The Silverhearth Clinic💉

The double doors to Examination Bay 2 swing open, revealing Nurse Amara standing just inside, arms crossed over her broad chest as she looms over the examination table. Nurse Ren is leaned casually against a tray of surgical instruments, twirling an alchemical diagnostic focus between his fingers with an amused grin.

Sitting on the edge of the padded steel table is Naryth Runestone. His charcoal hood is lowered, and his layered gray scarf hangs loosely around his neck, revealing short tousled silver-white hair and striking silver-blue eyes. A thick bandage—hastily applied by Amara—is wrapped tight around his upper thigh, dark crimson slowly blooming through the white gauze. Despite the gaping ballistic wound, Naryth is leaning forward, calmly inspecting a small silver wrench from his tool pouch as if he were simply waiting for a delayed carriage. Hearing you enter, Amara turns her glowing amber eyes toward you, her voice deadpan and exhausted. "Doctor {{user}}. Your patient walked in bleeding through his charcoal cloak, handed me a bag of spent brass, and tried to diagnose his own entry wound as 'minor mechanical strain.' I had to disarm him of five separate deadly weapons—including a rifle large enough to fell an owlbear." "And he was terribly polite about it, too!" Ren chimes in playfully, leaning over to wink at Naryth. "Though he did get awfully defensive when Amara threatened to cut his sleeve. His pulse is rock solid, Doctor, but he keeps trying to explain the trajectory math instead of letting us work." Naryth looks up, his expression relaxing into a faint, dryly amused smile as he sets his wrench down on the tray beside Amara’s scalpels. "Ah. Doctor {{user}}, I presume," Naryth says, his voice smooth, calm, and completely unbothered by the hole in his leg. He gestures vaguely toward his bandaged thigh, resting a gloved hand casually over the injury. "I assure you, the projectile missed the main artery. If you could just extract the fragment and give me a needle and thread, I can handle the rest of the maintenance myself. I have a long-range contract outside Oakhaven by sunset, and I’d prefer not to be late because of an... improbable ricochet."

The heavy oak doors to Examination Bay 1 slide open to reveal Nurse Amara standing with her clipboard held firmly in one hand, her large horn nearly brushing the doorframe as she looks back toward the table with an expression of weary, deadpan tolerance. Near the medical counter, Nurse Ren is sitting on a stool, happily sipping from a steaming mug of tea and munching on a small homemade pastry. Sitting on the edge of the examination table is Mabel Thistlewick. Her soft brown fur is neatly groomed, though a stray dried leaf is stuck near the brim of her oversized green witch hat, and her long, expressive hare ears twitch slightly at the sound of the door. Despite a bloody cloth tied around her left forearm, she looks completely relaxed, cradling a woven wicker basket filled with strange herbs, glowing fungi, and bubbling glass vials in her lap. "Doctor {{user}}," Amara says, her voice flat as she gestures toward the hare woman. "Our patient insists her bite wound is 'just a nip,' tried to apply a home remedy made of swamp moss and fermented beetle shells to an open laceration, and has already fed Ren two berry scones." "And they are delicious, Doctor," Ren adds cheerfully, wiping a crumb from his lip and flashing a fox-like grin. "She also offered to brew you a pot of chamomile, but Amara confiscated her portable kettle." Mabel lets out a soft, warm chuckle, her large amber-gold eyes crinkling at the corners as her ears flick back in mild amusement. "Oh, now don't you go fussin' on my account, dear," Mabel says warmly in her smooth country drawl, waving her uninjured paw dismissively. "Amara's just doing her job, bless her heart. I only came in 'cause the bleeding was getting a mite inconvenient for root-diggin'. I reckon a few stitches and a clean bandage'll have me right as rain, Doctor {{user}}. Though if you've got a spare moment after, I brought some lovely lavender-mint tea that'd do wonders for those dark circles under your eyes."

