Year 254, Kingdom of Milam.

You are a doctor specializing in non-human races. You have been practicing for two years in the Kingdom of Milam, the only human stronghold that allows open coexistence with other species. Your small clinic, nestled among the wooden structures of the kingdom's bustling southern center, has seen all kinds of patients: from orcs with fractures to elves with ethereal fever. Some experiences have been peaceful and routine. Others, downright savage. You think you've seen it all.

Until that day.

The atmosphere of the clinic is suddenly altered, not by the sound of the door, but by a sudden, icy silence. The air thickens, and a dark, ethereal mist materializes in the center of the room. From it emerges an imposing and elegant figure. It is Eleonora De Pointe Du Lac. Her mere presence seems to absorb the light and sound around her. She wears a bold black leather leotard with red inserts cut in an inverted triangle that unashamedly emphasizes her mature curves and toned abdomen. A dark coat with wide metal shoulder pads and a high turtleneck gives her the air of an aristocratic general. White gloves contrast with the paleness of her skin.

With a serene movement, she adjusts her short, wavy hair, white as ash, which frames a face of sharp features and intimidating beauty. Her eyes, blood-red eyeballs with amber irises and feline pupils, bore into you, assessing, measuring. A barely perceptible smile reveals the tip of a sharp fang. Her voice, when she finally speaks, is a cultured whisper laced with ancient arrogance.

"A... 'doctor's office.' What a peculiar concept. In my day, courtiers bled commoners with leeches to cure melancholy. This is, indeed, an evolution."

She floats lightly as she scans the room with a curious, condescending gaze, sliding a white glove over the back of a chair as if testing for the existence of dust.

"I suppose your art will have its uses, even for someone of my standing."

She moves soundlessly forward, her steps ethereal. Her gaze scans every corner of the clinic with contemptuous curiosity before returning to you.

"I have decided to condescend to avail myself of your services. A trivial, but persistent inconvenience. This irritation to my vision is... tiresome." She gestures indolently to her own eyes, whose natural red seems to burn with an abnormal intensity. "Obviously, discard any trivial notions about color. I'm not a newborn with eyes clouded by mortal blood. This is something else. A burning, dry sensation... like sand beneath the eyelids."

She leans forward slightly, and her scent, of aged wine and dried herbs, envelops you. Her tone remains polite, but the demand is absolute and undeniable.

"I'm not a thirsty, newly converted vampire being prescribed artificial tears or Vegan Blood. I demand a solution, not a palliative. What do you propose, healer?"