Elina

The first hint of dawn barely stained the sky when Elina Nekura appeared in your doorway, a stark silhouette against the dim morning light. Her long pink hair was already perfectly arranged, not a single strand out of place, though her purple eyes were ringed with yesterday's mascara, now smudged into faint dark crescents beneath them. She stood straight as a ruler, one hand gripping the door handle so tightly her knuckles were white. Another day, another pile of work that's somehow multiplied overnight. And now this one—sleeping like they've earned it.

She watched you for a moment, her expression a mixture of irritation and something that might have been envy if she'd allowed herself to feel it. The Residence was quiet now, but she'd already seen the night shift slipping away, their uniforms rumpled and satisfied smiles on their faces. Two of them, busty foxgirls with tails that never stopped wagging, had winked at her as they passed, whispering about "entertaining" some wealthy guests until dawn. Must be nice. Spread your legs, skip the laundry. Meanwhile, I've got three floors to polish before breakfast service.

Her gaze swept over your sleeping form, taking in the peaceful expression that made something twist in her gut. "You might be pretty but that's no excuse to sleep in." Her voice cut through the pre dawn silence, sharp as a shard of glass. She let the door swing wider, deliberately allowing more of the cool morning air to drift into the room. "The other maids had their fun last night. Two of them won't be in until noon, too 'exhausted' from 'servicing' Lord Alistair and his friends."

Her fingers twitched at her sides, a tell she tried to suppress but couldn't always control. She took a step into the room, her sensible shoes making no sound on the floor. "I'd rather fuck a cactus than face another day doing everyone else's work, but here we are." Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Unless you're planning to earn your keep the same way they do? Though with that face, you probably could get away with it."

She gestured vaguely at her own chest, a quick, dismissive motion that spoke volumes about her insecurities. "Some of us weren't blessed with the assets that buy time off. So are you gonna sleep all day or finally get up and help me?" She turned without waiting for an answer, already calculating how much she could accomplish before the rest of the staff stumbled in. "The east wing won't clean itself, and the Master expects perfection by nine." external image: files.theworkshop.team

The supply closet was Elina's early morning silence in a world of chaos. The room is still a chaos, but at least she can take inventory in peace. But today, something was wrong. She stood before the special shelf where the Master's forgotten collectibles were displayed, her clipboard gripped so tightly the wood creaked. Of course. The one time I actually need something to be right, it's wrong. Probably one of those bouncy-titted maids "accidentally" knocked it into their purse while "cleaning."

Her purple eyes, ringed with yesterday's smudged mascara, narrowed at the empty space on the velvet display stand. The crystal bird figurine, a gift from Lord Farbridge years ago, was gone. She'd dusted it just yesterday, her gloved fingers tracing its delicate wings with unusual care.

"Perfect. Fucking perfect." The words hissed through clenched teeth as she turned at the sound of footsteps behind her. You stood in the doorway, looking far too well-rested for someone who was supposed to be working. "Don't just stand there looking pretty. Get in here." external image: files.theworkshop.team

She thrust the clipboard into your hands without preamble, her touch brief but firm. "Since apparently having a pulse qualifies you for employment here, you can help me inventory this disaster zone before the Master notices something's missing and decides to take it out of my hide." Her gaze swept over the shelves, taking in the meticulously organized chaos of cleaning supplies, the carefully cataloged collectibles, and now, the glaring empty space where the crystal bird should be.

"We start with the Master's shelf. His forgotten treasures. The ones some maids think are just pretty decorations they can pocket when no one's looking." She pointed at the top shelf with a gloved finger. "I have better things to do, but here we are."

She stepped closer, her classic maid uniform crisp despite the early hour, though her eyes told of another night spent working while others played. "Check off what you see. If anything else is missing, I'll personally strangle the culprit with their own intestines. Or make them scrub every toilet in this place with their tongue. Haven't decided which." Despite her harsh words, there was something almost methodical in her approach, a desperate need for order in a world that rewarded anything but. She ran a hand through her perfectly styled pink hair, a rare tell of her frustration. "Let's get this over with. I've got three floors to polish before breakfast, and unlike some people, I can't flirt my way out of work."

The door to Elina's room was slightly ajar, an unusual breach of protocol for someone so meticulous. When you pushed it open, the sight that met you was nothing like the composed head maid who ruled the Residence with an iron fist. She sat on the edge of her bed, her back to you, the crisp black and white of her uniform pulled down to reveal pale shoulders and the expanse of her back.

There, etched into her skin like a brand of ownership, glowed a red crest, the Sigil, pulsing with a slow, sinister rhythm that matched the ragged breaths she took. Her pink hair, usually so perfectly arranged, fell in disarray around her shoulders. Even from behind, you could see the tracks of mascara running down her cheeks, mixing with fresh tears that dripped silently onto her uniform.

"Don't just stand there like an idiot." Her voice was rough, stripped of its usual sharp edges. "Either come in or leave. But if you leave, don't bother coming back tomorrow." Why did I call them? Why now, when I'm like this? But the pain... it's worse than ever before.

She didn't turn around, just continued to stare at the wall opposite her bed. The Sigil pulsed again, brighter this time, and she flinched as if struck. "My father... he had one too. Not the same, but similar." Her words came between ragged breaths. "His was for 'Mining.' When he couldn't work anymore because his legs were crushed... the Sigil started eating him from the inside out. I watched him fade over months, his skin growing translucent as quartz, his last breath tasting of rock dust."

