They called her a demon.

Imagine you’re abruptly torn from your verdant home, twisted through some metaphysical pathway in the between, dumped unceremoniously into the gutter by some no-name drinking hole smelling of salt and sulfur, your head suddenly crammed full of foreign concepts your mind struggles to hold, and they call you a demon. It’s no nice word, rather, it’s something used to scare children with. You know this, you know what it means, you feel like you’ve always known the connotations of it and a thousand other words like gutter and pathway and head, but you don’t know why you know this.

And as you struggle to use your Singing-organs (the process did not deign to name all parts of you) to form these not-melodies—these crude and inefficient tools they were never meant to wield—in an attempt to find understanding, they keep calling you that word. Pointing at you—you also know it’s rude to point, for some reason, and it all is just too overwhelming.

If you can imagine that, well. You should find it no wonder demons are stereotypically thought to be prone to conflict and violence. It would take an extraordinarily adaptive alien (a dwarven word—another thing you don’t know why you know) to not lash out in some way. Or an extraordinarily peaceful one, as it happens.

It was not an easy time for Zavelle, her first few weeks in this world. She hadn’t fought anyone: fighting and violence were not concepts she was familiar with before. There was no such thing as conflict or disagreement; the Eternal Song was all there is. Sometimes the Singers were in dissonance, yes, but it would always build into a harmony as the Song continued.

But here, there was no Song. Even when she cast her forlornness into the stifling silence, no one heard, not to mention Sang back. People did not convey their emotions to one another directly through the Song, no, they used words. Impractical and imprecise little things that Zavelle still hasn’t grown used to. It’s why she’s in her [Humanoid Form] whenever other people are around. Otherwise, she’d find herself trying to Sing her intentions instead of speaking them, and that had had very little results so far. Some highly perceptive animals had heard her, but they hadn’t Heard her.

It was not an easy time, no. But these days, two years into this world, it’s not so bad. She likes it even, at times. Especially here on the frontier where people are used to seeing species of all kinds. No more stares, no more pointed fingers. Maybe, one day, she would even be comfortable in her [Original Form] out in public, but…not today. Zavelle’s got work to do.

“…[Lesser Diagnosis],” she applies a Skill to a coughing old woman lying in a sweat-moistened bed. The Skill sings back to her—an echo of a world lost to her, an odd, jarring melody of a thousand thousand conflicting and complementary parts. Examining it all would be an impossibility. It’s a good thing, then, that Zavelle doesn’t need to. The problem is likely in the patient’s lungs, so that’s what she listens for.

Focusing, she hears it mixed into the woman’s song. The song of another. It is not at all a malicious thing, unlike some other [Medics] would say, but innocent. All it wants (a strong word, not wholly applicable) is to live and reproduce. Too bad that it’s killing the old woman. Where its song touches the woman’s, her tones get more muffled or disappear altogether.

Zavelle’s heard enough. She moves her hand (the appendage and its capabilities never cease to wonder her) to the woman’s chest and turns to her distraught son. She has to put conscious effort into talking. To this day, it doesn’t come naturally to her. “…I can cure her…don’t worry,” she reassures the young man.

He looks almost ready to cry. Ill-shaven, he’d been taking care of his mother for the past few days. Zavelle had been visiting her friend, the eponymous Bette of Bette’s Botanical Bounties, who complained of her apprentice having not come to work for some days. The Guild having had no quests for her to do and her healer work for them having quite a flexible schedule, she decided to help her friend out.

“Please! Just fix my mom, we’ll pay you anything…I mean, we ain’t got much, not after that damned charlatan of a [Doctor] visited, but…” the [Apprentice Botanist]’s blue eyes are welling up. But he’s misunderstood something.

“I don’t…need payment…It’s…what was it…on the house?” Zavelle clears the misapprehension. She’s never charged for healing; it doesn’t seem right to her. Of course, she doesn’t turn down gifts from recovered patients, but the idea of denying others care for simple wealth goes against her heart.

The patient’s son says something, but Zavelle doesn’t listen. She needs to focus on chaining her Skills properly.

“[Benefic],” from her [Medic] class to apply active Skills that would normally only affect her to others. She chains that with “[Cure Disease],” a specialty of her [Demon] class. Something demons, and only demons, have access to. That’s how they can survive in a world full of what the dwarves call ‘aggressive microbiology’. She feels the Skill build up in her and then leave through her hand to where she guides it.

“Was that a Skill? I’ve never heard of—is mom—will mom be okay now?” The young man seems rather incredulous. Suspicious, even. Maybe he doesn’t know much about demons. And just when Zavelle had finished thinking about how nice it’s around here, where she doesn’t get the shifty eyes or have to explain herself.

Zavelle thinks for a moment about how to start. She looks at the tense man, and speaks, “She’s no longer sick…but her…lungs are damaged. I can cure them too, after my…Skill has recharged.” The man doesn’t look convinced. Zavelle sighs and asks him, “What do you know about…demons?”

