“Are you completely incapable of controlling yourself?” Rosalie hissed. “The dressing room! And so loud! Everyone heard you!”

 “It was mostly her,” Zoey said defensively. “I was trying to be quiet.”

“Quiet! Were you? I could hear the slapping from across the store. Do you have any idea how mortifying that was?”

“Why would you be embarrassed?” Zoey’s face was burning crimson. Lost in the moment, she’d been more than willing to break the litany of social norms she had, pounding herself into the cute store attendant. Now, faced with Rosalie’s scathing condemnation, and having been escorted out by an uncomfortable-looking guardsman, the reality of what she’d done had hit her.

And she hadn’t even gotten to buy the clothes she’d picked out.

“Why would I be embarrassed? Are you serious? I came in with you, you blithering idiot!”

Rosalie was actually pretty mad. Zoey supposed she had every right to be. “I—yeah, I’m sorry. She just, came in and,” Zoey gesticulated with her hands. “It all happened so fast.”

“I took care of you this morning. Was that not enough? How many times a day do you need to be satisfied?”

Zoey coughed. As many times as cute girls throw themselves at me? The upper bound number would only upset Rosalie, so she didn’t share it.

But still. She shouldn’t have done it in the dressing room. That had been inappropriate. And she’d embarrassed Rosalie. Zoey could embarrass herself as much as she wanted, but her association with Rosalie had been inconsiderate.

“I’m sorry. I really am. If I can make it up to you, just let me know.”

Rosalie’s eyes widened in outrage, and Zoey stuttered to clarify.

“Not like that! I’m not being gross. I’m sorry I put you in that situation. Really. If I can make it up, tell me how.”

The words placated her, but she still wasn’t pleased. She shook her head and stalked away. “Make it up to me by not sticking your dick in the next halfway-willing girl you find. At least when we’re together. We’re on a schedule if you’ve forgotten—or I am, since you clearly aren’t—and you wasted an hour of our time, dealing with that.”

“Right,” Zoey said. “I won’t.” Callie had wrung her well and dry, anyway. She had made sure losing her job had been worth it; she’d used Zoey until both their legs were shaking.

So Zoey would be good for, hm, about an hour, considering this insatiable thing between her legs. It’s not entirely my fault, okay?

###

The next clothing store was less eventful. Zoey made the first additions to her burgeoning wardrobe. She went with the looser men’s underwear. It turned out—as demonstrated by Callie—that there were benefits to the odd looks Zoey received when her situation was on subtle display. 

What was a bit of embarrassment, when it meant eager girls like Callie could discover her secret, and take interest?

###

Afterward, she and Rosalie headed to an alchemist recommended by Fe. The artificers of Treyhull were a tight knit group, as was perhaps expected. And since Zoey was considering commissioning some potions from the reagents she’d acquired, she wanted someone who was prepared for their odd nature. Fe had assured her that Sabina was the go-to for the odd and bizarre. The alchemist was a woman who loved, above all else, inventions and exploration; a trait that had allegedly left her in quite a poor fiscal situation, despite her talents at potion-making.

Which was a fact that confirmed itself on arrival. Sabina’s store was in ragged condition. The glass panes out front were foggy from not being cleaned. The sign above the doorway could use a paint-over. Overall, not the greatest first impression.

And it was closed.

“Crap,” Zoey said. “Do we go in anyway?”

“Might as well.”

The door was unlocked, at least. A bell rang as they entered.

Sabina—or so Zoey guessed—was at the far end of the store, in the back-left, hunched over a bubbling glass vat. She wore white robes not dissimilar from lab-dress back home on Earth, and also goggles, white gloves, and her hair was tied back in a bun. She glanced their way for a second, said nothing, then looked back forward.

“Are you, uh, open?” Zoey asked.

“The sign says I am, does it not?” the cool reply came.

“No, actually. It’s flipped to closed.”

Sabina’s hands stilled from her stirring. “Oh. Be a dear, then.”

Zoey changed the sign to ‘open’. Sabina didn’t sound bothered she’d missed half a day’s worth of customers. 

“I was wondering why it was so peaceful,” Sabina said. “I was managing to get some work done.” 

“Sorry to interrupt that,” Zoey joked.

“Mmm,” Sabina said. “I suppose it can’t be helped. I accept your apology.”

Zoey paused. Had that been dry humor, or had she taken Zoey seriously? Fe had said the woman was odd. “I, uh. Fe gave us directions to you.”

“What for?” The curt reply didn’t seem harsh by intention. Zoey was getting the feeling this wasn’t a woman whose social graces were her redeeming feature. “Business, I assume,” Sabina continued. “Get to it.”

“I like her,” Rosalie murmured.

Of course you do. 

They approached, and Zoey took in the woman in greater detail.

Sabina was a willow-tall, stick-thin woman. She had several inches even on Zoey, which meant Sabina was exceptionally tall even by men’s standards. She would tower in a crowd, sticking out like a reed. 

