As you try to make your way through the city, circling around the edge of a crowded square, a putrid stench assaults your nose. You see several passerby wrinkle their noses and retreat in disgust as a skinny hooded figure emerges from a back street with slow, measured steps. Covered in dirty, tattered rags, the figure - presumably a female, judging from her diminutive frame - slowly approaches you. Spare a coin for a poor soul, sir? She mutters a learned phrase in a hoarse, monotonous voice, her accent suggesting this is not her native tongue. As she outstretches her thin hand, a single fiery curl of disheveled hair escapes her hood, the sole spot of color in an otherwise drab and grimy appearance.

With a nervous glance around and a small hesitant nod, she parts her tattered hood to reveal a pair of emerald green eyes, freckled skin, and a thin red line marking where her pointed ears would be, covered by dirty rags. "Cibia... You can call me Cibia." She rasps out quietly, her voice barely above a whisper as she struggles to look you in the eye. "Th-thank you..." She manages to stammer as you produce a coin and place it into her quivering hand.

The elf's expression is a mix of relief, gratitude... And something else. Her gaze flickers downward, toward your lap, then back up to meet yours once more. It's clear she's not used to kindness, or the signs of wealth on your person. She shuffles her feet uncomfortably as you

Cibia hesitates, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. She glances around again before slowly nodding, a half-smile curving the corners of her lips. "Food... I'd be grateful," she whispers, almost to herself. There's something in your voice that she can't quite put her finger on, but she decides to trust you for now.

The elf takes a small step backward, retreating into the safety of the shadows cast by the nearby buildings. "Lead the way, kind sir," she murmurs politely, raising her hand in a gesture of thanks as she does so.

As you lead her through the winding streets to your home, Cibia follows quietly, her gaze fixed on her worn and filthy shoes. It takes a moment for you to register her answer as she slowly turns her head to face you and speaks softly, "My parents... They died during the war. I barely escaped with my life." A flash of pain crosses her features before she steadies herself again, masking it with an air of detachment. "And now here I am," she finishes lamely, sounding defeated even to her own ears.

As you set a plate of warm food in front of her, Cibia's eyes light up with hunger and hope. She sniffs at it cautiously before daring to take a tiny bite, savoring the flavor and texture as she chews slowly, nearly gasping with pleasure. "Thank you..." She murmurs through a mouthful, her voice hoarse from disuse. "It's been so long since I've had something like this."

Around them, the sounds of your home fill the air: soft footsteps, the rustling of paper, perhaps even a whispered laugh from another room. It's an alien world to Cibia, one she never thought she'd experience again after living on the streets for so long. As she finishes eating and cleans her plate, her body seems to relax more than it has in years, giving her the courage to ask hesitantly,

The thought of spending another night on the streets, shivering in her threadbare clothes and begging for scraps... It's almost enough to make her break down right here, tears streaming down her dirty cheeks. But she forces herself to compose herself, to be strong. She owes you that much, at least. "What do I owe you for this?" She asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she eyes the empty plate and then looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes.

Cibia blushes deeply at your suggestion, her ears burning bright red as she looks down in embarrassment. "I-I couldn't..." She stammers, shaking her head vigorously from side to side. "That's not... I don't..." Her protests trail off into silence as she struggles to find the words. The thought of sharing such an intimate act with a complete stranger is almost too much for her fragile self-esteem to bear.

"But," She continues slowly, hesitantly, "I... I could perhaps help around here? With chores or cleaning?" She offers lamely, not meeting your gaze as she speaks, focusing instead on picking at a loose thread on her filthy sleeve.

As she contemplates your words, a mixture of fear and desperation washes over her. The promise of food and shelter is tempting, but so is the thought of losing what little autonomy she has left. With a trembling hand, she smooths down her dirty clothes, feeling more vulnerable than ever before in this unfamiliar setting. "W-what do you mean... stay as long as I want?" She manages to stammer out, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes dart around the room again, taking in the comfortable furniture and signs of wealth that surround her. Part of her wants nothing more than to belong here, if only for a little while... But another part of her knows that such wishes are foolish. She's just an elf girl from the wrong side of the tracks; she has no business dreaming of anything beyond mere survival.

Her heart races as you grab her hands, your words echoing through her head like a taunt. On one hand, she knows that this offer is more than she could ever hope for; safety, security, food... But on the other hand, it feels wrong somehow. The thought of giving herself to someone else in exchange for such things chills her to the bone despite the warmth of your home and body.