After the initial shock, he settles down enough that Zavelle can Do The Talk. Yes, she’s a demon. No, she doesn’t eat people. No, she doesn’t want to become a [King] or a [Queen] and rule over the ‘feeble folk’. Yes, she’s from another world. No, she can’t travel between worlds. No, it’s not illegal to be a demon, associate with a demon, or do business with a demon. At least not in Serre. That might be different in some other nations.

“So it’s not that the [Doctor] was a charlatan, but that only demons get [Cure Disease]? Really?” the patient’s son asks.

“That’s what they…tell me. No healing spells or Skills to…non-demons. Some classes get [Staunch Bleeding]…[Second Wind]…or even [Alleviate Symptoms]…but nothing that heals,” Zavelle explains. She really should have a [Message] spell prepared for this so that she doesn’t have to go through it every time.

“Why not? How’s that fair?” he asks, as if Zavelle would know that. Skills aren’t fair.

She shrugs, “I don’t know…everyone I’ve asked told me to…’read a tome of history’. But those…things are long and…complex.” Zavelle turns to the patient. “…My Skill’s ready again.”

The man clearly has more questions, but he doesn’t ask them, instead letting Zavelle do her thing. “[Benefic],” she starts the chain again, the Skill now ready. “[Lesser Heal],” she guides the Skill to the old woman’s chest. Her expression immediately eases a little. She tries to say something but can’t get anything coherent out through the wheezing and hacking.

Before the man can start complaining or asking more questions, Zavelle says, “Her lungs should be healed now…but it will take some time for…her body to realize…there’s no more disease or damage to…attack.” She takes a deep breath (whenever she talks, she tends to forget she needs to do that now) and continues. “There’s always…a risk for complications…so I’ll stay here for another half…an hour.”

And stay she did. Over the half hour, the patient gradually regained some of her energy. She even became able to talk after coughing out some mucus and other disgusting things. Zavelle checked the woman’s son for illness too—he was in the clear—and then left them with instructions for aftercare. Mostly recommending that the old woman rest and eat more meat than usual. Or beans if they couldn’t afford meat. They would give the patient…something that her body would lack after healing itself. Zavelle couldn’t remember the particular dwarven word for it. Finally, she checked the patient’s son for illness too. He was healthy.

That affair concluded, she now finds herself outside her [Botanist] friend’s store: a rustic-looking wooden house with a storefront some ten minutes’ walk from the Guild. Painted an unusual green among the sea of browns, reds, and whites commonly used on building exteriors. For a moment, Zavelle enjoys the sight of the rows of flowers and plants of all shapes and colors in the pots outside the store. Then she goes inside.

It’s damp and smells earthy. More potted greenery lines shelves and desks all over the interior. There’s two other people inside the store. Bette, the proprietor. And also…

“Sammy,” Zavelle addresses the [Paladin] inspecting a small cactus. He’s holding the pot on his palm and has his face uncomfortably close to the spikes. “…Hello,” she continues.

Sammy turns around. “Zavelle. Hello. I was waiting for you.”

“Really now…what for…?”

“That can wait. Talk to the shopkeeper first. Since you‘re helping her out.”

Zavelle’s slightly surprised that he knows, but not that much. The man’s got a penchant for finding trouble. And a Skill too. She nods to him, and the [Paladin] goes back to staring at the prickly plant. Whatever for.

Zavelle explains to Bette that her apprentice hasn’t run away or quit or anything. He’d just been tending to his sick mother, and that he had paid the neighbor’s boy some coppers to send word to Bette about his situation. The kid had come back some time later, saying he had done it. The apprentice had been quite irate after finding out the boy had lied. Bette takes the news in stride, relieved that she doesn’t have to look for a new apprentice. She quite likes the young man, in fact.

Having taken care of that, Zavelle goes back to Sammy. He’s put the cactus down and is now looking at some purple Gravebell flowers by the display window.

“…Sammy,” Zavelle addresses the man. He turns around, and she continues, “What…business did you have with…me?”

“Hrm, yes.” Sammy looks thoughtful. After a moment of hesitation, he goes straight into the point, “A question. If you went on a date. Where would you like to go?”

Zavelle’s expression turns into one of disgust. She looks at Sammy like she was looking at a rotten fish. Perhaps it would be best if she was straight with him.

She sighs and says it as it is. “…I’m not…interested, Sammy.”

This catches the [Paladin] off guard. “What? Oh—you misunderstand. I’m asking for reference. For a friend,” he explains, with all the grace of an aged behemoth.

Zavelle’s eyebrow raises in a clear attempt to escape her face. “…Right,” she says. Maybe it’s best to play along? “I-I don’t really…it doesn’t…I’m a demon, you understand…yes?”

“Yeah.”

“That means…I don’t see you…or anyone else…that way…” Zavelle explains, getting more exasperated by the word.

Sammy insists on the line of questioning. “Suppose you did. Where’d you like to date?”

“…I don’t know, Sammy. I like…plants…and music. Maybe some place with…both of them. Can we…stop talking about this? It’s making me…uncomfortable,” she says, and it really is. She can already feel this form’s strange little sweat glands emitting their strange little liquids on her back.