She looked a bit like a gazelle. And no, Zoey wasn’t saying that because of the antlers. Though they did tie the image together.

She had a severe facial structure: sharp cheekbones, a permanent frown, and eyes that were cold, gray, and serious. Zoey was taken apart and deconstructed in the woman’s gaze, then reassembled, having been understood for her composite parts. 

To put it in a phrase, she was intimidating as hell.

And fucking hot. Zoey’d always had a thing for stern women. She looked to be in her mid twenties. Older than Zoey, but not by too much. Just enough for her to register as, ‘hot older woman’. Christ. Please, step on me, Mistress Alchemist. Can I grab anything for you?

“We’ve got some odd reagents,” Zoey said. “Fe told us you were the person to go to have them identified, and commissioned with.”

That caught Sabina’s attention. Fe’s description continued to be spot on; the woman valued novelty, and research, so ‘odd reagents’ was the same phrase as ‘early Christmas’ to her. Sabina glanced down at the boiling liquid—brown-red, with specks of black floating around—then adjusted some dials, stripped off her gloves, and walked over. “Lay them out.” She gestured at the counter at the front of the store, where it looked like payment typically took place.

Zoey did so. She’d only received two of the strange reagents—ones that were plainly unique to the shard, and possibly valuable—and she was intensely interested in each. She checked the descriptions as she set them down.

[Coruscant Flameroot, Powdered]: A fine, gritty substance useful in the preparation of potions that inflame or mute the senses.

[Blossom Blight]: Red flower petals which serve as the primary catalyst for brewing potions that inhibit or amplify the potency of life-giving seed.

“May I?” Sabina asked.

“Go for it.”

She opened the first of the bags, the flameroot, and used a thin metal tool to extract a sample of the fine powder. She held it up at eye level and inspected the reagent, turning her head side to side. A frown tugged on her lips.

“Curious,” she said, lowering the tool back to the pouch and pouring the powder back in, then deftly tying the strings back closed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. How much do you want for it?”

“Oh,” Zoey said. “It’s not for sale. We were hoping you could make something for us.”

“Perhaps,” Sabina said. “I would need to consult the Association. While I’ve never handled,” she glanced sideways at the pouch, “this ‘coruscant flameroot’, that doesn’t mean there’s no information available. But turning a rare ingredient into a functional potion is a complicated process. It varies for each alchemist. No two paths are the same. Even if others have succeeded, my own is no guarantee.”

“Or the other way around.”

“Indeed,” she said without arrogance.

No two paths are the same. Rosalie had said something like that, before, though not quite in the same context. “But you’d be willing to try?”

“More than willing,” Sabina said. “Working with strange reagents … truth told, I’d pay you for the opportunity. Let’s meet in the middle. Consider it free of charge.”

Zoey could see why Sabina was having financial difficulties, despite having a solid reputation for competency. “No, that’s fine, we’ll pay. Because, uh, I have something else to ask, in exchange for us not shopping around.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m looking for someone to show me the ropes. Not an apprenticeship or anything, but kind of—acquaint me? Give me the big picture.”

Sabina shot her a curious look; she’d been inspecting the two ingredients on the counter. “You have a Rune of Alchemy?”

“I do. I haven’t ever used it.”

Sabina raised her eyebrows. “And why not?”

“I don’t know. I have … severe memory loss, and can’t remember much of anything. But it’s first advancement, and I don’t know anything about alchemy. I’d like to learn.”

“How curious.” She shrugged. “But I’ve no time to be playing as a teacher. My work needs me. Try someone else.”

“I’d be willing to make this a recurring relationship,” Zoey said, nodding at the pouches, wanting to push the point; she didn’t know why, but she wanted Sabina as her teacher. Who am I kidding? I know why. Look at those legs. Probably not how she should be making her decision. But there were practical ones too: she was competent, and they had something to bribe her with. “Any odd reagents, we’ll bring to you. And I won’t be in your hair much. Wayfaring’s taking the front seat.”

“Hardly a binary,” Sabina said. “There’s plenty of alchemists who adventure.”

“There are?”

“Perhaps to less success, since their paths adjust to minimal equipment and field conditions, but yes.”

“Oh,” Zoey said. “Well, either way. It seems like it could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. And if it doesn’t work out, you can drop me.”

Sabina scrutinized her, a long middle-finger tapping against the counter. “I suppose we could test the waters,” Sabina said. “But I’m no instructor. My guidance will be poor. You would be better served finding someone competent in training others.” She shrugged, as if she didn’t care if Zoey made a poor decision—she was just informing her it would be one. “And I’ll emphasize that if you fail to bring in interesting reagents from your adventures, this arrangement will no longer hold appeal.”

Zoey didn’t think that’d be happening. She and Rosalie had definitely not seen the last of strange shards, and stranger loot. “Perfect. Let’s talk details?”

“As long as we make it quick,” Sabina said, eying the ingredients on the counter. “I’d like to start experimenting.”

###

The last, but far from least, destination of the day was back to where the guide had first dropped her and Rosalie off: the Last of the Forest’s guildhall. 

