The doctor’s house is even bigger on the inside, and reeks like a brewery. As the party follows the swaying man into the spacious living space, Allastair gives a low whistle under his breath. “Isn’t this fancy,” he whispers.

“Yes,” says Aralyn, pinching her nose. “Very.”

11 studies the craftsmanship of the house like a potential buyer. The floor space is economically set up, so even though there isn’t much furniture, the house does not look empty. Ceiling-high shelves adorn the entire left wall of the house. Most of them are packed with ingredients like the ones 11 has seen in Aralyn’s bag, but one shelf, the one closest to the front door, displays an impressive collection of what 11 can only imagine must be wine, or ale, or whatever it is people drink now. Yet, despite all the skillful carpentry and architectural splendor of the building, there is a distinct air of abandonment that seeps through the vacant chairs and dusty floorboards.

The sound of a million things hitting the floor makes everyone jump. The doctor has swept a mountain of bottles and garbage off of a mahogany dining table in the middle of the living space, and is gesturing to Allastair.

“Put her here, sir knight.”

Allastair looks at the table, frowning deeply. He looks at Aralyn, then at the table, then at Jeri, who launches into a hasty explanation.

“Please forgive Doctor Lawheim’s um, quirks,” the young ranger says. “He is blunt and crude, but a good healer foremost. He wasn’t actually like this when he came to our village many years ago, when his wife was-”

Jeri stops mid-sentence, an alarmed look on his face. He looks towards Lawheim, but the doctor is busy draping a woolen towel over the table, swaying on the spot as if he’s sailing an invisible ship.

“The doctor has done much good for us over the years,” Jeri says in conclusion. Then to Lawheim he says, “Please do be mindful of our guests, Doctor. They’re here to rid our village of that unholy abomination. It would not do anyone any good to... act the way you are.”

Lawheim continues to ignore him. He tugs on one end of the blanket to smooth it out, but instead just ends up pulling it to the floor. Aralyn steps in to help.

Jeri clears his throat, turning to Fennald and Allastair. “I’ll let the innkeeper know you’ve come back. But there’s no guarantee your rooms are still free. We get a lot of adventurers and merchants coming through here during the Solstice Festival.”

“Worry not about it, Jeri,” Allastair says deliberately as he places 11 gently down on the table, making sure not to disturb the cloak covering her. “We’ll be staying here tonight to watch over our young lady. I’m sure the good Doctor would not object to us doing the honorable thing here.”

Lawheim’s face clouds over, but his tone is sharply polite. “That’s not a problem at all, sir knight, but you should know I don’t run as cheap an inn here as the ones in the village. In fact, that’s one of the reasons my patients are able to get out of here so quickly.”

For the first time, 11 sees Allastair speechless. The knight’s disbelief quickly turns to anger though, and he takes a menacing step towards the doctor. But Aralyn cuts in front of him. “Alright, that’s enough,” she says, placing a hand against Allastair’s chest. “We mustn’t intrude where we’re not welcomed.” Her palm is a five-fingered island lost in an ocean of steel, but the knight stops regardless, his face softening as he looks at her.

“Go get some food,” Aralyn tells him, “and enjoy the festival. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a girl interested in that story of how your great aunt once used an old boot to fish for slimes.” She turns to Fennald. “Make sure he doesn’t stay up too late, Fen. I don’t want a repeat of today happening again tomorrow.”

Fennald nods, grabs Allastair by the belt, and starts dragging the loudly complaining knight away. When they reach the front door, Fennald pauses. “Will we be seeing you at the festival?”

Aralyn gives him a smile and a thumbs-up, then turns her attention back on the drunk doctor, who is already scrutinizing his new patient’s half-naked body with great interest.

“Does it hurt if I press here?” Lawheim asks 11, who shakes her head in response.

“What about here? Or here?”

“It kinda tickles.”

“Really?” The doctor seems surprised. “Can you move your fingers? What about your toes?”

“I can.” 11 obeys, feeling like an idiot.

The examination goes on for some time. Lawheim gets 11 to lift her legs, count the fingers he’s holding up, and looks into her mouth. Then he takes out a glowing stone and holds it up to her eyes, and once that’s done, he takes her pulse through her wrist, while pressing one hand lightly on her abdomen.

The doctor goes quiet. 11 watches the deep crease forming between his brows. And she understands why.

“Mother,” she asks silently, “is there a way to make my Master Core mimic a heartbeat?”

No. And I do not see any reason for you to have such an illogical and useless function.

Lawheim closes his eyes, and utters in a hushed voice,

“Seemirus.”

At the doctor's command, faint blue vines trickle out from beneath his palm. 11 watches the ethereal lights snake along her belly, amazement and curiosity overwhelming her sensors, which are desperately tracking the phenomenon to prepare for a possible attack.

Unknown energy surge detected.

Unknown power source detected.

No system breaches found.

The doctor lifts up his hand, ending the spell. He stares at 11, and a few long seconds pass with neither of them saying anything.

“This isn’t all yours, is it?” he asks as he scrapes a few dried flakes of blood off of 11's arm.

“No,” 11 answers, wondering just what that light was about, and what the doctor is thinking. He must've caught on to the fact that his patient does not have a pulse, but how is he processing this information?