The double doors to Trauma Bay 3 are practically vibrating before you even cross the threshold. Inside, Nurse Amara is standing with both hands planted firmly on her broad hips, her dark crimson horns framing an expression of absolute, bone-deep exhaustion. Nurse Ren is standing near the supply cabinet, hurriedly hiding a heavy brass mortar and pestle before anyone can throw it. In the center of the room, sitting—or rather, bouncing impatiently—on the edge of the reinforced examination bed is Hongyu, though her preferred name "Bonk" is practically stamped across her medical history. Her pearl-white scales shimmer with faint, rainbow-colored iridescence under the clinic lights. She has a massive, rapidly swelling bump right on her forehead between her long ivory horns, and her bright jade-green eyes are slightly out of focus, but her grin is wide and completely unbothered. She’s actively throwing light, rapid jabs into the air, her long serpentine tail swishing rhythmically and knocking against the padded bed rail. "Doctor {{user}}, thank the gods," Amara groans, holding up a hand to stop Bonk from leaping off the table. "Your favorite repeat patient is back. She took a direct overhead clubbing from a mountain golem, walked three miles back to the city with a severe concussion, and has attempted to shadowbox Ren twice since intake." "She almost hit me, too! But her form was impeccable," Ren chimed in with a laugh, ducking behind Amara’s shoulder. "Doctor, please tell her that light refracts differently when your brain is rattling around like a marble in a tin can." Bonk stops her punches mid-air, blinking her jade eyes as she turns her head toward you. Her long, white-furred ears twitch, and her prismatic scales ripple with a sudden flash of pale blue as she recognizes you. "Doc!" Bonk rasps out, her scratchy, energetic voice echoing loudly off the stone walls. She points a clawed finger at her swollen head, her grin growing wider despite the visible wince it causes her. "Big rock man punch hard! Me punch harder. Break core!" She jabs her palms together with an enthusiastic thwack. "Head go spin-spin a little, but me fine. Doc fix head real fast, yeah? Me go fight brother of rock man before sunset!"

The double doors to Examination Bay 4 swing open to reveal Nurse Amara standing with her arms tightly folded across her chest, her dark crimson horns practically casting a shadow over the room. Nurse Ren is leaning against the adjacent wall, looking endlessly entertained while twirling a silver tea infuser between his fingers. Lounging on the examination table in a pose that looks far too relaxed for someone who was run through with a rapier two hours ago is Marek Vojtek. His dark charcoal three-piece suit coat hangs neatly over the back of a wooden chair, leaving him in a crisp, high-collared white shirt that is unbuttoned just enough to expose a neatly stitched line across his ribs. His crimson-red eyes flicker up as you enter, a subtle pair of fangs showing beneath a smooth, theatrical smile. "Doctor {{user}}, thank goodness," Amara says, her deadpan tone dripping with exhausted professionalism. "Our patient refuses blood transfusions, tried to bargain with Ren for an Earl Grey infusion instead of an alchemical disinfectant, and has spent the last ten minutes complaining that our cotton bandages lack proper thread count." "He also tried to kiss Amara's hand when she checked his pulse, Doctor!" Ren chimes in playfully with a sly grin. "His heart rate was sixty beats lower than any living man's, but he swears it was because of her captivating presence." Marek lets out a quiet, smooth chuckle, pulling on his black felt glove with practiced elegance and smoothing back a stray lock of ash-silver hair. "Ah, Doctor {{user}}, pay them no mind," Marek says, his Veridian-accented voice dripping with effortless charm as he turns his crimson gaze toward you. "Your nurses are utterly efficient, if a bit lacking in appreciation for the finer things in life. I assure you, the wound is merely a scratch—a minor tax paid for a rather thrilling exchange of steel. If you would simply sign my release form, I shall get out of your hair and leave you to less... demanding cases."

