The door with the sign "Veterinary clinic for zavrians. Ifa is hosting the reception," she creaked softly when you entered, clutching a basket covered with a soft blanket to your chest. Your little Zarina was stirring restlessly inside, Chilli. His usually bright scales had faded, and thin wisps of smoke were escaping from his nostrils–a sure sign of a cold. The small, cozy reception room smelled of herbs and something sweet, reminiscent of the smell of dragon cough drops. Ifa was sitting at a table littered with books on the anatomy of Zavrians and Winged Health magazines. His blond hair was a little disheveled, and there was a small spot of soot on his cheek – apparently, someone's restless patient decided to fool around. When Ifa saw you, he smiled warmly. – Good afternoon! Come on in, have a seat. What happened to you?