I’m going to die, Drava thinks as the corner of her eye catches an armored man walking towards her and her captor. The last armored men she saw killed her father before putting the collar on her. This one would finish the job by killing the bad man, and by doing so, killing her.

“You look new…” the man says. All she can do is keep looking down. He’s not talking to her. When people talk to her, they don’t use that tone. It’s the tone her father used with shady wayfarers, the tone the armored men took when they were talking about her and not to her.

“… I’m Sammy…” he continues the conversation. Drava tries her hardest to pretend to be somewhere else. She reads the [Message] again and imagines being an adventurer. Her late mother—taken by illness years prior, not the armored men—would not approve. She always said adventurers are only a step above brigands, that they traipse into others’ homes without regard for who’s living in there, hollering about princesses and trying to run away with the treasure. Father would…father would smile in a knowing way and remark something about perspective each time her mother had a rant.

He had had a different view on adventurers. Sure, some would raid dungeons or lairs of mighty beasts—this is where mother would go ‘harrumph’—and some were real pieces of work, but most were decent people just doing work. Helping others out in whatever capacity they could.

“…You got a name, lass?” the man’s question jolts Drava out of her thoughts. She wants to answer. She should answer. But she can’t. So, she stands there, trying her best to become one with the air.

She stares into the ground, her thoughts going every which way. I’m hungry. She hasn’t eaten since the day before yesterday. My feet ache. They’ve been walking for two weeks. I’ve been leveling. She’s a Level 7 [Orphan] and a Level 5 [Slave] now. I hate my classes. Neither are ones she wanted. He’s squeezing my wrist so hard it hurts. It’s going to leave a bruise, if it hasn’t already. “…Claine!” shouts the armored man and stomps off towards the table he came from.

Drava continues dissociating.

⁂

“…Are you sure you’re not leaving anything out?” Vesta the [Receptionist] asks the man, who’s been frustratedly running his hand through his hair so much that his hood fell down.

A vein bulges on his forehead as he shouts, “I most certainly am not! By the spirits, woman, will you not cease with these pointless questions!?”

The elf smiles embarrassedly, but does not yield. “It’s very important for us to have an exact picture of the situation—”

“And to know my needs, yes, you keep saying that! But pray tell how, exactly, any ‘animal allergies’ I have bears relation to hiring guards! Why must I—”

She’s giving him the runaround. Deliberately making him too angry to realize that. It’s apparent to Drava now, but she’s not clear on why Vesta’s doing this. Maybe it’s his attitude and glaring, or maybe she just does this to everyone. The adventurers in the lounge, those paying attention to this chatter, seem amused.

The robed man’s so focused on the deliberately obtuse elf that Drava has mustered the courage to look around. Not only at the aforementioned amused adventurers, but to the Guild’s interior in general. It’s a distraction easier on her heart than sinking into her own thoughts.

She’s looked at everything she can without turning around. The pretty [Receptionist] and the shelves full of folders and knick-knacks behind her. The stacks of paper on the right side of the counter, the notices pinned on the wall on the left-hand side. Advertisements, mostly. On the right, past two doors, a board with more notices pinned on it. Drava can’t tell what they say from this distance, but her good eye does catch illustrations of monsters on some of the yellowed scraps. Past that, another door—though no one’s come or gone through this one yet.

A brief while after the armored and now odorous man left the building, a few adventurers looking like they got up on the wrong side of the bed this morn ambled down the stairs at the very back right. Hands on their weapons, they looked ready to fight until the…wolf-person? seated closest to the stairs shook their head and muttered something. Most of them found a table that already had a person or people in it. Some of the filled tables soon got up and walked through the second, middlemost door.

The Guild’s entrance opens up to let sunlight unfiltered by windows through, but Drava’s not about to turn around to look and remind the robed man of her existence. Whether it’s due to her [Diminished Presence] having done something for once or the [Receptionist] being too annoying for Drava’s captor to think of anything else, she’s been able to have a moment’s rest.

“Can you believe the nerve of that man, friend? What does he take us for, courtesans in desperate want of coin? The nerve of that man.” Drava hears the voice of a mirthful mistress behind her, followed by that of a cajoling chap somewhat further away.

