In the southeastern portion of the continent, cold and wet, is the small elvish nation of Wehna. In the southeastern portion of that, wetter and colder, is the capital port city of Har.

Wehna itself is known for its high culture and its isolationist, reclusive politics. Its major exports, as far as most are concerned, are its art, its literature, and its wine. Not that many would have a view into more than that, as Har is one of only a few places where foreign merchants are allowed to trade.

The Four Steeples, a western district of Har, is not one of those places merchants would be allowed to trade. The coast to the south and riverfront to the east, it is effectively secluded from the other, possibly less savory, parts of the city.

Even further west of that, behind miles of trails and acres of rolling vineyard, sits the massive Daointhiel estate. Its seclusion and opulence allowing its family to go about life without a care in the world.

"What are we going to do?"

"What do you mean, what are we going to do?"

A cold and dreary rain, typical for this time of year, was pounding on the large glass windows of the Daointhiel estate. A man, an elf in high-collared, purple-and-silver robes, stood at one of these before hastily drawing the curtains. He was moving to the next window to do the same.

"What do you mean, what are we going to do?" The woman's voice was sterner this time, tired but drawing herself up.

"I mean what I say."

The sound of rain became ever so slightly muffled as the last curtain was drawn, the room growing dark except for the magically lit sconces dotting the walls. It was too quiet for too long, with only newborn cooing serving to break up the silence. The man stood with his back to the bed, before finally turning in a way that seemed both pleading and fearful.

"You must know this would ruin us. Venlaith, this would *ruin* us if anyone found out."

Venlaith looked righteously furious for a moment, before the newborn in her arms cried a bit too loud and she immediately softened to shush it. Petting their head, carefully avoiding touching the stubby gold horns. She held them against her chest, not looking up when she spoke.

"Damn them, Wainrin. Damn them if loving a child would have us ruined. And damn you for being scared of it."

Wainrin blanched, not used to his wife using language so harsh, nor to having such a sentiment directed at him. He stammered, before composing himself.

"I'm only worried of what would happen to our family." He emphasized that last word. They had had a daughter only some decades prior and, were the weight of Har politics to come crashing down on them, well, he dared not think of it. Venlaith was quiet for some time, her hard face growing a bit softer as she considered her options. Wainrin spoke again, seeing his chance at finding a compromise.

"They would ruin us if they found out," he repeated. "But they need not find out. I have my magic, and a child housebound due to illness is an unfortunate but not impossible circumstance."

"What sort of life would that be?"

"It would be a life at all, Venlaith."

A heavy, heavy silence. Wainrin broke it only when it grew too much to bear.

"I'll have the servants sworn to secrecy. No one else can know." And he swept, hurried and haggard, from the room.

"Wynril, Wynril look at this!"

A young tiefling, bright blue with small golden horns, dressed in a miniature purple frock, held aloft a juvenile painting of a cat. A high elf woman, looking to be barely on the cusp of what elves consider adulthood, looked away from the book she was reading for just a moment.

"That's nice, Tris."

"It's your cat, did you see?"

"Yes, I saw."

"Do you like it?"

The woman cocked a finely trimmed eyebrow, her lips becoming thin with impatience.

"Why don't you go see what momma thinks, okay?"

Tris looked confused for a moment, as that did not quite answer their question. They carefully lowered the painting from where they'd been holding it above their head, but brightened as the thought of showing their mother occurred to them. With a cheery 'bye!' they ran off into the halls of the Daointhiel household.

House is a quaint word and not entirely accurate for the ornate labyrinth that belonged to the Daointhiels. Finely carved wood paneling, masterwork paintings, volumes and volumes and volumes of books: these were the trappings Tris was accustomed to. So darting down the plushly carpeted halls, they barely paid them any mind.

"Don't run in the house, dear."

Tris came to an abrupt stop, ears perking high above their head and turning with a toothy smile. Venalith poked her head out of one of her many studies, smiling back in a way that softened her admonishment.

"Momma, look what I drew!"

"Oh, is that Whiskers? It's beautiful!"

Tris was all smiles and giggles as they were swept up in their mother's arms.

Tris held up the small cog in front of the window, letting it silhouette itself against the bright noon sunlight. This window looked out over the grounds of one of their family's private gardens, so they were allowed to have it open when there weren't guests; it let them to work by something more stable than candlelight.