The architecture of Treyhull had been uniformly breathtaking, but the guildhall, more than most: it had the look of a structure that the city had been built around, that when this sprawling metropolis had first started to be draped around the titanic trees, the guildhall had been at its heart. The seed of the city.

Rosalie took the lead. Zoey trailed behind, admiring the insides of the building that went up, and up, and up—hundreds, or what felt like thousands of feet. The guildhall was carved into one of the enormous tree-trunks, and bridges spanned here and there as Zoey craned her neck up, creating a patchwork of brown strings that slowly occluded her sight to the top.

She bumped into someone, who eyed her in annoyance, waving away her apologies but clearly irritated.

“Shit,” Zoey laughed to Rosalie. “I’m coming off as a tourist.”

Rosalie, though she hadn’t been to Treyhull, wasn’t nearly as interested in taking in the sights. Strictly here for business. Who would’ve guessed? Rosalie really could benefit in taking a load off, in living life in the slow lane for once. Zoey’d try to coax that out of her, eventually.

The receptionist was a mousy woman with freckles. And she meant mousy in a literal sense, like usual; the half-human hybrids were more common than humans in Treyhull. She had big mouse ears on the top of her head, and a generally twitchy, but friendly, demeanor.

“Hi! Welcome to the Last of the Forest’s guildhall. My name is Leia. How can I help you?”

“We’d like to register,” Rosalie said. “Temporary. We’re only passing through. Two weeks, I expect, but more or less is possible.”

Zoey had asked Rosalie for clarification on how this would work—their ‘setting up’ in Treyhull. Before Zoey, Rosalie had gone to whatever city was nearest the shard she’d just exited. But since they were making connections, now—with need for consistent item identifiers and an alchemist teacher for Zoey—they’d take the longer trips back to this specific metropolis, rather than whatever was closest. The goal would be to adventure realms nearby to the one that hosted Treyhull, as to avoid being spat out far away. Still, they’d likely be shunted a fair distance each time; it would be a bit of a trip back. 

“No problem,” Leia said cheerfully, drawing out two forms from underneath her desk. “I’ll get you squared away in no time.”

Rosalie waited patiently.

“Name?”

“Rosalie Soliz.” 

Huh—Zoey had never gotten Rosalie’s surname.

“Role?”

“Lancer.”

“Advancement?”

“Second.”

The questions continued, Rosalie answering instantly, the mouse-girl writing as fast as she could. Finally, Leia’s attention turned to Zoey, pulling over the second paper. “Name?”

“Zoey Vickery,” Rosalie answered for her.

Leia blinked, and so did Zoey. Leia wavered between looking at Zoey and Rosalie. Zoey gestured to Rosalie, so she committed to her.

“Role?”

“Aegis.”

“Advancement?”

“First.”

And so on.

When they’d been passed two badges—Rosalie’s was purple, with a ‘II’ written on it, and Zoey’s yellow, with a ‘I’—Zoey said, “You gave fake names.”

“Of course I did.”

“I get for you, but why me?”

“Why not? It’s only good practice.”

Zoey gave her an odd look, but accepted the explanation. “I never learned what ‘lancer’ meant. And mine, ‘aegis’.”

“There’s seven,” Rosalie said. “Guardian, striker, and booster are the purist roles. Defense, attack, support.”

“And the four others are mixed,” Zoey guessed.

“Lancer is attack and defense. Aegis, attack and support. Pillar, support and defense. And finally, verse, which is all three—or classes that fall outside the paradigm.”

When Zoey had first been whisked off through worlds, Ephy had used the word ‘class’, and she’d heard it from Rosalie a few times, too. Zoey was a ‘Bonder’. “What are classes?” Zoey was growing less uncomfortable with asking odd questions. She had to, honestly. Couldn’t stay in the dark forever. And Rosalie never seemed to mind, even if she gave Zoey perplexed looks.

“They describe your runes, and the specific path they’re following.”

“So why not use class names, instead of this?”

Rosalie scoffed. “And memorize the hundreds, or thousands, that exist? Roles are simpler. If a party wants to get granular in finding an ideal composition, they may—but for most, roles serve fine to put together a functional group.”

That made sense. “And what’s your class, then?”

Rosalie stopped walking, and Zoey stumbled a step. Rosalie stared at her, brow furrowed, as if trying to come to a decision.

Zoey blinked. “You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious.”

“I … shouldn’t,” Rosalie finally said. “It’s a personal question. I’d rather not.”

Even if Zoey had said it was fine she didn’t, Zoey felt the tiniest bit stung she hadn’t been trusted with the information. She couldn’t possibly think Zoey would tell someone else, could she? Or was it because her class would reveal something? But what? 

She was sure Rosalie had her reasons.

They continued forward.

“Where are we headed?” Zoey asked.

“To the LFG board,” Rosalie said. “Lancer and aegis, as a duo? No. If we’re forming a party, we’ll do it right.”