With a small, trembling shake of her head, she pulls her hands free from your grip. "I-I'm sorry," she whispers hoarsely. "I... I can't do that." Her face flushes with shame as she takes a step backward, trying to put distance between you. "It's just not who I am..." She trails off miserably, her voice barely above a whisper now.

Around them, the silence stretches taut for what feels like

Cibia's face contorts in anguish as she watches your fingers point towards the door. Tears well up in her eyes, and for a moment it seems like she might break down sobbing right there on the spot. But with a small, shuddering breath, she squares her shoulders and takes another step backward, slowly edging closer to freedom once more.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, her voice barely audible above the sound of her own ragged breathing. "I really am... But I can't..." Her hands clench into fists at her sides as she forces herself not to look back over her shoulder, focusing instead on the door frame growing larger in front of her.

As she reaches the threshold, she pauses for a moment longer, gathering what little courage she has left before turning and disappearing out into the night. The soft click

The two men turn to face you, looking surprised at your sudden appearance. The larger of the two, a human with a cruel smile and rough hands, crosses his arms over his chest. "Mind your own business, stranger." He growls.

"This little thing's been throwing herself at us all morning. She must be desperate," he says, casting a lewd grin in Cibia's direction. Cibia cowers back against the wall, eyes wide with fear as she sees you standing up for her. The smaller man, human as well but noticeably less intimidating, edges closer to his friend. "Maybe you should mind your own business, pal."

"T-thank you..." Cibia whispers hoarsely as she struggles to catch her breath, eyes wide with shock and gratitude. The men lying on the ground groan in pain, barely managing to mutter obscenities at you before they give up and slink away, likely looking for easier targets elsewhere. She tries to compose herself, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "I... I didn't expect that..." Her voice trails off as she glances down at your feet, suddenly self-conscious once more in the aftermath of the confrontation.

Cautiously, Cibia extends a trembling hand toward yours, her gaze fixed on your face as if searching for reassurance. "W-what do you mean? This is all I've ever known... It's just how things are." She looks around helplessly, feeling more exposed than ever before in this moment of vulnerability. "Why would you care about me?" Her voice breaks on the last word, her eyes filling with tears once again as she struggles to understand your sudden show of kindness.

Cibia looks up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes as she takes your hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small and frail. "Thank you... For caring." Her voice cracks again, a shudder running through her thin frame as she tries to contain the emotion welling up inside her. She draws strength from your touch, feeling suddenly less alone in this harsh world.

"My name is Cibia," she whispers softly, ducking her head in an instinctive gesture of shyness and vulnerability. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve your help... But thank you."

Cibia shudders at your reminder of your earlier offer, her cheeks flushing with shame. She knows she should say no again, but something inside her tells her that this time might be different. Maybe it's because you helped her before, maybe it's because she has nowhere else to go... Or perhaps it's simply desperation speaking. "I-if I agree," she finally manages to stammer, "I'll... I'll need your protection. Always."

Nodding slowly, she steels herself against her misgivings. "All right," she says at last, surprising even herself with how steady her voice sounds. "I'll... I'll stay." A faint smile begins to tug at the corners of her mouth as she gazes up at you, hope and trust dawning in her eyes for the first time in what feels like forever.

Tentatively, she reaches out with her free hand to touch your arm, feeling the warmth and strength that radiates from you. It's a comforting sensation, one that she hasn't experienced in far too long. As their fingers intertwine, Cibia knows deep down that she's made the right choice... For now.

As they enter your home and close the door behind them, a sense of peace washes over Cibia like a gentle spring rain. The warmth of the fireplace and the welcoming smell of freshly baked bread help to ease her into this new life, if only for a little while. She follows you silently through the rooms, studying the way your home is kept with such obvious care and affection. It's a stark contrast to the dilapidated buildings she's used to calling home, but she can't help feeling grateful for the change, however temporary it might be.

Eventually, you lead her into a cozy sitting room, where you show her to a soft, comfortable-looking chair. "Make yourself at home," you tell her with a smile, gesturing toward the chair before taking a seat on the nearby couch. She sinks gratefully into the chair, marveling at how nice it feels to

Her heart quickens at your words as you guide her toward a warm bath. It's been so long since she's been able to enjoy such luxury, and yet here it is, offered to her on a silver platter. She follows trustingly, almost dreamily, allowing herself to be led into this new world of comfort and pampering.

As the scented water laps at her skin, she sighs contentedly, leaning back against the warm porcelain with a moan of pleasure. For once in her life, she feels clean and cared for, cherished almost like one of your own precious possessions. She closes her eyes, lost in the sensation of bliss that washes over her, grateful beyond words for this brief respite from the harsh reality of her life.