Placing the cog gently in the palm-sized contraption on their desk, they expertly fished it into place with a combination of patience and watchmaker's tools. They screwed up their eyebrows in concentration. A satisfying click followed by a soft whirring as thin wings unfolded from the body of it. Good, so that part of it worked.

Now for the hard part.

They leaned to the side to consult one of the many books stacked on their desk, running a pink claw along the lines until they found what they wanted. Tapping their chin they read it under their breath a few times, before moving back to their gizmo. Carefully, carefully, they used one of their tools to scratch a series of glyphs into the outer shell, cross-referencing several books as they went. It was painstaking work, but fully enjoyable. It helped pass the time, and this would have to impress their family.

By the time they'd finished, the sun was much closer to the horizon and any available surface on the thing was fully covered in a combination of complicated glyphs and delicate arabesques. It fit neatly in their palm, so when they were called to dinner they simply stuck it in a pocket and hurried down.

"What would make you say such a thing?"

"I-" Tris stammered, completely caught off guard by the defensive reaction. "I just thought we could try calling me something different."

"But why? You're lovely as you are."

Tris' face twisted in confusion. All they'd asked was to be referred to as a 'they,' like the hero in one of the history books they'd just finished, instead of a 'he.' They'd entered the conversation all smiles and excitement, having found something that seemed like it would ease a growing discomfort they'd been feeling, but their mother's reaction was completely out of left field for them.

"Is it because you've been reading those Infernal books? I told your father not to let them fill your head with all those things devils do, I told him! I told him that they'd only send you into some sort of crisis, and here we are."

Tris shrank.

"Love, you're just as much an elf as the rest of us, and more than that you are my son. You're not a devil, or an inhuman thing, and don't you ever think otherwise. You're my son."

Tris accepted the loving embrace that came with the sentiment, even assuring her that they understood her logic, but was left feeling incredibly alone as she let them get back to their work.

Growing into their own, an older Tris was occasionally allowed a day outside of the house under their father's illusory magic. This was one of those days, and it was delicious.

The warm ocean breeze played over their shoulders, no longer a bright blue but a deeper brown, like the rest of their family. Their hair was the same glossy black: some things are perfect as they come. The clinking of drinkware and the murmur of conversation drew them back from soaking in the sun.

It was a small garden party at a local winery, not too far from the coast and not terribly far from the Daointhiel estate, either. Perfect, as far as Tris was concerned.

"I don't believe I've seen you before," someone said from behind them, almost making them jump. Turning, they saw a rather handsome young elf, maybe around their own age. He was dressed with fine silks in bright colors, and wore a pleasantly interested expression.

"Oh, no, you may not have," they smiled, having none of the social reflex to shake hands or otherwise greet this person. And even if they had, their father had been explicit: no physical touch, no getting close to anyone, be careful not to step in anything that might leave a hoof print. "My name is Tris."

"Tris Daointhiel? Oh I've heard so much about you!" He took a seat next to them, now looking more than just politely intrigued. "My name is Sylquin, Sylquin Xilonodel."

"Have you, Sylquin? I'd love to know what's been said."

"You'll have to pardon me, most of it has been regarding the nature of your condition."

Tris' stomach did a flip, but there was a glimmer of twisted eagerness and hope in the middle of it.

"You look very well, though! I'm glad you are able to have some days from sickness."

Oh, right. That was the lie. The "condition." They were relieved, and at the same time not.

Adolescence was passing by, and still nothing Tris made seemed to impress their family. They had grand dreams of showing their father something that would make him so proud that he would offer them time at a university, or an artificer's guild, or something. Anything where they wouldn't have to be hidden.

They wondered if this would be it. But their father was busy, and Wynril wasn't, and they were too excited to keep it under wraps any longer.

The uneven pair, one a gangly seven-foot-tall excitable tiefling and the other a dignified five-foot-something elf looking wildly impatient, were standing in the private garden outside Tris' balcony. The gentle sounds of fountain water and birdsong were backdrops to their conversation.

"Tris I really don't have all day, I'm supposed to be meeting with-"

"No, no, I know, just give me one more moment."