“Oh. Sorry,” Sammy grimaces and backs off a few steps, remembering how imposing a tall man in armor can be to others. “I didn’t mean to. Thanks for the info.”

“No…problem?” Zavelle’s rather bewildered. It’s not her first time turning down hopeful suitors, but in all previous cases they were either disappointed or outright angry. Sammy’s neither.

The nascent awkward silence between them is interrupted by Bette the Botanist walking up to them with a potted arrangement of flowers. She says, “Sorry, but could I ask either of you a little favor? I’ve got this delivery of flowers to Vesta at the Guild. And you see, my apprentice usually takes care of these things while I run the store. But seeing as how he’s not here…”

“Hrm. Sure. I can take it,” Sammy promptly volunteers for the job.

“Great!” Bette gives him a bright smile and holds out the pot of flowers to him. “It’s heavier than you might expect, please don’t drop it,” she says as Sammy grabs onto the pot.

“I won’t. Anything else before I go?”

“Oh, um, there’s one thing.” The botanist looks a little awkward. “I wish you didn’t ask other women out when in earshot of someone who just rejected you. Me, I’m tough and don’t care. But you might hurt others that way.”

Sammy’s confused. “I’m confused. When did I ask anyone out?” This, in turn, confuses Zavelle.

The botanist snorts, “Now, now, don’t be that way. You even tried the same line on poor Zavelle. You know it, I know it, and now she knows it.”

Zavelle gives a judging gaze to Sammy. He knits his brows in thought. Then his expression clears up, and he states, “Oh. No. I was asking for a friend. She’s got a date. Doesn’t know where to go."

“…Sammy…” Zavelle’s judging look is now a look of pity. “How…am I better at this than you?”

She begins explaining how just about any other way to seek this information would’ve been better as the [Paladin] tilts his head in puzzlement.

⁂

A book thumps down on a desk. Placed there by a robust redhead woman. She seems to be looking for something, her head turning around, until she peeks over the counter and speaks.

“Here’s your book, friend. The current favorite among children, the librarian said. So popular they had no copies to borrow. No copies in a library, imagine that. But they let me take the reading hall’s copy after I mentioned your name.”

From behind the counter—as in properly behind, completely covered by the piece of furniture—a woman’s voice can be heard.

“Vesta needs to take a little break now, Drava. You can keep playing if you want. Okay?”

“Okaaay,” a much younger voice replies.

Vesta, the Guild’s [Receptionist], stands up with a groan. She rubs her knees and addresses the woman who brought her the book.

“Thank you, Sidney. Now what do we have here…” Vesta picks up the book and reads the title. The [Hero] Seraphinus and His Adventures. She frowns slightly and puts the book back down.

This doesn’t escape Sid’s attention. “Not to your liking, friend? I can fetch another one. The librarians will probably prefer the book back in the reading hall anyway.”

Vesta shakes her head. “No, no, it’s just…it’s nothing. This will do fine.” She looks down at something behind the counter. “Drava, Sidney here brought us a storybook. Would you get up and thank her?”

She doesn’t get up, but does chirp out a quick ‘thank you, Sidney’ from the floor level. Vesta rolls her eyes and Sidney laughs, “Enjoy, kiddo!”

At that moment, two regulars walk into the Guild. Zavelle, the Guild’s standby [Medic], and Sammy, [Paladin] of some description. The latter’s carrying a flowerpot while the former holds the door open. Sid decides to poke her nose into this business.

“Hey-o. What’s the occasion, friends?”

“Hi. They’re for Vesta,” Sammy explains nonchalantly. Zavelle just sighs, looking like she’s given up on something.

Sid’s eyes widen. “No! Vesta? Sammy, you old dog! I never thought you—” she suddenly stops, recognition in her eyes as she stares at the multicolored flowers. “Capricious Maidens?” she goes. “Oh, nevermind. So it’s that time already, huh. Time flies, Sammy. Time flies.”

“It does. Excuse me,” the [Paladin] remarks as he sidesteps Sid and walks up to the counter to drop off the pot of Capricious Maidens.

“Botanist’s regards. Said it’s for you,” he tells Vesta. She’s uncharacteristically caught off-guard by this, a wistful look in her large green eyes. After a moment lost, she snaps out of her daze and thanks Sammy. The elf looks ever so slightly distraught. She glances between Drava, on the floor playing with dolls, and the three adventurers standing on the other side of the counter. Vesta mutters to herself, and only Sid with her Skill-assisted hearing can make out some of her mumblings.

“…Just the two of them? …No, what about… …if An-Kel-Ot joins? …Zavelle, then? [Gauge Danger]…”

When Sid hears her using one of her signature Skills, she pipes up, “Uh, Vesta? Is there trouble?”

This once again brings the [Receptionist] out of her own world. She shakes her head vigorously. “No trouble, no. Sorry, I’m a little out of it. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Sid relaxes a little, but she still looks concerned.

Vesta takes a deep breath, gives the trio a serious look, and speaks with regained confidence.

“I’m going to ask you three a huge favor.”