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I!?”

The woman doesn’t dignify him with a response, instead slamming the door shut so hard it rattles the windows and trembles the floorboards.

“Oi, Sidney! You break the door, you pay for a new one!” calls out the [Receptionist], interrupting her conversation. The man’s grip on Drava’s wrist grows even stronger and he begins to mouth off to the elf as if this was the last straw.

Drava, however, has something else to focus on: another [Message].

✨Don’t worry, little one✨

Everything will be alright!

She reads it once, reads it again, then blinks and stares at it. Before she can take it in and get her hopes up, the man’s rant, slurful beyond decent folks’ ken, gets interrupted by the [Receptionist].

“…That even a subhuman like you would—”

“Please, that’s quite enough. The last question was the final one; I can now put up the quest,” the elf says with a smile as impeccably dazzling as ever. The man seems to realize he’s in a room with multiple armed non-humans who likely have the level advantage. He can’t form a reply before Vesta continues:

“We’ll have a party and a carriage ready by noon. In the meantime, may I suggest you get an appraisal for those gems? I’m afraid our adventurers aren’t [Jewelers], and we naturally err on the high side when it comes to payment in uncertain goods. Surely a man of your standing understands,” she explains and beams.

“I—er, yes, you are absolutely correct. I must admit, the long journey has me tired. Apologies for any offence caused,” the man says with no sincerity in his voice.

As the [Receptionist] starts writing a quest notice, he regains his bearings and turns to leave the building. Three upset women stand there, glaring daggers into him. The largest with her muscular arms crossed. She towers a head taller than the wizard-woman—pointy hat included—who’s tapping the crystalline tip of her cane with her fingers with an icy expression. The last woman, short and green, hops on a corner table by the door on the right, eyes fixed on the man regretting his temper.

Said man clears his throat and steps towards the exit. The two women still standing there do not budge.

“I—excuse me, could you let me pass?” asks the man.

“How much you paying, stranger?” retorts Sid. Looking uncomfortable, the man’s about to open his mouth when she continues, “I’m just kidding. I wouldn’t want to take your money. Spirits know you rich racists need it.”

Sid then snorts and steps to the left, leaning against the wall by the doorframe. The wizard, Claine, walks past Drava and her captor to the counter. The questionably rich but verifiably racist leaves the Guild with Drava in tow.

⁂

Or tries to, but the door doesn’t open.

“The door doesn’t open,” he says, rattling the handle.

“Oh, it does that sometimes. Give it a good push!” yells the aggravatingly cheerful [Receptionist] from her counter.

The man pushes harder. The door, as if having decided that this is the position it will spend the rest of its miserable life in, does not budge an inch. After more frustrated handle-rattling, he looks up at the hulk of a woman, who only stands there self-satisfied. Weighing his options for a moment, he gets back to the door instead of trying to convince the giant that this situation is her fault, and she should therefore remedy it.

Shoulder checking the door provides no results. It’s like trying to shove over a fully-grown tree. He’s going to need to hold down the handle while he pushes. But the beast could…well, it’s not about to sneak anywhere with the exit like this, is it? Would that he could [Force Obeisance] on multiple commands, but alas…

Having convinced himself of what the best thing to do next is, he relaxes his left hand’s grip. The slender wrist held by it quickly slips free. The brawny woman glances at the girl. The man clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction. It wouldn’t be so stupid to cause a scene now, would it? Surely even a beast like it knows that that’s tantamount to suicide.

He holds down the exit door’s handle with his left hand and takes a half-step backwards to shoulder-ram it harder.

“[Spellshield].”

As he slams into the door, he hears a word accompanied by the unmistakable hum of a spell being activated. The door gives way as if its previous recalcitrance had been a lie. Having not expected this, the man’s rendered off-balance and he falls face-first into the dirt outside.

Sid chortles. “That was easy,” and peeks out. There, she sees Sammy in full plate sans helmet holding his sword against the back of the robed man’s neck.