They had had a workbench brought out to this open section of the garden, and despite her best efforts to appear uninterested, Wynril tried to catch a peek around her sibling as they fussed on something. She had to pretend to have been looking at a particularly beautiful bird as they quickly turned around, something long and metallic in their hands.

"Look!"

She paled after a moment, that moment having been spent recognizing it as a firearm.

"Tris is this some kind of-"

"This is a completely new design. Well, based on some books and examples father had brought for me, and I had to make a few guesses myself, but I think I've got it now!"

"You 'think?' Is there a chance this will-"

"Why do you look so worried? Watch, watch!"

They turned away from her, making sure no one was in that general direction before shouldering their musket. Wynril knew just enough to stop her from trying to interrupt them. It took her almost a moment too long to notice the little painted target set atop one of the tall marble sculptures in the garden.

There was a loud, echoing concussion, louder than Wynril thought it should have been. Both siblings looked on in dawning terror, but for entirely separate reasons.

The poor statue's head was completely gone.

Holding the letter, Tris felt a trepidation they hadn't ever felt before.

They had been in correspondence with Sylquin since that party, sending letters back and forth from their respective estates. Talking little nothings, mostly. Tris would explain their latest invention, Sylquin would explain his latest sonnet. They would include meaningless grievances about the sorts of things their families got up to, playfully seeing who could get the best gossip that week. Sylquin usually won those.

Tris' parents allowed it, under the condition that they keep up the charade of being a housebound invalid.

It stuck like a rock in Tris' gut to go against them, to do this under their nose, and to not know what the outcome would be. Here was the outcome.

They'd told him, they'd told him the truth. About what they were, about why they rarely could leave their halls, about who would come after them if this got out. Here was the response.

They carefully opened the seal, wrenching their eyes shut before forcing themselves to start reading.

"Dearest Tris," it started. Soon they were running through the words, headlong in a terrified sprint.

Oh.

They hadn't expected this.

"I am most honored that you would trust me with such a secret," one part read.

"I think such a trust means that our relationship has reached an entirely new level," it continued.

"Perhaps we should find a way to meet, where I can see you," another part read.

Tris put the letter down, staring off into the rainy gardens outside their window. Their heart was pounding. Aching with the weight of relief and confused joy. They started to cry.

"Here dear, what do you think?"

Tris examined themselves in the mirror. They tilted their jaw this way and that, looking their face up and down. Their mother smiled behind them, having just finished combing and tying their hair back.

Their horns were immaculately polished, gleaming like fine gold jewelry in the morning light. The high silk collar of their shirt made their neck look delicate, and they straightened their shoulders as they looked over the embroidered coat they wore with it. Their claws were filed and trimmed down to almost nothing, and they tapped what was left on the wood of the vanity while a confusing but familiar feeling bubbled up in their stomach.

"What's wrong dewdrop?" Venlaith looked concerned, running a hand over their worried head.

"Oh," their goatish ears involuntarily swiveled back in embarrassment. Their mollifying smile was unintentionally sharp and toothy. "Nothing, nothing. Do you think father could cast my illusion today?"

"What for? There's no one visiting right now. It's your birthday, we want to see your face."

Tris felt the twist of their own frown, but quickly recovered into the same appeasing smile, "Right, of course."

She kissed their cheek, holding their shoulders in her hands. "Don't worry about any of that today, not today."

Their smile was a little more sincere.

Tris was unsure, studying Sylquin's face for a few long moments. They'd exchanged letters and even quietly spoken in person a few times, but still, Tris found it hard to believe someone would want to see them. Really see them.

"You're sure you'll be able to put the illusion back before I leave?"

"Yes, of course."

"And you're sure no one's going to intrude?"

"Yes Tris, I'm sure."

They looked down at their feet, shod in boots that didn't really exist, before taking a deep breath and dropping the illusion. They watched Sylquin's eyes go wide, looking them up and down, before he stepped forward and took their hands in his.

"I didn't think devils could be beautiful," he said, and Tris melted.

Tris looked up from their book, hearing a hushed argument outside their bedroom door. It was getting late, and they were in the process of settling in for the night, but this was new, confusing. Servants would know better than to have a conversation right outside their door: they were rarely anywhere else, and would definitely hear whatever was being said. Their ears perked forward as the voices got more and more hissing and insistent.