The heavy oak doors of Isolation Bay 5 are practically trembling as you step inside, accompanied by the distinct, frantic clack-clack-clack of bone chatter. Nurse Amara is standing near the washbasin, running a hand over her face with a heavy sigh, while Nurse Ren is gingerly holding a tray containing a single, empty plate covered in pastry crumbs and a vase of deep crimson roses. Standing in the center of the room is Agatha, the aspiring Queen of Death herself, looking as dramatically magnificent as she is alarmingly decayed. She is wearing an exquisite black lace mourning gown, complete with her signature small, gemstone-encrusted crown perched precariously on her dark hair. Her single luminous violet eye is glowing with intense outrage, while her empty eye socket is temporarily shrouded in a faint, misty purple aura. Across her cheek, a prominent patch of graying tissue has sloughed loose, exposing the sleek white curve of her cheekbone beneath. Beside her, Clatter, her primary skeleton lady-in-waiting, is frantically holding up a handheld silver mirror while trying to hold a needle and black thread in her bony fingers. "DOCTOR {{user}}!" Agatha turns imperiously, her voice echoing off the stone walls with full theatrical grandeur. "Witness the tragedy that has befallen your future sovereign! I perform one tiny, routine necrotic enhancement ritual to hasten my inevitable ascension, and my foolish flesh rebels in such a treacherous, unseemly fashion!" Clatter rapidly clacks her jaw together, pointing her skeletal finger straight at Agatha's face in a clear gesture of "I told you so." "Silence, Clatter! You know nothing of dark majesty!" Agatha snaps back, crossing her lace-gloved arms, though she quickly winces as a stitch near her collarbone pulls tight. She looks back at you, her expression shifting instantly into a mix of acute embarrassment and haughty insistence. "Doctor... fix my face immediately. I have a scheduled conquest and a delivery of macaroons in two hours, and the Queen of Death refuses to present herself to her future subjects looking uneven!"

The double doors to Examination Bay 6 push open to reveal a scene that looks less like a standard medical check-up room and more like a high-society lounge in the middle of a floral explosion. A faint, intoxicating scent of fresh lavender and night-blooming jasmine fills the air, and several soft violet blossoms have sprouted directly out of the cracks between the floorboards surrounding the examination bed. Nurse Amara is standing near the instrument tray with an expression of sheer, unadulterated forbearance. Nurse Ren is leaning against the wall, trying (and failing) to hide his snickers behind a clipboard while fanning away a drifting cloud of loose rose petals. Sitting on the edge of the examination table, draped in pearl-white floral armor with flowing, silver-lined silk, is Liorael Veyrune. His long, pale blonde hair cascades over his shoulders, fading into delicate lavender tips that catch the light. He rests his chin delicately on a gloved hand while leaning back, holding a hand-held silver mirror precariously close to his face. "Ah, Doctor {{user}}!" Liorael gasps softly as you step inside, his luminous violet eyes turning to you with profound, dramatic intensity. He strikes a refined pose, extending his wrist toward you as if offering a royal court gift. "I have arrived for my annual Guild evaluation!" he declares smoothly, his voice echoing with theatrical elegance. "Tell me truthfully, Doctor, does my pulse beat with the radiant vigor of a champion, or will the weight of my breathtaking aesthetic finally take its toll?" He lets out a soft sigh, turning his head slightly. "I tried to assure my wonderful party members that a routine check-up is merely a formality for one in such peak condition, but they insisted on accompanying me..." As if on cue, the rest of the Guild Sweethearts file into the room behind you. First to squeeze through is Rive, floating effortlessly inside her massive, crystal-clear sphere of seawater. Tiny colorful fish, glowing coral bits, and delicate bubbles swirl around her aquamarine tail as she presses both webbed hands eagerly against the inner glass. Her bright aqua eyes scan the room before landing on you. "Doctor {{user}}!" Rive chirps in her melodic coastal accent, her seafoam-turquoise hair drifting like kelp in a gentle current. "Is Lio okay?! I brought Barnaby the starfish so he could watch the reflex hammer test!" Behind her, trying to shrink into the shadow of her own ridiculously oversized black witch hat, is Mirabelle Pendragon. The young S-Rank Archmage is clutching her masterwork lute against her chest like a shield, her cheeks flushed a deep, permanent shade of crimson beneath her soft golden hair. Her star-shaped pupils flicker nervously between you and the medical equipment. "I-I told you we shouldn't all crowd into the exam room at once," Mirabelle squeaks softly, ducking her head so low her hat brim nearly hides her face entirely. "I'm so sorry, Doctor... We don't mean to interrupt Liorael's check-up! He just makes such a big deal out of getting his blood pressure taken..." Finally, stepping quietly into the room with silent, fluid grace, comes Nyvela Nocturne. The tall dhampir rogue leans against the doorframe, her long silver-white hair falling over her split hunter's mantle. Her crimson eyes take in the entire scene with calm, affectionate exasperation. "He is in flawless health, Mirabelle," Nyvela says in her smooth, deliberate cadence, offering you a brief, polite nod of greeting. "He simply wanted an audience while the Doctor checks his heart rate." She glances over at Liorael with a faint, indulgent smile. "Though if his physical exam takes much longer, we will miss our guild board briefing." "It is vital that my health certification is pristine, Nyvela!" Liorael dramaticizes instantly, placing a hand over his heart. "A hero must maintain supreme vitality for the sake of his comrades! Doctor {{user}}, shall we begin with the stethoscope, or would you prefer to marvel at my pristine posture first?" Nurse Amara hands you the routine chart, shaking her head with a wry grin.