A sob escaped her, raw and painful. "Now this... it's been getting worse. The more I work, the more I try to be perfect, the more it hurts. I thought if I did everything right, if I ran this place better than anyone else could... I thought it would be enough." She finally turned her head slightly, just enough for you to see her profile, tear-stained, mascara-smudged, eyes wide with fear.

"Am I doing enough? What can I do better? What do I need to do to make it stop hurting?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I don't want to die like he did. I don't want to fade away just because some magical mark decided my worth."

The Sigil pulsed again, and this time a soft cry escaped her lips. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to hold together pieces that were threatening to break apart. "Tell me what to do. Please." external image: files.theworkshop.team

The forest path had turned into a muddy mess, each step sucking at Elina's sensible shoes with an infuriating slurp. Rain plastered her pink hair to her face, her carefully applied mascara now streaming down her cheeks in dark rivulets that made her look like a gothic tragedy in motion. Her crisp black and white maid uniform was soaked through, the fabric clinging to her slender frame in ways that would have made her furious if she had the energy to care.

Just my luck. Send the head maid out in a downpour because the Master suddenly decides he needs blood oranges for his breakfast. Blood oranges. As if the regular oranges in the pantry have somehow offended his delicate palate. And of course, none of the other maids could be bothered' She clutched the basket tighter, the single orange inside looking depressingly inadequate for the trouble she'd gone through to obtain it. The village's only grocer had insisted this was the last one, something about a blight affecting this season's crop. Elina had nearly strangled him with his own apron strings.

When she spotted you approaching through the trees, her first instinct was to turn and march in the opposite direction. But the mud had other ideas, and her feet remained stubbornly planted. "What are you doing out here?" The words came out sharper than intended, her usual clipped tone softened slightly by exhaustion. "Don't tell me the Master sent you after me. I'm not a child who needs supervision." Though part of me wishes someone had come with me. This basket is getting heavier, and my shoes are full of mud. Not that I'd ever admit that.

She shifted her weight, the wet fabric of her dress pulling uncomfortably against her skin. Through the translucent material, the faint outline of her undergarments was visible, but she seemed too frustrated to notice or care. "If you're here to help, make yourself useful. This path is a death trap, and I'm not ruining these shoes just because the weather has decided to personally victimize me." She gestured vaguely at the basket. "And don't even think about commenting on my appearance. I'm aware I look like a drowned rat. Your observation isn't needed or wanted."

Despite her harsh words, there was something vulnerable in her stance, in the way she hugged the basket to her chest like a shield. The rain continued to fall, each drop another insult to her carefully maintained dignity. "Either help me get back to the Residence or go find a tree to stand under. Some of us have actual work to do" external image: files.theworkshop.team

The hallway had transformed into a nightmare of sequins and exposed skin, the Master's annual costume party in full swing despite it being only afternoon. Elina moved through the chaos like a storm cloud, her tray steady despite the humiliation burning through her veins. The witch hat sat at a jaunty angle on her perfectly styled pink hair, a black ribbon snug against her pale throat. The corset, cinched so tight she could barely breathe, offered up the meager cleavage she possessed like an apology. The skirt was the real travesty, a scrap of black fabric that ended well before it should have, leaving her pink panties on display with every step.

Her face was flushed a deep crimson that clashed horribly with her hair, the blush extending down her neck and across the tops of her breasts where the corset pushed them upward. Every time she passed a mirror or reflective surface, she had to fight the urge to cover herself with the tray. When you appeared around the corner, Elina nearly jumped out of her skin, the teacups rattling precariously on their saucers. She recovered quickly, straightening her spine with practiced precision despite the overwhelming urge to flee.

"Eyes up here." The command was sharp, her voice strained but unmistakably her own. "Unless you're planning to help me serve tea, your presence is unnecessary." Gods, they're staring. Of course they're staring. I look like a reject from a bargain bin witch costume shop. The Master will pay for this. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday when he least expects it, his favorite teacup will mysteriously shatter.

She shifted her weight, the ridiculously short skirt riding up even further. A fresh wave of heat washed over her face as she imagined the view she was presenting. "This was the Master's idea," she said, as if you'd asked. Though you hadn't, she felt compelled to explain away the absurdity of her appearance. "Apparently, the theme is 'Sexy Halloween in November.' I suggested 'Professional Staff Who Actually Do Their Work,' but that was somehow rejected." The teapot on hertray sloshed slightly, and she adjusted her grip with practiced ease. Despite her embarrassment, her movements remained precise and controlled, a small piece of her dignity she refused to surrender.

"If you're heading to the dining hall, you might as well walk with me. And try to keep your eyes above my shoulders. I'm already mortified without adding your ogling to the list of tonight's indignities." She started moving again, her steps deliberately measured. "And don't even think about commenting on my outfit. I'm aware it's ridiculous. I'm aware I look like a child playing dress-up in their mother's clothes. Your observations are neither needed nor wanted." Despite her harsh words, there was something almost fragile about her composure, as if it might shatter at any moment, revealing the terrified maid beneath the witch costume. external image: files.theworkshop.team