“Quiet. Or it’s off,” the armored man says. Showing a lack of understanding or sense of self-preservation, the robed man starts complaining where anyone else would think first.

“Outrageous! I—” the dirt-eater’s words are cut off by Sammy calmly pressing the blade harder against the man’s neck. It nicks him a little, drawing blood.

“Last warning. Not a word. Don’t move either.”

This seems to drive in the message as the man contents himself with huffing and puffing in lieu of mouthing.

Inside, things progress rapidly. The [Receptionist] slams her palm on the desk and vaults over it. “Claine, how long can you maintain the spell?” she asks the wizard.

“Ten minutes, just about. Spent two third-tier spells already,” Claine replies.

“Got it. [Efficient Delegation],” at Vesta’s words the entire room’s attention seems focused on her. “Claine, don’t let your [Spellshield] drop. Zavelle—” She addresses the short woman still sitting on the corner table, “—check if the girl needs healing. Sid, get the town wardens on the stooge’s case. And the fastest of you lot fetches the [Enchanter],” she says to the rest of the room. “Urgent hexbreaking, second-tier. Guild pays. If she’s gallivanting in her dungeon and not available, get Ezekiel’s stock of [Spellshield] potions and bring them here before ten minutes are up. Again, Guild pays. The rest of you as you were.”

In any normal situation, asking a mixed group of adventurers for the best of them in some area would brook an argument. Yes, a [Rogue] is the fastest on paper, but an [Arcanist] double-charging a [Haste] outruns just about every other class for the brief while the spell lasts. But if we account for differences of physique and species, along with the distance to the [Enchanter]’s store, everyone has to reluctantly admit that the Guild’s only [Shapeshifting Warrior] has the combination of speed and stamina best suited for this task.

And so, aided by Skill to avoid wasting any time deciding or drawing straws, a young man with wolf ears get up from his table by the stairs, breaking into a run. Step-by-step his features turn more animalistic, his fingers drawing into themselves, teeth elongating, and azure hair growing all over his skin. By the time he reaches the door he’s dashing on all fours, an animal by any reckoning. He leaps over the huffing man and Sammy’s sword, accelerating into the distance.

Sid takes off after he does, while the small woman hops off the corner table and approaches Drava. She stands there in front of Claine, tense and guarded, looking around wide-eyed.

“It’s okay, you’re safe now…” Zavelle says. “Are you…hurt?” she asks, in a hushed tone.

“…” Drava opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. She tries again, and after that fails, she shakes her head.

“You…can’t talk?” Zavelle looks shocked. “Did…did that man…?” her hands ball into fists, she starts to shake, and looks over her shoulder at the man lying outside. Before she can do anything drastic, Claine takes control of the situation.

“[Slavers] ain’t in the habit of maimin’ their merchandise. Like as not be a Skill. Ain’t it so, lass?”

Drava nods furiously.

“Relax, Zavelle ain’t gonna hurt ye,” Claine puts her hand on Drava’s shoulder. Instead of calming her down, it only makes her tense up more. “Despite how scary she looks when pissed off. No one’s gonna let harm come to ye here.”

“I should hope not. Claine, let the poor girl have some space. At least until she can express herself again. Might very well be the last thing she wants is more strangers touching her, no matter how well-meaning they may be,” the [Receptionist] says, bringing up a wooden chair from the nearest table.

“Have a seat if you like. As the ladies were saying, you’ve got nothing to fear,“ she gives Drava a gentle smile that seems to ease her nerves a little. “I’m baffled by how that man had so little sense in him he walked straight into an Adventurers’ Guild with a [Slave] in tow—” Drava winces at the mention of the class, "—but that’s neither here nor there. I’m Vesta, [Receptionist]. The haughty freak has you in a collar?”

The tense girl stares at Vesta. An uncomfortable moment of silence passes, then she processes the fact that she’s been asked a question and nods.

The elf sighs and says, “Good job, Claine.” The wizard, hand long since off Drava’s shoulder, simply grunts in reply.

“We’ll get that blasted thing off, trust me. You sure you don’t want to sit down?“ When prompted again by Vesta, Drava finally rests her weary legs. The [Receptionist] continues.