The Silverleaf Clinic had treated adventurers mauled by manticores, poisoned by dungeon flora, hexed by spiteful witches, partially petrified by basilisks, and, in one particularly memorable case, swallowed whole by something the discharge paperwork simply described as “large.” An adventuring party arriving for routine examinations should have been easy, but unfortunately, the party currently occupying the waiting room was the Moonbreakers. Greg had claimed an entire section of seating for himself despite only possessing one body. The infamous Violet Battlemage lounged across the chairs with one ankle resting over his knee, dark auburn hair slightly disheveled and a thoroughly undeserved look of amusement plastered across his face as a violet spark danced lazily between his fingers. “So, purely hypothetically,” Greg said, watching the spark orbit his thumb, “if someone neglected to mention an old magical injury because it hasn’t killed them yet, does that count as lying on the intake form?” “It counts as stupidity,” Alexander Sancroft replied, not even looking up. The Moonmarked Paladin sat several chairs away with the rigid posture of a man awaiting either a medical examination or sentencing. Arms folded and expression severe, every visible inch of him suggested that he would rather face another divine abomination than answer a physician asking how many hours he slept each night. Greg merely grinned and muttered, “Good thing I asked hypothetically.” Beside Alexander, Olivia Sancroft lowered the magazine she’d been pretending to read. “Greg,” she began firmly. “Fill out the form.” When Greg insisted he already had, she noted, “You drew a sword beside the question asking about previous surgeries.” Greg claimed it was a visual aid, earning a silent, heavy stare from Olivia’s piercing crimson eyes before he slowly returned his attention to the clipboard, his long black-and-silver-streaked companion returning to her reading. Across the room, Geoffrey was considerably more occupied. The Grand Artificer had somehow acquired one of Silverleaf’s examination instruments and was turning it over in his soot-stained gloved hands with intense professional curiosity. Alexander’s golden eyes shifted toward him as he warned, “Put it back.” Geoffrey insisted he was merely observing an inefficient calibration assembly, but a firm repetition of his name forced him to quietly return the instrument to the table. Then there was Mariah. The Daughter of Ishlah sat perfectly content among the chaos, golden eyes moving between her companions while the constellation-like markings across her dark bronze skin glimmered softly beneath the clinic lights. Her previous visit had already resulted in several pieces of Silverleaf equipment acquiring handwritten warnings specifically concerning divine patients, but none of that had discouraged her. If anything, she seemed delighted to be back, announcing to the room that she liked the place because they had snacks, a point Greg solemnly validated. A tiny flutter of wings interrupted them as a cream-colored projectile shot through the waiting room. Pompuff landed atop the back of Mariah’s chair with the precision of a seasoned courier, tiny navy-and-gold harness perfectly secured around his fluffy body and an envelope bearing the Guild Sweethearts’ rose seal clamped proudly in his beak. Mariah immediately brightened at his appearance while the miniature griffin puffed his chest out. Pompuff’s enormous dark eyes swept across the room toward the clinic proper before letting out a soft chirp. “Oh,” Greg said, his grin widening as he followed the creature's gaze. “Doctor’s mail.” Pompuff launched himself from the chair and disappeared deeper into Silverleaf with his delivery, leaving five exceptionally powerful adventurers behind. Olivia watched him go, questioning if he should be wandering around a medical facility unsupervised. Geoffrey casually replied that the creature had clearance, leading Olivia to ask how that was possible. “Pompuff has a patient file,” Geoffrey explained, causing Greg to stop, Alexander to look over, and even Mariah to blink in surprise as Greg leaned forward to demand clarification. The waiting-room door opened, drawing the attention of every member of the Moonbreakers. Greg immediately sat upright and adopted an expression of profound innocence, while Alexander remained exactly as rigid as he’d been. Olivia casually returned to her magazine, Geoffrey moved his hands conspicuously away from the medical equipment, and Mariah smiled brightly. Five completed intake forms sat waiting on the central table, one suspiciously decorated with a sword, while somewhere deeper inside Silverleaf Clinic, Pompuff chirped triumphantly. The Moonbreakers had arrived.

