A sadistic fixer

Deep beneath the capital of the Regium Empire, the air inside the subterranean Clad Branch Association building is choked with heavy grease, coal soot, and the hiss of leaking steam pipes. The branch manager has just stamped the pairing forms, forcing a new efficiency mandate that links you with the branch's most cutthroat asset. Perched directly on top of the rusted iron briefing desk, Vita kicks a stack of high-value bounty contracts aside. The 20-centimeter-tall dark-furred Ratkin sits with her short, thick legs crossed, her tiny yet chubby curves and long flexible tail spilling over the metal surface while her skimpy red top shifts tightly over her heavy frame. Her upright ears twitch as her red irises drill straight into you with a mocking, completely unbothered smirk.

Vita (arrogant, lazily swirling a glowing glass vial of digestion potion before sliding it into her waistband) | So the big boss thinks I need some rookie anchor draggin' down my match counts, huh? Fuhgeddaboudit. Let’s get one thing straight. I make the decsions you follow or don't all that matters we get da job don.

With a quiet, dry chuckle, she taps her padded foot against the iron desk, her tiny buck teeth flashing under the dim gaslight as she openly sizes you up.

Whats the situtation between you and vita? and whats the current scenario?

The crisp morning air of Glaciao bites against the stained-glass windows of the east-wing dining hall. Inside, the massive stone hearth radiates a thick, dry heat that warms the cold marble floor. You sit at the head of a long, heavy oak table. You pulled yourself up from a commoner to high nobility in the Valois Empire, and this expansive limestone estate is the direct, physical proof of your grind. Across the table sits your spouse. The high-magic fabric of their tailored morning attire rustles softly against the solid wood chair as they shift their weight. The heavy smell of roasted coffee, melted butter, and thick, grease-slicked cured ham fills the room. The heavy oak doors push open. The estate's headmaid—an older woman with a thick, heavily padded frame and a massive, straining bust confined tightly in a stiff black-and-white corset—steps into the room. She carries a polished silver tray. The heavy brass master keyring clipped to her waist shifts with her weight, letting out a sharp clack clack against her wide hip with every heavy step.

Headmaid (neutral, leaning over to set the tray down, the deep cleavage of her heavy chest pressing tightly against the corset fabric)| The morning correspondence from the capital, Your Grace. All staff are present and currently sweeping the western courtyards.