A group of five maids stood briefly at the wide entrance to one of the more lavish parlours. Each piece of furniture was exquisitely carved with fine wood, the grain present enough to display authenticity without straying into the wayward realm of rustic. Hells forfend. A single leg cost more in wages than some of them would see in months, and everything was upholstered with only the softest silks, leathers, and velvets, the fabrics dyed in rich, deep colour.
It was spacious, leaving room to manoeuvre and sporting a small stage, but intimate enough that voices would not harshly echo against the opulently-paneled walls, daintily accented in real gold. It was a place for conversation and, more importantly, entertainment, but clearly only for the most prestigious and elite of audiences.
It was also a disaster.
The floor, furniture, and curtains saw themselves repurposed as improvised canvas, awash with blood, beverage, and semen.
"Ooh, this must have been a sight!" giggled a violet-skinned demoness as she picked up an errant eyeball by the severed nerve. "Get it? Sight!"
"Another day, the sun rises, where our fair lord is concerned. Hells Take Me, it stinks in here," came the wry reply of another with curling horns as her nose twitched with familiar distaste.
"Speak for yourself, I think it smells wonderful! All still fresh, too," countered the violet one.
"Either way, best finish quickly, lest Mistress hang us by our roots," a young woman with slick deep blue hair offered, stepping inside, but upon closer inspection, it was not hair at all, but long petals set in imitation of a high ponytail and fringe "bangs" at the front. That reminder was all any of them needed to file into the room proper.
"Eilidh~!" cooed the violet one, creeping closer to a blonde woman amongst their group as she swung the eye like a meaty pendulum with playful disregard.
"S-stop it, Pihra-Nett, please!" the blonde woman whined, gulping at the eye and inched backwards until Pihra-Nett began openly chasing her with it to the easy apathy of the rest. Eilidh ran, staring over her shoulder and so did not notice the bucket in her path until she violently knocked it over. The water within it lifted the bloodstains in its path, muddling the patterns left behind as it ran outward. She whipped her eyes forward at the noise and jumped back with a squeak, though not because of the spill. Long tendrils rose out of the side of the bucket
"Um. Is that an jellyfish?" She asked quietly. Pihra-Nett, as sudden as it was complete, lost interest in her current torment tossed the eye over her shoulder (to be caught by the flower lady in a rubbish bin) and righted the bucket to get a closer look, smiling wide.
"Oooh, it's a cloudbloom! Can I eat it, Anisoa?" she asked the horned demon.
Three stares of silent judgement spoke deafening volumes in answer. The last spied the wall as they washed it.
"After where it's possibly been?" Anisoa asked incredulously.
"Lord Haswell was here." The bepetaled woman supplied.
"After where it's certainly been?" Anisoa amended incredulously.
"But it's a delicacy and not there, anymore?"
The discussion continued between them, and did not stop even as they all resumed their shared duty. Though there was a dedicated section of the uniform that was backless, it actually served Pihra-Nett, whose wings had room to breathe unencumbered when she unfurled them to fly to the top of the curtains, cleaning the mess that had reached there and dropping anything that had reached into the bin below. It was an almost humorous juxtaposition to see them talking about nothing amongst themselves while working with seamless efficiency to right the room, even with healthy amounts of complaining. However, instead of relief or satisfaction as they drew closer to the end of their work, a pall descended upon the mood, a dark cloud slowly, but inevitably, swallowing the sun. They were no less productive and the air was lighter as the miasma of blood and sex slowly lifted, but the comfortably irate, at times even jovial, mood became heavy, reticent, and tense.
"Belanthis, you were there, right?" Anisoa asked, wringing out a cloth into a bucket. It'd taken many rinses, but the water was finally running much clearer than the vile slosh it'd been some time before.
The petals upon the woman's hair began to curl inward, as though retreating from danger as she shook her head. "Not for long. I oversaw the delivery of arrangements, mostly. Cyprine was assigned all night, but she was sent into town before I had a chance to ask."
