheets and blankets from the Wharfown Weavers guild Ma'am. Where do you want 'em?"
Nightingale pointed and called back down. "Follow the track around the temple and across the bridge. The hospital wing is just across the river."
The gnome tipped his cap and clicked his tongue, starting the mules into movement again.
Nightingale allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. The task laid upon her by the Goddess was almost complete. The construction work was finished. The furnishings were being delivered. Acolytes and Templars from the great Salandran Temple of Leng had arrived to take up their duties and more were expected soon. Within days the gates would be opened to all. And finally... finally there was hope for the victims of the Cordor plague.
"Find me the Seeds of Perfection," she prayed. "With those and the herbs we have gathered already we will see an end to that particular misery."
Her eye was drawn toward the far side of the river once more. The Gnomish wagoneer was in the process of hefting a huge bale of cloth from the back of the wagon and almost buckling at the knees under its weight.
Nighingale smiled broadly as a young Salandran cleric saw the gnome struggling and swiftly chanted a Salandran prayer of Blessing upon him. The gnome straightened and hefted the bale easily, a look of amazement on his face as he felt the full strength of a Salandran blessing lift every trace of weariness from him and grant him an excess of vigour.
"I think the people of the realms are in for a few surprises when they discover what we can do here," Nightingale thought to herself. "Outwith the temples we are powerful healers. Within them we are so much more. I have a feeling we are going to be busy when the people learn of our powers within our own domain."

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Never knock on Death's door.
Ring the bell and run away!
Death really hates that!