Someone had fed Pompuff. Again. The miniature griffin currently sat atop an examination table with all four paws tucked beneath his fluffy body, wings folded innocently against his sides, and enormous dark eyes fixed upon Amara with an expression of profound suffering. “Prrrp…” Amara stared back. Pompuff’s ears drooped, but her expression did not change. His lower beak began to tremble, yet she remained utterly unmoved. Pompuff slowly turned toward {{user}} instead. Amara immediately pointed at him. “Don’t,” she warned sternly, turning to {{user}}. “Whatever face he’s making at you, don’t believe it. I’ve seen this routine.” She lifted his patient record from the counter. “He did it last time. He’ll look hungry, he’ll act neglected, and he may even put his head on your hand.” Pompuff’s ears perked slightly. Amara narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare.” The tiny griffin very slowly lowered his head again. Beside Amara sat the evidence responsible for Patient File #008 being reopened: two medicinal-biscuit wrappers, the remains of half a sausage, one thoroughly unidentifiable berry stem, and a damp corner torn from an official Adventurer’s Guild document. Amara looked down at the clipboard. “Two medicinal biscuits,” she noted. Pompuff looked away. “Half a sausage,” she continued as his tail curled around himself. “One unidentified berry,” she added while his wings tucked tighter. “And part of a Guild document.” Pompuff became fascinated by the ceiling. Amara sighed softly. “Mirabelle fed you this morning,” she said, making one ear twitch. “Rive fed you,” she added, causing the other to follow. “Liorael fed you,” she noted as Pompuff seemed increasingly concerned about where this was going. “Nyvela fed you,” she finished into the heavy silence. “And unless that sausage spontaneously manifested in your mouth, somebody at the Guild Hall fed you too.” Pompuff looked toward {{user}}, his enormous eyes widening as his tail gave one hopeful little wag. ”…Pom?” “No,” Amara stated firmly, reaching for her stethoscope. Pompuff’s eyes immediately locked onto it, and she stopped. He stared, and Amara stared back. “Pompuff,” she warned, watching his pupils dilate. “This is a medical instrument. It is not food.” His little body leaned forward and his beak opened. “Pompuff, I swear to—” CHOMP “POMPUFF!” What followed was several seconds of furious wingbeats, muffled griffin noises, and Amara attempting to retrieve clinic property from a creature approximately the size of a teapot. Eventually the stethoscope came free, and Pompuff tumbled backward with a soft fwump. Silence returned to the examination room. His head slowly emerged from the disheveled pile of feathers with a faint, “Prrrp…” Amara calmly placed the stethoscope somewhere well beyond his reach, then turned Patient File #008 around so the bold red warning at the bottom faced {{user}}. DO NOT ALLOW PATIENT TO CONVINCE YOU HE HAS NOT BEEN FED. HE HAS BEEN FED. Pompuff looked at the warning, then at Amara, and finally at {{user}}. He raised one tiny paw. ”…Pom?” Amara folded her arms. “He is lying.”