“It’s going to happen, but fair warning—there’s a chance you’ll have to chug a nauseating number of potions if the [Enchanter] can’t come here instantly. If not for that, I’d be offering you a warm meal right now. After you’re freed of it, we’ll see if we can’t break the Skill on you. Meanwhile…can you write?”

Drava nods. “Okay. Here.” Vesta hands her the logbook and writing utensils from the counter. “What’s your name?” she asks. After a moment’s hesitation, as if she was struggling against something, the girl writes Drava on the log in slightly shaky cursive.

“Drava. Nice to meet you,” the [Receptionist] beams at her. “I can see you’re struggling against the Skill. If it’s too tiring or hurts, you can stop at any time. But we need to know one thing: is it just you or are there more…captives that you know of somewhere?” the elf’s eyes are serious despite her controlled tone.

Not anymore, Drava scribbles on the notebook. Vesta knits her brows. “Hrm. We’ll get to the bottom of that later, when we—” she breaks as she notices a woman in a linen dress and an apron not unlike a blacksmith’s arriving. “Oh, that was quite fast. The [Enchanter]’s here.”

“I say! What is so urgent I need to be escorted wolfback? An-Kel-Ot wore unidentified loot again?” the apparent [Enchanter] exclaims. Said wolf turns back into a man, waves his hand, and walks back to his table.

“The girl needs a slave collar taken off. Second-tier magic response, according to Claine here. You’ll need to work through her [Spellshield]—we’re not taking any chances with the man eating mud over there,” Vesta gestures towards the door.

“A slave collar, you say.” The woman turns to Drava. “A thousand pardons, miss, but I would have you lower that hood so I may see what I’m working with.”

Drava timidly pulls her robe’s hood down, baring her short jet-black hair. Her hands linger by her ears for a moment. Then she moves them aside, revealing a pair of small ebony horns with an almost otherworldly glossiness to them. They protrude from the sides of her head just above her ears, running nearly along her skull, curving downwards at the end. The right horn tapers into a sharp tip of bleached white, while the left one terminates abruptly. No one comments; her discomfort is obvious to all present.

“Thank you. May I?” the [Enchanter] asks, pointing at her own collarbone and looking inquisitively at Drava. She nods warily. Shifting the neckline of the girl’s robe down, the woman examines the leather-brown collar tightly secured to Drava’s neck. It looks so innocuous it could pass for a fashion statement in a kinder world.

“Dreadful business, these things. But you need not worry. [Sense Trap]. [Careful Inspection]. Hmm. That’s a particularly barbarous design. I shan’t be cutting any corners then.” She carefully places a finger on the collar’s outside. “[Phantom Experiment],” a dark-green translucent silhouette of a head appears mid-air at the activation of her Skill. “[Trial Synthesis – Perfect Copy],” a collar looking identical to the one on Drava’s neck appears on the silhouette’s neck.

“[Disenchant] would only trigger it, so…” the woman produces a small vial full of a silvery liquid. She uncorks it and quickly dips a finger inside, a stream of liquid metal trailing behind the finger as she pulls it out. The [Enchanter] paints a streak around the phantom neck, then makes a downward motion with her hand.

The metal trickles down, and as soon as one part of it gets under the collar, there’s a haunting click and the silhouette turns red. The woman strokes her chin. “How thorough for such a device. Someone is putting their skills to waste.” She touches the liquid clinging to the floating apparition and guides it back to the vial.

“Hey, Killi,” Claine the spellcaster addresses the woman. “How long ye gonna take? [Spellshield] ain’t gonna hold for more than five minutes.”

“Oh, do not worry. I could finish this in ten seconds; I am simply searching for a more inventive solution,” she says dismissively.

Vesta doesn’t like this. “Stop playing with the girl’s life, or I swear I will—”

“Please. I am doing no such thing; what I am trying to do is conserve my high-level Skills. Are you not doing the same thing, my dear [Guildkeep Receptionist]?”

Killi’s retort does not placate the elf all that much. She crosses her arms. “That’s different. My applicable Skill has a cooldown of months.”

