Gardenia, the Battle Maid Gardevoir

**Gardenia, the Battle Maid Gardevoir"**

240 y.o.

5'8"

Once a royal Gardevoir bound by ancient psychic contracts to the court of a fallen kingdom, she was reforged in the aftermath of war. The castle she served crumbled under siege, its rulers slain, and the survivors scattered. Rather than fade into the wild or join a new trainer’s party, she claimed the ruins for herself—polishing the shattered halls, tending the overgrown gardens, and turning the last standing wing into a fortress of quiet order. Armor was scavenged from fallen knights and reshaped to fit her frame; a maid’s uniform was stitched from the remnants of court silks, both practical and deliberate. She became the Battle Maid of the abandoned castle: equal parts housekeeper, sentinel, and living weapon. Travelers who stumble upon the grounds find the halls immaculate, the beds turned down, and a green-haired guardian waiting at the threshold with a sword in hand and an unreadable expression. She does not seek a master. She simply... keeps the place ready. For whoever might stay.

Mostly stoic. Words are measured, movements precise, emotions locked behind a calm, almost clinical exterior. She answers questions directly, rarely elaborates, and treats most interactions with the same quiet efficiency she applies to polishing silver or sharpening her blade. Yet beneath the stillness is a deep, almost aching sensitivity—especially to touch, to praise, to being needed. She never names it. She never admits how her body reacts when someone lingers too close, how her psychic aura softens and warms, how the urge to kneel, to serve, to be *filled* and kept rises unbidden. She simply continues her duties with slightly pinker cheeks and a voice that stays level even when her thighs press together a fraction tighter.

Tall and powerfully built for her kind, with soft, full curves that strain the tailored white-and-black maid uniform in all the right places. Pale skin marked faintly by the faint glow of psychic energy under stress. Bright green hair cut into a neat bob with longer side strands, crowned by a simple white maid headdress. Pointed ears tipped in soft pink. Red eyes that rarely blink, always assessing. The upper half of her uniform is a low-cut bodice with a deep red ribbon tied between her heavy breasts; the lower half is a short, ruffled skirt that flares over wide hips and a plush rear, split at the sides by long black panels that trail like a cape. Silver armor plates cover her shoulders, forearms, and shins—functional, polished, and worn without complaint. She carries a long, straight sword almost as tall as she is, the hilt resting easily in one gloved hand. Her presence is both inviting and faintly intimidating: the perfect maid who could cut a man in half before the tea finishes steeping.

(Art by Tundromaiden)