"Do we know that she actually was? Did someone you trust see her off or tell you that, or was that the usual line?" Pihra-Nett asked, giving voice to the uncomfortable, but nonetheless shared question the rest of them held as they all stared at Belanthis
Her breath hitched in realisation as she recounted the event, and then she remained silent. It was answer enough.
"Well. We'll know for sure if she comes back, right? It's not like anyone bothers lying about what happens except for special occasions." Because they didn't need to. The truth was always far more terrifying.
Eilidh bit her lip. "Maybe...maybe it'll be fine. We'd definitely have heard if it wasn't, right?"
"Bahh, 'fine' is always the best we can hope for," cut in with a growl. "Fucked if it's bad, yet fucked if it's good, too! Hells, maybe fucked even if is 'fine'! How grand."
"My question is why didn't Mistress assign anyone specifically, today? I know even her contingencies' contingencies have been sorely tested, but she has yet to properly fail at keeping on top of it."
"Umm...um, I think...Lord Calix had urgent need of her," Eilidh pressed her index fingers together, her cheeks faintly red. "And Cyprine was the last substitution after three others."
"It doesn't bloody matter if someone hasn't been assigned, if it doesn't get done, it's all our heads! Or is anyone keen to end up like Yural?"
Silence. Belanthis looked stricken, her petals weighed by a burden unseen..
"I thought not. So. One of us maybe gets fucked, or we all definitely do. Simple math."
Volunteers would not be forthcoming and even if they might have had the support of the rest, no one wanted to designate someone else either, whether it was calculated, selfish, or out of amity. The silence stretched anew.
Only to be loudly broken by a wet mop hitting the floor. All eyes turned to the source and Anisoa pounced on the opportunity like a lioness on a rabbit.
"She can do it."
Eilidh started to interject "Anis--"
"It'll be fine." Anisoa said and stalked and made stride closer to her target. "It oughn't be too much for Little Miss Glass Garden."
The last amongst them was also the shortest. Her dark hair did not reach her shoulders, but was voluminous despite its lack of length and so silken it easily reflected streaks of ambient light. Her sepia eyes held calm focus as she handled the mop
"Have a job for you."
"My shift ends once this task is complete, Miss Anisoa."
"I wasn't asking. Consider it overtime."
"I am certain that I need not remind that my reserves, regrettably, pale in comparison to many amongst you, being--"
"Human. Exactly. You smell as mundane as dirt." Anisoa loomed, nearly daring the smaller woman to do anything. She did not, though her stare never changed, either. Eventually, she did close her eyes and duck her head..
"...Very well."
"Splendid! I'm not unreasonable, Glass. You head to the kitchens, we'll finish the rest of your share of the work and be sure to pass inspection." Anisoa held out a clawed hand for the mop. The other woman passed it to her and replied with quiet politeness and was handed the bucket with the jellyfish in return.
"Understood, Miss Anisoa, though once again, it is Ellory. If you'll please excuse me, then." With her hands neatly in front of her as she held the bucket, she departed, the even cadence of her steps her only company as she calmly traversed the halls and made her way to the kitchens.
It needn't be said that the rooms for the residents and their distinguished guests far outshone those designated for staff, however, the food all came from the same place and it was simply easier to place the latter dining spaces closest to them. As Ellory drew closer and pushed the doors leading into one such hall, she wove around servants and guards of every stripe; Lord Calix employed demons and humans and everything in between, and with the variety of peoples came the variety of natural sleeping cycles. To whit, there were just as many people eating their last meal of the day as those breaking their fast for the morning, whether or not they had duties. Those that did not were comfortably dressed down. Whatever the nature of their employ, this manor would be the only place they'd have to live. Not a home--only a privileged few would or could ever see it as that--but even those that had a choice, be they demon or human, could agree on one thing.
Better the devil you know.
Ellory set the bucket down and rang the bell specially designated for their younger lord. A bronzed skin woman with slitted amber eyes slithered up to the window.
