Thorin's First Thundersday of Harvestfall, 1442, Weaver's guildhall, city of Umbraholme.

In a quiet corner, Vaelith circled her handiwork like a painter stepping back from a nearly finished canvas. The transformation was striking. Across from her, Esen turned beneath the guildhall lamps, the fabric catching the light like water over stone. It was hard to reconcile him with the tattered figure they had hauled from the Gloam-Barrow den—his new coat drew clean lines where once there had been ruin. No longer a shadow in a plague mask, he looked every bit the highborn dignitary she had envisioned.

The coat fit perfectly—structured shoulders tapering into a tailored waist, the weave so fine that it caught the dim light like silk.

She nodded in satisfaction. "That should do nicely."

In these clothes, no one would see the plague doctor at all. Those who felled him would walk past and never know. Vaelith smiled when she thought how thin the line was between villain and victim, and how a change of stitching and posture could rewrite a life.

If only mending a soul was as simple as tailoring a coat.

Her gaze lingered on Esen for a heartbeat longer before drifting to the half-finished bolts of fabric on her worktable. Ryan would be next, if she could find a way to help him. The poor boy had it worse than any of them. Having his real body remade to mirror his in-game self was a cruelty no one should ever have to face. Simply being Kaelyn now seemed to cost him more than he could pay.

His unease reminded her of her own first hours in this world—the shock of foreign muscles and bones, the heavy pull of a tail she had never known, and the strange rightness of it that frightened her even more. Back then, it had been Kaelyn who steadied her, who turned strangeness into belonging with nothing but a few well-placed words and the gentle insistence that she did not need to earn the right to exist.

Now, that balance had inverted. Ryan was the one adrift, and Kaelyn—the very soul who had guided her—was buried beneath the weight of what she had absorbed. Lyn, too, had vanished into the quiet between them, leaving Ryan to steer a body he never truly understood.

Vaelith wondered if he could ever learn to accept that body as his own, as she had hers. But things were different for him—plural systems were difficult to navigate even in a single world, let alone two. He was not alone, of course; Lyn and Kaelyn were still there, somewhere in the background. Even passively, they had supported him when things grew difficult or uncomfortable. Yet perhaps that constant presence meant he had never fully inhabited their shared felinae form himself.

She worried he might never manage it. Perhaps the vaunted calibration system the developers were so proud of had never accounted for plurality. Maybe Ryan would never quite find his balance inside Kaelyn's skin.

But that would not stop her from trying to make him as comfortable as possible. The group had a long-term plan—something they could only attempt once they reached level thirty—but Vaelith already had a more immediate solution in mind.

Clothes.

Kaelyn had adored outfits that flaunted her charms and left little to the imagination. Lyn had preferred the practical kind, ones that quietly asserted who she was—an independent young lady.

But Ryan… Ryan still saw himself as a man.

Thankfully, Vaelith knew something of how trans masculine individuals eased their dysphoria—how texture, fit, and the way fabric framed the body could make the difference between alienation and peace.

Vaelith pulled open her crafting interface panel. She filtered her selection to chest armour, and went through the different options, tapping the gear preview option on anything that sounded promising. Seeing it represented on her dracan form was not the same as seeing it on Kaelyn's, but it was as best as she could do right now.

"Let's start with a dalmatica," she murmured to herself, spreading her cloth reserves over the worktable—spindles and rolls of hemp, cotton, and wool. She brushed her fingertips against the textures—cotton that shimmered faintly under candlelight, thick felt used for armour padding, linen that sighed like paper when folded. She hesitated, then reached for a simple cotton weave.

"Long sleeves, generous cut. Something that breathes. Plain enough to pass as background, but with just enough structure to make him feel... held."

Her fingers traced the imagined seams as though drawing a spell circle. "Not tight," she said under her breath. "Tight means seen. He doesn't want that right now."

She pictured Ryan's posture—the way Kaelyn's frame seemed too light beneath his movements, the hesitations when his shoulders drew inward, as if afraid the body would betray him. A soft garment could give him space to exist without having to declare anything.

She folded the fabric once, twice, imagining the drape. "High collar," she added. "Loose enough at the waist to blur the line between form and shape. He'll feel safer in something that doesn't announce him before he speaks."

From behind her, Esen's quiet voice cut through the soft rhythm of cloth on wood.

"Do all your customers get this kind of attention to detail?"

Vaelith smiled faintly without looking up. "Only the ones who can't seem to find themselves in the mirror."

He came closer, curiosity piqued, one hand brushing against the edge of the table. "You speak as though clothes can fix that."

"They can't," she admitted. "But if they can help, even if just for a moment, then it's worth it."

Esen nodded slowly, watching her cut a neat line through the fabric. The steady motion seemed to calm her, even as her words carried a quiet ache.