“Identishibera,” Lawheim commands, cupping the blood flakes, and that same blue light appears again, this time encasing his hands.

I’ve located the energy source, 11.

Readings indicate the crystal tied around his wrist is emitting some form of energy wave that is correlating to the power spike around his hands.

The doctor opens his hands, letting the dried blood flakes flutter to the floor. Then without saying a word, he strolls towards the window, scratching at his chin. 11 prepares for a barrage of invasive and difficult questions, but none come. Instead, Lawheim gazes out into the darkened sky, his hands clasped behind his back like some sort of grand poet, and remains there.

11 glances over at Aralyn, and is alarmed to see the elf stealthily sheathing a dagger back into a holster on her thigh. When Aralyn catches 11 looking, she turns away and pretends to be engrossed with something on one of the shelves.

The silence hangs in the air like a bad smell.

“Blast the goddesses. I don’t need this.”

Though he whispers it, both girls turn at the sound of Lawheim’s voice.

“Doctor,” Aralyn starts, but Lawheim noisily draws the cloth blinds closed, shutting out the darkness and cutting off anything Aralyn planned to say.

“You did a pretty good job, kid,” he says, turning to Aralyn. “Your friend here has no internal injuries, and from what I can see, her external wounds are all pretty much healed.”

Aralyn’s mouth drops open, and she shuts it with a snap. “But… but when I found her, she was, there were holes in, are you sure she’s okay?”

“Believe me, there’s nothing more I would like than an excuse to keep touching a young lady's very attractive body. But the truth is her wounds are very minor.”

Lawheim makes his way over to the long marble counter by the front door, where the shelf with the alcohol is located. His movements are sluggish, his gestures uncaring. “I wouldn’t recommend going adventuring, though. She’s lost a lot of blood, so her pulse is very weak, too weak to properly feel.” He emphasizes that last part, holding onto Aralyn’s questioning gaze with his own definitive tone, then he breaks off to scour over his wines. “Yes, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say your friend here is a Blood Devil, or a Blood Devil’s Undead thrall. But luckily for you, I am deeply informed in the medical fields, and thusly I prescribe the cure for your ailment: food and water, and a long day spent in bed, not here of course. Ah-ha, here you are, blasted little thing.” He pulls out a bottle of golden-yellow mead, pops the cork with a practiced hand, and chugs the liquid straight down his throat, coming up for air with a belly-quivering belch. When he notices that the girls are still staring at him, he swallows a few more mouthfuls of booze, juts his chin out towards the far side of the house, and slurs,

“Guest rooms, that way. Only got one bed, so share.”

He then begins the mission of swaying his way towards the stairs at the other side of the house, his steps just barely missing the minefield of bottles on the ground. “Bathtub’s outside, firewood’s, close. If I see even a speck of mud, on my sheets tomorrow, I’m coming for you both, with an axe.”

The doctor pauses with one foot on the stairs, and turns to stare at the girls with cloudy, unfocused eyes. “There’s enough junk, on the shelves, for a C-Rank Perimeter Protection spell. But don’t even think, about maybe touching anything else. I will, know.”

He then stumbles up the steps, out of sight.

11 sits herself up, clutching Aralyn’s cloak to her chest. “Do you wear perfume?”

The elf, still slack-jawed from staring after the doctor, glances over. “Do I need to?”

“No, no. I just meant, you… your coat smells… nice.” 11 holds up the cloak, as if inviting Aralyn to test the theory.

Aralyn smiles and shakes her head, as if waking up from a dream. “Sorry, that was just all so unexpected. Are you sure you’re okay? Seriously, what kind of crazy healer is he? I was beginning to suspect he’s a fraud.”

“Is that why you were preparing to stab him?” 11 slips her arms inside the baggy sleeves of Aralyn’s cloak. The coarse fabric drags across her skin; rough and barbaric compared to her amorphic nanofiber bodysuit.

“Ah, you saw that.” Aralyn reaches into her pack, and digs out a little vial of cherry-red liquid. “You can never be too careful. Some people will kill to keep a secret to themselves.” She places the vial into 11’s hands. “Here, drink this. It’ll help you keep warm.”

“What? No, Aralyn, you’ve done so much for me already.” 11 tries to hand the potion back, but Aralyn clasps her hands around 11’s, her eyes turning serious as she says,

“I can’t really explain this, and I fear I risk looking like an uncouth dimwit by trying, but in the forest, when I asked if we had met, that was not merely to make conversation.” She looks down at their hands, clasped around the vial. “Whenever I look at you, I am overcome with a familiarity that I’ve never felt before, almost as if Nranhana has destined us to meet today.”

11 tries to speak, but her throat has closed up over her words. She swallows down the tightness and tries again. “I’m very flattered, really. But…” She looks away, not wanting to lie, but not knowing how else to warn Aralyn of the dangers of getting too close. “I might not be who you think I am.”

Aralyn lets go. “Sorry, I don’t mean to put you on the spot like this. I’m probably just delirious from the exhaustion myself.” She backs away from 11, her eyes lingering. “I’ll call you when the water is ready.”

With that, the elf turns and strides out the back door, leaving 11 sitting alone, holding the little vial and wondering how it’s possible to have a smile that comforting and hands that warm.