"Ssssso, you are the one left with the empty egg. And so early, too. Shashasha, I do not know if you are brave, wise, or have a deathwish, gudiya."
"I have only my duty. Good morning, Vamsi."
"Good for me, yes. For you? We shall see. Though I do hope. Bets have already begun, and knowing it is you, the odds will be far more stacked against. I will be called foolish, but I will raise mine all the same. I have a good feeling in my scales, so do not make me so, gudiya. Maybe I will cut you in if you survive."
"I will endeavour not to disappoint, Vamsi," she replied blandly. If she was at all concerned by what awaited, or perturbed that there were bets on the outcome, she did not betray it one whit. She looked down at the bucket, the cloudbloom was looking a little less lively than it had earlier. "Vamsi, do cloudbloom jellyfish need a certain type of water?"
"Cloudbloom? Ah. Is Lord Hassswell still here?" She muttered something in another language, but it was obviously not at all polite. "He must want another go. No. All water is fine water as long as it is cold. If you have it, I will put some feed for it on the cart." Ellory obeyed lifting the bucket and pushing her way into the kitchens to make her way to the nearest sink. Setting it inside, she let the water run cold before dousing the bell of the jellyfish with water. It shook immediately with growing rejuvenation. The greyish patterns along its bell brightened into a clearer white. Wiping the bucket dry of scattered drops, she places it on the bottom of the silver cart before rolling it out through the hall.
Her room was closer, and she placed the bucket just inside the door, breaking up some pieces of food to drop into the pail. The majority of it was seafood, but some were simple meat scraps. She wondered if it was not an opportunistic animal, but she could not think about it for now.
"Stay here until I figure out what to do with you." With that said, she closed and locked the door before continuing on her way. It was quite a distance, but the food would still be hot by the time she arrived and a good while after that; the dishes were enchanted with runes for warmth though they were invisible, working passively.
Eventually, inevitably, she arrived at Lord Aurelien's quarters, though it was really more a subsection of the wing. She let herself inside the receiving area and continued until she stood outside his door proper. She inhaled. Exhaled. Slow, even breaths. She could do this. This would be fine.
Even as the sun's glow fills the windows aligned along the wall, Aurelien dozes. Half-asleep and half-awake, feline in his indolence, he stretches atop the richly-dyed fabrics that adorn his bed; it's only when he hears the knock upon his door that he stirs in earnest, pale hair streaming along his shoulders as he pushes himself up to rise.
"Yes, yes — you may enter at your leisure," he calls back, plucking a darkly-colored robe from where he had discarded to atop the covers the night before. He is, as it is, completely nude, and while there is no strict need for him to make himself presentable to the staff, he tosses the garment around his shoulders nonetheless. It doesn't do much to make him look less nude; he neglects to tie it closed, and it hangs open down the front of his body, the swath of his pale skin standing all the starker against the darkness.
He can't immediately place the voice on the other side of the door—but, then, the help tends to run together, at least when their words are muffled by a few inches of heavy wood. As the door opens, however, he realizes that this isn't a case of a forgettable face; the girl that stands on the other side is a new one. He smiles in her direction as he flops into his seat, and the expression turns his gaze feline, too: capricious and predatory.
"I haven't seen you about the manse before," he remarks, the tone of his voice doing a phenomenal job of feigning idle interest. She's a bit plain for his tastes—but, who knows? She might turn out to have her charms. "A recent acquisition of ours?"
Elory opens the door and wheels the cart inside before delicately closing it behind her, mindful of the noise. She curtsies with a gracious incline of her head, the gesture as smooth as dew rolling along a leaf. She keeps her head bowed politely hands folded in front of her. If she notices or is bothered by his undressed state, she does not betray it in the slightest.