"Admirable. First me, and now the child? You appear to want to save everyone."

"It's just the way I work."

"Carrying all of this weight by yourself," Esen said softly. "Why?"

Vaelith paused mid-stitch, the needle suspended above the fabric. "Because it reminds me of who I was when I first arrived here. Lost, unsteady, convinced the shape I'd taken was some cruel mistake."

"And now?"

"Now I know it wasn't a mistake," she said, tying the thread off with a small, decisive tug. "But I had help finding that truth. I'm just paying it forward."

Esen studied her for a long moment before speaking again. "It might make it easier for you, if you were to talk with someone who walked a similar road," he suggested. "Share the burden. You are unlikely the only one dealing with this problem. And maybe you shouldn't be the only one trying to fix it."

Vaelith's hands stilled. The air between them hummed with the faint vibration of unspoken thoughts. She knew he was right. Clothes would only go so far.

Her mind drifted to the invitation she received from Leoric. Club Weirdo, the chat group built for people like her and Ryan. Victims of the real-world transformations. It still sat in her inventory, untouched.

"You might be on to something," she said at last, brushing stray threads from her lap. "It can't hurt to reach out, anyway."

She pulled out the piece of paper and unfolded it. A translucent interface popped up. "Accept invitation? [Y/N]"

She hesitated for a moment. Joining meant she was officially letting strangers know about her transformation. It was not exactly a well-kept secret—her party knew, her wife knew, and at least one of her students knew. But having never met any of the other members, this still felt like taking a monumental step. She exhaled and tapped the accept button.

The interface gently unfolded before her. A text window shimmered into view, with a single line appearing. "Please welcome the newest member of this private chat, Vaelith Dawnscale. Be nice, everyone."

Because of the sensitive nature of the conversations happening within, Vaelith immediately approved of the decision from the admin to not provide the chat log of previously discussed topics.

Unfortunately, this meant she did not know whether she arrived in the middle of a conversation or a lull.

To the right, the list of users showed 6 names. Hers, Leoric's, and four other, currently online. Caelhan, Chester, Halvar and Neva.

"Chester: Oh ho! A new face! Ladies and gents, we've got our first new recruit to Club W!"

"Halvar: Be nice, Chester. Vaelith, huh? From Leoric's party, yeah?"

"Caelhan: Oh, right! You're the small dracan mage, the silver haired one?"

"Chester: That's the one! The prodigy who pioneered combat rituals."

Vaelith blinked at the mention of prodigy.

Me? A celebrity?

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After accidentally using magic in the real world, she found it hard to be impressed with her in-game achievements.

"Vaelith: Hello everyone. And yes, I'm the former. I'm not sure about the other part."

"Chester: Well, I'm no mage, but I've seen how they've been trying to emulate you ever since your video came out. You're famous!"

A small laugh escaped her despite herself. The chat moved fast—playful and oddly comforting.

"Halvar: Don't mind Chester, he's a little bombastic at times. If you're in this chat, it means you're in the same boat as the rest of us. We all use different tools to cope."

"Caelhan: Well, some of us have good reason to. Chester picked Pint burrovian. I'll excuse pretty much any behaviour from him; I'd be freaking out!"

"Halvar: Caelhan's a Wind sylvani, so his changes aren't as drastic as the rest of us."

"Chester: I get it, the whole 'fur and bunny bits' is going to take a while getting used to. But that's the thing. I might live long enough to do so."

The chat room went still for a short while. Vaelith wondered what the implication of Chester's response was.

"Caelhan: Just to give context to his cryptic message. He's playing from a hospital ward. Prognostics weren't looking good."

"Halvar: Cancer. Metastasised. Doctors didn't think he'd make it to Christmas."

"Vaelith: Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that…"

"Chester: Don't be. I lived a long life."

Vaelith's mouth went agape. They shared private information so openly with her. But what surprised her was the use of past tense.

"Chester: However, if turning into a bunny from Alice in Wonderland allows me to see my grandchildren grow up, I don't think I mind at all."

"Caelhan: Possibly your GREAT-grandchildren, too."

"Halvar: And there you have it. Our impossible transformations? Apparently also cure cancer and de-age cells. Or that's what Chester's doctors seem to think."

Vaelith would normally dismiss such an unbelievable claim as gross exaggeration, but the memories of the levitating tray of cookies from earlier this morning certainly helped their case.

"Vaelith: A second lease on life. Good on you for focusing on the silver lining."

The notion of the de-aging effect of their transformations brought an uncomfortable thought to Vaelith's mind. Lisa had already jokingly mentioned how she could eventually pass as Lisa's daughter rather than spouse. Together, they could probably handle people's stares and judgments—what worried Vaelith was how her lifespan would compare to her wife's.