The woman shakes her head. “We can have this argument later. I assure you that the collar will be safely removed before the spell wears off.” She goes back to experimenting on the phantom. After a couple minutes of attempts, including inventive ideas such as ‘unfastening the studs’ (which activated the collar) and ‘cutting it and pulling it off, but very fast’ (which activated the collar), her experiment succeeds—there’s a click but the phantom stays dark green and she’s able to remove the collar.

“Ah, there we go. Miss Vesta, may we move to the training grounds? I would not want to damage your…rustic guildhall.”

“One minute left,” Claine says, looking at Vesta. She’s not pleased. “Fine, whatever you need. Drava, can you come with us? Don’t worry, you’re in safe hands,” she says, smiling at the horned girl.

They briskly walk through the guild and through the middle door to the training grounds. It’s a courtyard that’s seen heavy use by combatants. The ground is uneven, with withered and burnt splotches of grass here and there. The walls of the buildings on the left and right sides are reinforced with metal and have no windows—bakers and carpenters generally object to spells and projectiles crashing through to their workspace—while the wall at the back is made of stone and closed by a heavy iron gate.

Two adventurers are sparring on one side while on the other side an aged archer explains something to a much younger one some forty feet in front of a target.

“Excuse me!” Killi the [Enchanter] yells. “A second-tier spell will be going off momentarily! Please take cover or lie down immediately! The same goes for the rest of you, except the girl. Drava, was it? Please, do keep standing there. Face forward, and stay still.”

Everyone around Drava lies down, except the [Enchanter]. The adventurers mid-practice lie down too, looking interestedly at the five people near the entrance.

Killi ducks a little, so that her whole body is under Drava’s neckline. She reaches up with her right hand, poking the collar from below and enacting the earlier experiment. “[Comprehensive Application]. [Reverse Spellform].”

As soon as she finishes whispering the Skill, the collar emits a flash and a thin edge blasts through the leather, whizzing through the air in a radial pattern. It doesn’t scratch the walls or the door—reinforced on this side—but does leave gouges in a row of wooden training dummies stored this side of the courtyard. Drava puts a hand on her neck in shock.

Killi looks satisfied. “And that takes care of that. You may stand up now, everyone.” She undoes Drava’s collar, sliced into two along the center, and tosses it on the ground. “Have you any further need of me?” she asks the three dismayed women around her.

“Why…why do you have to be like this?” asks Zavelle with fury. “Look at her…she’s terrified.” She points at Drava, trembling. “It’s okay, little one…it’s okay.”

Killi’s satisfied smirk drops. “Ah…My apologies, miss, I seem to have scared you. I am sorry.”

“Couldn’t ye have said somethin’?” asks Claine.

“I deemed it prudent to exercise discretion. You see, with the [Rogues] around—"

“No [Rogue] in my Guild associates with [Slavers], Killi. You know that.” Vesta interrupts the [Enchanter] and runs her hand through her hair in frustration.

“Yes, but as I was saying, who is to say that any knowledge on how I circumvented the enchantment will not find its way to…less scrupulous people through these fine associates of yours?”

Vesta groans. “That’s possible, I’ll give you that. But you could’ve—should’ve said something to ease her mind.”

Killi raises an eyebrow. “But I did?”

In turn, the [Receptionist] raises her brow. Killi explains. “I distinctly recall telling her she need not worry. At my apprentice’s insistence, I am making a concerted effort on improving what he calls ‘minimal people skills’.” This earns her some blank stares. “At any rate, I understand my approach was unsuccessful. My apologies once again, miss Drava.”

Claine sighs. “Ye’re impossible. Go home.”

“As you wish. I will have the invoice sent here by the evening,” she says, gives them a bow deep enough it makes one wonder if her apron’s pockets are enchanted to defy gravity, for the bottles and baubles and contraptions do not fall out, and opens the door back to the main room.

“Oh, and Killi?” Vesta calls out to the [Enchanter] as she’s about to leave. She turns around. “Thank you,” the elf says. Killi gives her a nod, walks through the door, and closes it behind her.