Two towering oaks guard the wooden gate to the village, their ancient trunks so thick the bark looks to be cast in concrete. From their height alone, 11 estimates these trees to be easily three hundred years old. Wooden platforms protrude along the trunk of each tree, spaced apart every few meters. At the middle platform, a ranger sits, ready with bow and arrow in hand. The young man waves to the party as they approach, then turns to yell something to someone on the other side of the gate, which starts to creek open. Then the ranger climbs down the tree and jogs out to meet Aralyn and her party.

“The oaks ever at your back!” he greets Aralyn. “Did the hunt go well, Master Windborne? Did you get that wretched thing?”

“Not today, Jeri,” Aralyn says, gesturing towards Allastair. “We found a critically injured girl in the forest. She needs medical attention immediately.”

The ranger’s eyes bulge when he sees the blood-soaked girl in Allastair arms. “Out there? In the woods?” He starts to say more, but a look from Aralyn shuts him up. “I do not mean to question you, Master Windborne. Come this way, quickly.” He slings his bow on his back and ushers the party inside the village.

The streets are so packed that Jeri has to hold his bow out in front of him, as if he is parting the sea in two.

“Coming through,” Jeri shouts to be heard above the festive noise. “Please, make way!”

11 watches with wide, curious eyes as men, women, and children alike wonder the open areas, some with food and drink in hand, others with cheap toys and other knickknacks bouncing around them.

Iron lanterns blaze bright blue along the dirt path, casting long shadows along the walls of the stone and wooden houses. As they travel past half-assembled stalls and carts full of vegetables and fruits, 11 notices that, hanging under every window sill, doorway, and even wrapped around the lantern posts, are rings of flowers strung together by multi-colored strings. When she can no longer hold in her curiosity and voices her questions, Jeri explains hastily from the front of the party that, “It is our annual Solstice Festival. The flowers represent the completeness of the goddesses' embrace." He stops to let a group of screaming kids dash past. "Even though some folks think it is not appropriate for us to still hold celebrations given the current uh, situation, most still agree that we should still hold a feast to welcome the arrival of summer. May Nranhana bless the oaks for another year.”

As the party hurries along the road into the northern part of the village, 11 notes that the buildings are taller, and fewer people are here. Whoever is here, is busy working to set up what looks to be a table long enough to sit a hundred seats. Men hoist barrels and crates filled with meat and wine on their shoulders, while women carry baskets full of plates and bowls on their backs. Most of the villagers nod greetings at Jeri as they pass, but their eyes are empty, and 11 is stuck with the feeling that they are simply going through the motions, like androids.

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It is not a comfortable feeling.

Jeri makes a turn westwards from the main road, and leads the party up a steep hill on the innermost side of the village. The warmth of the celebrations disappears behind them as they climb the uneven dirt footpath.

“You’re not leading us to that crazy witch doctor are you, Jeri?” Allastair jokes, smirking at 11, but there is worry in his eyes. “Surely you have more capable healers?”

“Doctor Lawheim is not a crazy witch doctor,” Jeri says from his place at the front of the group, “I’m sure you’ve all heard tales of his adventures.”

Fennald answers for his party members, “We have. Even in Overlake, the news of his disappearance spread like wildfire. But when we heard about the gossip in this village…”

“He did not disappear,” Jeri explains, “he settled down here, in Oakroot, with his…” He cuts his own words off, as if catching himself just in time. Then he clears his throat and says, “It’s been almost ten years now, since the incident. Do not heed what the words of mouth tell you. The details you can ask the Doctor yourselves, if he lets you.”

The dirt path ends in a flight of stairs, leading up to a two-story house of stone and mud-red brick. Jeri raps his knuckles against the oak wood door. “Open up, Doctor Lawheim! Someone here needs your help!”

The house is silent.

Jeri knocks again, harder. “It’s urgent, Doctor! Get up!”

Again, nothing.

Jeri yells, “Wake up, you old geezer!”

Aralyn and her party members trade surprised looks with one another.

From within the house comes a muffled mumbling, and the sharp clinking of glass bottles being knocked over. Then yet more silence. Jeri raises his fist, ready to pound, but the door cracks open.

“Blast it, Jeri,” croaks a gravelly voice, “if you haven't noticed, the sun is headed behind the mountains, so unless someone has blood coming out of their eyes then it can wait till morning.”

Jeri sighs. “A young lady is in mortal danger, Doctor, and only you can save her.”

The door opens wide, revealing a broad-shouldered, unshaven, pot-bellied man. He takes a shaky step forward, one hand supporting himself against the door frame, the other clutching a bottle of honey-yellow liquid at his side.

“I swear to the heavens, Jeri,” he slurs, eyes glazing over the group. “If she doesn’t look like a princess or a succubus…” His words trail off when he sees 11.

Then the doctor stands up straighter, and squinting, he rummages in his trousers for a pair of metal-rimmed glasses. His thinning hair, greying at the sides, sways weakly in the wind as he rubs the lenses with his discolored shirt. He puts on the glasses, and his eyes are instantly piercing and awake.

11 does not know what else to do but stare back. The doctor looks to be in his early thirties, and would be quite handsome with his sharp cheekbones and wavy brown hair, if it isn’t for the bulging belly and the stench of alcohol on his breath.

It is Aralyn who breaks the silence.

“We have silver, for your services, doctor,” she says, stepping hesitantly forward like she doesn’t yet know what kind of tone she should use. She reaches into her pack and takes out a pouch filled with silver nuggets, opening it to show it half-full.

Though the real feat here, 11 thinks, is how she manages to find the right pouch in that bagful of opened packets and loose items.

Lawheim harrumphs and shakes his head. He takes his glasses off, the movement slow and methodical, and stuffs it back into his pocket. For a second, 11 thinks she sees something glistening in the man’s eyes before he turns away, waving a dismissive hand at Aralyn.

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” he says, and begins staggering back into the house.

The party looks at each other, surprise morphing into disbelief.

“Wipe your shoes on the grass,” the doctor yells from within the house. “Unless you want to scrub my floors before you leave.”