"Halvar: Seriously though, welcome, Vaelith. Halvar Frostbow, dwarf ranger and reluctant babysitter of this lot."

"Caelhan: Caelhan Breezeborn. Wind sylvani druid, and, as the group's healer, the actual babysitter."

"Chester: Chester Hatterstrike, Pint burrovian kensei. Part-time tank, awesome DPS, and full-time mascot."

"Halvar: And then there's Neva, our Half-blood felinae, filling in with whatever's needed at the moment. She's here, but being shy. Just like the cat in your group, she's going through a, hmmm, larger change than most."

A small notification at the bottom flickered, "Neva Silkpelt is typing…"

But then no text appeared.

"Chester: She's the quiet sort. Don't take it personally."

Vaelith smiled faintly.

"Vaelith: I'm not one to rush anyone."

The change from human to Half-blood felinae was, in many ways, far simpler than what Chester was going through. So, for her change to be larger than most, Vaelith figured that meant Neva was in the same situation as Ryan.

It was unfortunate the one person who held the answers she sought was the silent one. She wondered if, by continuing with small-talk, she would get this Neva to speak up.

"Vaelith: Anyway, nice to meet you all… I didn't expect this place to be so lively."

"Caelhan: I prefer it this way. I don't think we'd get more answers if we were all doom and gloom."

"Halvar: Yeah. Because of the calibration system, we all already got used to these bodies, right? It's not like I hate how my skin feels in-game. I figured, once the transformation's over IRL, I'll feel the same way with my real body."

"Chester: Club Weirdo's a great place to compare notes. We're all going through the same. More or less. So feel free to share your problems or ask anything."

Vaelith tilted her head. "Compare notes?" she echoed aloud, amused.

"Halvar: You're among friends here. Don't worry about saying the wrong thing."

The channel quieted for a beat, only the faint hum of the interface filling her ears. Then, just as she was about to return her focus to her crafting station, a final message appeared.

"Neva: You're in Umbraholme, aren't you? Weaver's guild?"

Vaelith blinked.

"Vaelith: …I am."

No further messages came. The others resumed their joking, unaware of what that small question implied. Vaelith's attention drifted back to the dim guildhall, to the shadows pooling beneath the archways. The lantern light pulsed faintly along the walls.

A low, rhythmic sound broke the quiet—the soft sound of padded steps on wood.

Esen looked up from the cutting table, ears twitching. "Did you invite someone else to this meeting?"

Vaelith turned to look over her shoulder.

A tiger-sized great cat stood in the corridor—fur white as snow, eyes gleaming like cut sapphires. Each breath rolled from its throat in slow, misty plumes, warm and faintly sweet, like crushed herbs and winter air. The light from the corridor lanterns refracted across her coat, throwing silver highlights along the graceful rise of her shoulders.

The creature bowed her massive head, and the rumble that followed was low enough to vibrate through the wooden planks of the floor.

Vaelith's communicator chimed again.

"Neva: Found you~!"

"Neva," Vaelith murmured, unable to decide whether she was startled or impressed.

The white tiger stepped forward into Vaelith's alcove. Magic shimmered faintly around her paws—circles of soft golden runes spiralling up her limbs like curling ribbons. Each step grew lighter, her frame narrowing, bones and sinew rearranging in a smooth, liquid motion.

Fur receded into pale skin. Muscle and curve rebalanced into a lean, humanoid silhouette. When the glow faded, a half-blood felinae woman, slightly shorter than Kaelyn, stood where the great cat had been—her hair still that striking Siberian white, streaked faintly with silver at the roots, and her eyes the same piercing blue that had stared out from the tiger's face.

Her clothes were simple but functional: layers of white and beige leather trimmed with hide, worn soft by travel. A small charm—an ivory fang wrapped in copper wire—hung at her throat.

She smiled, brushing snow-coloured bangs from her face with a gloved hand. "Hey there. This form's best suited for talking. A tiger's vocal chords aren't exactly meant for that."

Esen blinked. "Ah—" He caught himself, then gestured vaguely at the empty air where her transformation had lingered. "—a shifter, I see."

Neva chuckled, her voice a soothing contralto that seemed to carry a hint of purr even when she was not trying. "Sorry for startling you. You get used to it. The first few times take you by surprise, but after that, it becomes routine, just like breathing."

Vaelith tilted her head, studying her guest. "You really came all the way here just to say hello?"

Neva shrugged lightly. "I wasn't far. I knew your approximate location. Then I just used my nose to find you. Anyway…" She glanced suspiciously toward the Noble burrovian sitting at Vaelith's table. "Who's this? How much does he know?"

Vaelith glanced at the doctor for a short moment. "His name's Esen. It should be safe to talk, he's indigenous."

"Ah." Neva's expression softened. "Yeah, okay. That should be fine."

Esen raised an eyebrow. "I can give you two some privacy."