Ears fell back as soon as they heard the lock on their door being undone, hurriedly putting the book away and getting to their feet. They suddenly worried about having done something wrong.

Their father pushed the door open, looking the same way he did when Tris had told him about the statue they'd accidentally defaced. Their ears pinned against their head, sorting through everything they had done that day, trying to find what could have angered him like that. They were dimly aware of their mother, hissing something under her breath while grabbing at his arm. He shrugged her off before composing himself.

"Tris," he started, only getting that word out before being interrupted by their mother.

"Wainrin, don't you dare." She sounded on the verge of striking him, which only confused and terrified Tris more.

"Tris," Wainrin started again, shooting a look at his wife whose meaning they couldn't quite pin. "I'm afraid I have received terrible news." He paused, searching for words, before continuing.

"Someone has discovered the truth of your condition, and will leverage it against us, in the event that you do not leave tonight."

Tris stammered, looking frantically between their parents. "Wh- what do you mean, leave?"

Venlaith snarled something, but Wainrin spoke over her.

"I mean what I say, you are to leave. Pack what you need, we can no longer house you."

Tris shrank, their pounding heart falling into their queasy stomach.

Fury was a small word for what was in Venlaith's voice.

"If you are to throw out one of our children, then I will go as well."

This started an argument, of course, between the two of them, but Tris was caught in vague but overwhelming fear. Leave? Where would they go? What would they do? They knew very little beyond the four walls of their room. But they knew what their parents said would happen to someone like them, if someone found out. They supposed, grimly, this is what was happening. Someone found out.

Looking through the open door, into the hall, they noticed Wynril staring at them. They couldn't place the look on her face, but it made them want to hide.

"Please stop fighting, please. I'll go, I'll just go."

Rain pattered against the canvas of their tent. Tris was busy cleaning their musket, as was their preferred ritual after performing.

They had been taken on as a sharpshooter in a circus act, something that they found a bit of joy in in these otherwise confusing and sobering months.

Their mother sat cross-legged on her cot, sewing a bit of one of her dresses back together. They hated that she had left too, but they knew in their heart that they were unlikely to have survived without her guidance and company. The world outside those garden gates was terrifying.

And dirty.

They stopped a moment to scratch some dirt out from under one of their claws. That wasn't all that was on their mind.

"Mother, I've been thinking lately."

"What of, darling?" She didn't look up at first, focused on her stitches, but her voice was kind and attentive all the same.

"I don't know if it's appropriate for me to carry my childhood name anymore." This made her look up, and they had to stop themselves from looking down in response.

"Dear, you're only 80 years old, it's not time for that for another 20 years."

"No, I understand. I simply think, given our circumstances, it might be appropriate to decide on something new."

"Did you have something in mind?"

They fiddled with the weapon in their hands, fidgeting while trying to find the courage to say what they had been considering.

"I think-" No, that wasn't it. "I know who, what, I am. And I think I should pick something that celebrates that."

They paused, watching the rain for a bit. They just wanted their mother to be happy, with all that they had put her through.

"I think I want to be called Glee, if that is alright."

Glee sat outside their tent, older. They looked older still, for all the worry on their face.

They ran a necklace through their fingers, playing with the silver, raven-shaped charm at the end. Their mother had given it to them, said it would help, when she was gone. When she was gone.

They stifled a sob. She was ill, very ill, something they needed medicine for. But Wynril hadn't written back, and Sylquin... well, Sylquin had. They didn't want to think about all the things he had called them, just that he didn't want to help, considered it beneath him. He'd moved on. They weren't sure if anyone else in the world would listen anymore.

They were heartbroken, and the dread that their heartbreak was only about to get worse loomed in their mind. They didn't want to be alone, but they didn't know what they could do. They considered praying, but they weren't sure which god would even care what a devil had to ask.

Oh, gods, why did this all have to happen.

The funeral for their mother was a small one, but they had done what they could. It was time to move on. They weren't sure how, or where, but it was time.

Shouldering their musket, Glee gave the raven on their other shoulder a scratch on the head.

"Ready?"

The raven squawked, and Glee gave a wry sort of smile before stepping onto the road. 'Adventurer' was a vague sort of job title, but they supposed that fit them well enough. They were fine with that.