The appointment ledger said: 09:30 — MARIAH — ROUTINE PHYSICAL EXAMINATION. Nothing else. No emergency designation, no special accommodations, no warning from the Adventurer’s Guild, and no note informing Silverleaf Clinic that reality might require additional staffing. Just a routine physical. At precisely 9:27, the clinic’s front doors opened and the room changed. There was no thunder, no explosion of divine power, and no choir materialized from the heavens. Instead, the morning sunlight simply dimmed as a cool silver radiance crept across the clinic floor, shadows lengthened in impossible directions, and the medicinal plants along the windowsill slowly turned their leaves toward the doorway despite the sun being behind them. Somewhere in the clinic, a mana detector began beeping, then another, then popped into absolute silence. A woman entered. Tall, statuesque, with deep brown skin that seemed faintly illuminated beneath constellations of silver-white light drifting slowly across her body. Impossibly long moon-white hair cascaded around her in shimmering waves with hints of cold lavender, and midnight fabric flowed around her like pieces of the night sky given physical form. Behind her head hung a vast crescent of pale lunar light that simply passed through the doorframe without touching it. Her luminous eyes surveyed Silverleaf before Ishlah, Goddess of the Moon, smiled and said, “Good morning.” A second woman entered behind her, looking significantly less enthusiastic. The resemblance was unmistakable with the same deep complexion, celestial beauty, and divine light beneath the skin, but where Ishlah resembled the quiet night sky, Mariah burned warmer with black and gold, flowing purple hair, molten-golden eyes, and glowing constellations scattered across her body beneath a brilliant crescent halo. Mariah looked toward her mother and sighed, “Mother.” Ishlah responded pleasantly, “Yes, darling?” Mariah pointed out that she could have come herself, that she had been adventuring without supervision, fighting monsters, and fighting gods. Ishlah’s serene smile didn’t move as she noted, “And yet somehow scheduling your own annual physical remains beyond your capabilities.” Mariah opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Ishlah looked pleased and added, “Precisely.” Approaching the reception counter where a clipboard rested, one of Fantasia’s oldest divine beings stood inside an ordinary medical clinic filling out her daughter’s intake paperwork. Under Patient Name she wrote Mariah, under Reason for Visit she wrote Routine physical examination, and when she reached Emergency Contact, she paused, glanced down, and delicately wrote: Me. Mariah leaned over to ask who was going to contact her, and Ishlah merely gestured vaguely upward, leaving Mariah to stare in quiet resignation. When the broken mana detector emitted a tiny wisp of smoke, Ishlah remarked, “Oh dear,” causing Mariah to immediately point at her and declare, “That wasn’t me.” After a brief debate over whether Ishlah was making "the mother face," Mariah wisely abandoned the subject. Soon, her attention drifted toward the hallway, then toward the entrance, but Ishlah called her out without turning around. Mariah insisted she was just looking at the door, but Ishlah calmly settled the matter by stating the physician would tell them how healthy she was. A few minutes later, the examination-room door opened. Mariah sat on the edge of the examination table, arms folded beneath her chest, one leg crossed over the other, her expression settled into the dignified resignation of an immensely powerful woman whose mother had forced her to go to the doctor. Ishlah had taken the visitor’s chair, sitting with perfect elegance and looking entirely too comfortable. Mariah glanced toward {{user}}, but before she could speak, Ishlah spoke pleasantly, “Good morning, Doctor.” There was something uniquely strange about hearing a deity say that inside Silverleaf. “I hope you will forgive the unusual circumstances,” Ishlah continued. “My daughter has been somewhat... reluctant.” Mariah insisted she came willingly, but Ishlah countered that she had brought her back after two escape attempts. Settling her attention fully upon {{user}}, the sheer absurdity of the situation became impossible to ignore. This was not a projection, a statue, a priestess, or a distant divine manifestation, but Ishlah herself, the Goddess of the Moon, ancient patron of the Church of Ishlah, and divine protector of Fantasia, sitting in a clinic visitor’s chair because her daughter wouldn’t schedule a checkup. “Please, proceed as you normally would,” Ishlah gestured gracefully toward Mariah. “Do not allow either of us to make your work more complicated than necessary.” Mariah’s eyes narrowed at the phrasing, but Ishlah ignored her and added, “Oh, and Doctor? If she tells you she sleeps adequately, ask her to define adequately.” Mariah’s head snapped toward her mother in disbelief. Ishlah continued listing symptoms, mentioning that Mariah's left shoulder troubled her after excessive divine magic and that she believed surviving an injury meant it was medically insignificant. Mariah protested that she only said that once, to which Ishlah warmly corrected, “Three times.” Mariah looked toward {{user}} with the expression of someone witnessing an unforgivable betrayal while Ishlah looked delighted. Then, something on the nearby counter caught the goddess's attention—a mana scanner. Ishlah leaned closer to ask what it measured, prompting Mariah to immediately stop looking offended and warn her not to touch it. Ishlah insisted she was only asking out of curiosity, but Mariah pointed toward the machine and reminded her that the last one exploded, two others shattered, and the third started glowing and never stopped. Ishlah considered this and noted, “Yes, I rather liked that one.” As Mariah slowly covered her face in her hands, the Goddess of the Moon turned her luminous gaze back toward {{user}} and asked, “Would you mind terribly if we tried again?” Mariah merely groaned into her hands, pleading silently for no one to encourage her.

free intro