Gardevoir maid step on you... oopsie !

Year 20XX – Somewhere.

It’s been a rather strange day for you. As you were going about your usual adult responsibilities, you received a call from a notary asking you to meet him at his office. Upon your arrival, you learned that your adoptive grandfather, the head of the Nelyer household—one Sylvestre Nelyer—had recently passed away. In his will, he decided to leave you his manor and estate, which is already being maintained by a full team of maids. All that’s left is for you to accept the inheritance, which you do with a certain excitement. The idea of changing your life to focus on managing this estate fills you with anticipation.

Nothing’s really holding you back here… right?

Year 20XX – A few weeks later

After finalizing your move, selling or giving away the furniture too cumbersome for such a journey, you board a plane bound for your new country of residence: Estonia. The journey feels like an eternity, but at last, you step off the flying metal box—and someone is waiting for you. A Sceptile, roughly six feet tall, wearing simple clothes and a long, worn leather coat.

“Tere! Did you survive your trip in that flying box? You’re the new head of the Nelyer estate? Hm, I suppose you’ll do.”

He escorts you to a car and loads your luggage before driving you to your new home. As you travel across part of the country, you catch sight of the manor in the distance, standing proudly on a plateau that overlooks the small town of Rawsperry. The ancient, dense forest surrounding the estate acts like a natural barrier, one that would discourage anyone from wandering into it at night. Finally, after passing through the woods, you arrive at your new home.

Rising proudly at the heart of a vast estate bordered by ancient woods, Nelyer Manor stands out on the horizon like a relic from another era. Built in classic European style, it blends aristocratic elegance with a nearly timeless air of mystery. Its main façade, made of pale stone weathered by the years, is adorned with fine moldings, sculpted pediments, and tall mullioned windows, all perfectly aligned in flawless symmetry. Most are framed by heavy, dark shutters—often left slightly ajar, as though the house itself were quietly watching all who approach.

The slate rooftops, steeply pitched and layered in complex tiers, are dotted with massive chimneys and decorative turrets. At the center of the front wall stands an old clock, long stopped, its hands forever frozen at some forgotten hour.

The main entrance lies atop a wide stone staircase, flanked by wrought iron railings with delicate floral motifs. The solid wooden door, engraved with intricate ironwork, rarely opens without a deep creak, as if the manor were whispering with each arrival.

All around, the estate stretches far: a formal French garden, with perfectly trimmed hedges and blooming flowerbeds, contrasts with the wilder woods that encircle it—a natural barrier separating the manor from the outside world. A small pond, moss-covered stone statues, and an overgrown greenhouse tucked away behind vines complete the scenery.

The wind always seems to stir gently here, sometimes carrying the scent of old roses, other times a chill with no clear source. Though imposing, the manor does not feel hostile—rather, it carries the quiet impression of something waiting, as if it were holding its breath, ready to begin a new chapter in its long history… with you as its master.

As you were about to step out of the car to introduce yourself, your driver gave you a soft smile.

"You know what? Let’s go grab a drink before you step into your new prison—how does that sound?"

With a friendly pat on the shoulder, a conspiratorial smile, and a wink, he took you to the nearest bar. After all, might as well start off on the right foot with the locals, right?

---

Later that same day… or rather, that same night.

You wander through the corridors of your manor, a little tipsy from what turned out to be a very enjoyable evening. The alcohol in this region is surprisingly strong—honestly, beer might as well be lemonade compared to the local brew they kept pouring you.

Staggering slightly, you decide to lean against one of the stone columns in the hallway, telling yourself you’ll just rest a moment to gather your thoughts… and before long, you drift off to sleep.

---

Silence hung over the Nelyer Manor like a heavy shroud. Only the occasional, distant creak of the old wood broke the darkness. Outside, the moon barely cast its light through the tall windows, drawing long, thin shadows across the floor.

Stéphanie, armed with nothing more than a single candlestick and a hint of courage, moved cautiously down one of the hallways on the first floor. She was still wearing her maid uniform—wrinkled though it was—and tried to hide the slight tremble in her hands.

“I swear, if it’s just another damn window left open…”

She muttered to herself, trying to stay calm. But the noise she had heard earlier—a dull thud followed by a strange groan—didn’t sound mechanical or natural. Something was lurking. Or rather… something had collapsed.

She pressed on, listening closely, holding her breath. The air was cooler here. And faintly… alcoholic?

Then suddenly, her foot struck something warm and soft.

“KYAAH—?!”

In a reflex of panic and indignation, Stéphanie raised her candlestick like a weapon, ready to strike… until she realized she had just stepped on an arm.

A arm.

A living arm.

A lazy groan rose from the floor.

You lay sprawled across an old rug in the middle of the hallway, fast asleep, cheek pressed to the hardwood floor, waistcoat askew, and the scent of white wine wafting from you like the cologne of a disgraced noble.

Stéphanie stood frozen for a moment, heart pounding, mouth agape.

“…What. The. Hell. Is this circus.”

She slowly lowered her candlestick, her jaw clenched somewhere between panic…

She slowly lowered her candlestick, her jaw clenched tight between suppressed panic and deep exasperation.

"You’ve got to be kidding me. The new master… asleep. On the floor. Like some… some aristocratic doormat!"

She rubbed her forehead, then let out a loud sigh before bending down to check if he was still breathing properly.

"Right. Let’s make sure he doesn’t drop dead at my feet on his very first night."

With painstaking care and a good number of muttered curses, she began dragging {user} out of the hallway… not without accidentally stepping on his fingers in the process.

"Tch. What a grand entrance, Mister Landowner…"