Vaelith hesitated, and Esen appeared to notice. "I will not go far. Do not worry."

Neva smirked. "I caught his scent earlier, anyway. Should be able to track him down if he wanders too far."

Vaelith folded her arms and let out a long sigh. "Sure. We'll find you when we're done, Esen."

The burrovian stood up, politely bowed, and walked off.

After they could no longer hear his footsteps, Neva took his seat at the table.

"Apologies for dropping by unannounced," she said. "Halvar told me that Kaelyn would probably want to talk to me. Do you know where I can find her?"

"I do," Vaelith said gently. "But first, he's going by Ryan right now. And he's also offline at the moment."

Neva's ears flicked forward. "Ryan, huh? Got it. We might not have as much in common as Halvar thought."

She leaned back in Esen's chair, tail swaying lazily behind her. "So he's still having a hard time, then."

Vaelith nodded. "Harder than the rest of us. On the first day, he looked comfortable in his character's skin. And yesterday, he seemed fine too. When the change became more pronounced, I think he reached a breaking point. Can't say I blame him, being on the news and all. So today, he's trapped inside a shape that doesn't feel like his. Calibration system or not."

Neva listened without interruption, her gaze calm, focused. "And now, I hear he's looking at the shifter class? Is he hoping that path will give him an escape?"

"That's what we all hope," Vaelith admitted. "Once we reach level thirty, he can unlock that class and… fix things. Switch back to something that feels right. Or at least different."

A quiet, sympathetic hum escaped Neva's throat. "I can see why he'd think that."

"Is it not possible?"

Neva's smile was kind, but tinged with melancholy. "Not the way he's imagining. Shifting isn't like body-swapping, or gender-switching. It's… translation. You learn to express yourself through more than one shape, but both shapes are still you."

She tapped a finger gently against the tabletop. "When I shift, I don't stop being me. The cat isn't a costume. It's another facet of the same song. My voice just sounds different."

Vaelith's fins twitched slightly in thought. "So he wouldn't be replacing his body—just adding another?"

"Exactly. And if he already hates the first, the second won't feel any better. You can't outrun dissonance by changing keys; you have to learn to tune it."

Vaelith frowned softly. "That's going to devastate him."

"Maybe," Neva said, "but better to know now than to keep chasing a miracle that doesn't exist." Her tone remained gentle, but her words carried quiet weight. "Look, when this happened to me—" she gestured to herself, white hair falling over her shoulder "—I didn't panic. I looked in the mirror and thought, Oh. So this is who I was supposed to be all along. It clicked. I can't tell you why, only that it felt right. That's why shifting came easily to me. I trusted what I saw."

In a way, Vaelith understood exactly what Neva was saying. How her new reflection was more her than her old self had ever been. It had taken her a little longer to accept it, but Neva and she both had a similar experience.

When Neva created her character, she probably fashioned her after how she felt inside.

And in a way, so had Kaelyn and Lyn.

Ryan was simply an unfortunate victim here.

Neva looked up, meeting Vaelith's eyes. "Ryan doesn't have that trust yet. He's still grieving the person he was."

Vaelith's throat tightened. "He's not just grieving his reflection. He's grieving his sense of control."

Neva nodded and pointed at Vaelith's tools. "Exactly. And you can't sew control back into someone, no matter how good your needlework."

Vaelith exhaled slowly, glancing at the half-finished dalmatica still spread on the table. "No. But maybe I can at least make him something that doesn't feel like mockery when he wears it."

"That's a start," Neva said softly. "Make him comfortable enough to stop fighting himself every second. The rest has to come from him."

For a moment, neither spoke. The lamplight caught on the pale curve of Neva's ears and the sheen of Vaelith's golden scales.

Finally, Neva pushed herself up, stretching in that effortless, feline way that made even a simple motion look deliberate. "When he comes back, tell him I'll be around. And if he's still interested, I can walk him through what being a shifter really means."

Vaelith rose as well, offering a small nod of gratitude. "I'll tell him. Thank you, Neva."

"Don't thank me yet." Neva's grin returned, faint but bright. "You'll be the one bearing the bad news. I'll try and help as much as I can."

She stepped back toward the corridor, and light gathered faintly around her feet once more. With each step, her outline blurred—the lithe woman folding into the shape of the great white tiger once again. The transformation was seamless, almost graceful enough to be a sigh.

"Neva: See you around, Weaver. I'll let your NPC know we're done."

The tiger rumbled and then, with the soft pad of heavy paws, she disappeared down the wood hall, leaving behind a few drifting motes of pale fur.

Vaelith stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty corridor. Then she looked down at the cloth beneath her hands and whispered, "You can't outrun dissonance by changing keys…"

The words lingered in the quiet like a promise as she returned to her needlework.

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