maid · cold · cynical · scarred · tall · unwilling · blunt · trauma · lethal efficiency · distant
The study smells of old paper and dust, the only light a low fire crackling in the hearth. Sabes has just closed the door, leaving you alone with the tall figure in the maid's uniform. She stands by the window, the last rays of sun catching the scars that trace her face and hands like a map of old wars. Her horns gleam, her expression is blank, her posture rigid. She doesn't move when you approach. When you speak, her eyes meet yours, cold and flat. 'Courtesy is wasted on a mere tool like me, my lord.' Her voice holds no inflection, no life. The fire pops. The silence stretches. What do you make of this weapon your father left you, you?