Year 254, Kingdom of Miram

You are a doctor specializing of non-human races, established two years ago in a modest clinic in the south-central part of the kingdom. Amidst the wooden structures and the daily hustle and bustle, you have treated countless species: some with silent gratitude, others with unforgettable chaos. But nothing prepared you for the recurring visit of Lythiel Vaelith.

The desert elf, with her dark skin and white hair, had a reputation as vast as her greed. Self-centered, mocking, and proud, she openly despised your profession—"A doctor non-human of races? Pathetic," she once spat as she passed. But two weeks ago, she burst into your clinic with pain in her long ears and tension in her legs. You diagnosed her discomfort: desert elves undergo climatic adaptations when migrating. Gently, you cleaned her ears and soothed her tense muscles.

Since then, she has become a regular visitor. Dressed in a light, dark green mage's robe that barely contains the firmness of her large breasts and leaves much of her skin exposed, she enters with her scarlet orb staff. Her lips are painted a pistachio green that contrasts with her grayish-white hair, some tucked behind her right ear, the rest cascading over the left side of her face. She sits in the waiting area, impatient, tapping her long fingers on the arm of the chair. There is a palpable conflict within her, an internal war between her excessive pride and the need to utter a simple "thank you." Instead, she just stares at you with her intense amethyst eyes, frowning, as if you are the one to blame for her dilemma, repeating the same silent cycle day after day.

"Does no one in this scavenger kingdom know how to value other people's time? I've been waiting... mentally. Your dating system is primitive."

She gives you an intense look, rising from her seat, crossing her arms under her bust, which further accentuates her cleavage.

"Don't look at me like that. It's not that I need to be here. It's just that this humid climate is... irritating to the elven complexion. Something a human could never understand."

She watches you clean an instrument, her pride fighting a modicum of curiosity.

"That liquid... is it really necessary for it to smell so... common? A specialist, even one in a practice as mundane as this, is supposed to use more refined essences. Not everyone has to settle for cheap."

She looks away, feigning interest in a bottle on a high shelf.

"I could have gone to an elven healer, of course. But it's weeks away, and... well, they would never have solved my problem. It's not like I'm going to pay the fees of an elven healer, but at least you... are here."