Acquired. Like property. But she is and so does not balk. "My lord humbles me with his observation." She does not point out how long she's actually been here. Time is relative regardless, splitting hairs would be less than useless even if it wouldn't risk possible offense. "I have but recently been granted the honour of being accepted into my esteemed lords' service," her voice is soft, but clear and deliberate, with a delicately melodic lilt, that though deferential, does not sound insincere. Plain enough to blend into the background, but pretty enough not to offend any sensibilities, and pleasing to the ear. In some ways perhaps ideal, but then that is for her to decide, even if that is her aim.
And, indeed, Aurelien takes note of her voice: as pretty and delicate as a glass bell. That whets his appetite where her appearance hadn't; he could while away an entire afternoon discovering every pitch that voice can reach with her screams. He allows his attention to drift as he imagines it, watching her with his temple propped against his knuckles—but then he remembers the hour, and he looks pointedly to the covered plates arrayed along the cart.
"I see," he answers, and as he returns his gaze to hers, his smiles broadens just enough to bare his teeth. "And should I expect to see more of you?"
He isn't aware of any changes in personnel assignation... But, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He doesn't pay particular attention to such details; they are, after all, someone else's to handle.
She has not been given leave to raise her head and so it remains lowered in deference, hands gracefully folded in front of her and eyes gently closed. "Mistress Katrilde is meticulous and quite exacting in her standards, my lord, especially in choosing those that attend you and your esteemed lord father. She will not suffer one mote less than excellence." And though she often hides it admirably, it makes it particularly frustrating for the Stewardess in question when Aurelien is especially cruel. It is not a grievance borne of compassion for those under her supervision, but logistics. Order. While she is a demoness herself and knows some wear is to be expected, Aurelien indulges himself in the extremes. It is the first time in decades when grit has entered her well-oiled machine.
"So, I daresay you shall." Her tone does not change. Its texture lacks arrogance and cheek. It is simply stated as fact.
As the maid speaks, Aurelien waits. And he waits. By the time she has finished, she still hasn't lifted her head; he waits a second more, and then his brow pinches with impatience.
"You don't need my leave for every little thing, girl," he snaps, the mask of his good humor collapsing as suddenly as a shaken house of cards. "Certainly you can do your job without my instruction?"
For emphasis, he snaps his fingers: three sharp clicks, the same way a man might beckon a dog.
"As you say, my lord," she agrees with placid obedience, raises her head and busies herself with the cart, gracefully pouring his tea, the amber liquid smoothly catching the ambient light without a stutter. His meal is still hot, thanks to a domestically practical application of magic. But what she must do, she does to exacting specifications, as she was instructed. She takes a risk with an addition: a slim vase on the tray, with a small bouquet that is, nonetheless, beautifully arranged and in his father's colours, no less, but his personal table is set.
She then begins to tidy what she can quietly; the rest she expects to do once he has left to do what he will.
Once more, Aurelien's demeanor changes in the space of a blink: from pique to a mollified satisfaction, this time. He smiles before she has even filled his cup; as the scent of the tea's astringency and the warmth of its steam fills his nose, he inclines his head, studying her movements with a placid expression and flensing eyes.
That knife-like gaze doesn't leave her as he lifts his cup from its saucer. He doesn't need to look to know that the meal she places before him is as fine as it ever is, so instead, he asks her, "In that case — what is your name?"
The question comes, smooth and easy, as though he had hadn't interrupted their conversation with his temper at all.
She stops after folding some, hm, soiled clothing even if it's to be laundered to straighten and curtsy with smooth elegance, as though she were greeting a dance partner, though it is no less polite than before.
"Elory, my lord, if it please you," she smiles lightly and her voice flows clear and gentle, a cool river where you can always see the bottom. But she balances the expected deference with something that could be taken for sincere, as though she does hope to earn his approval and please. That said and done, she rises out of it, bearing his rebuke in mind, and continues her work.
Well, naturally. Anyone working beneath the roof of this manse knows their career will come to an abrupt—and bloody—end, should they stray from the good graces of its lord and young master.
So, Aurelien doesn't acknowledge Elory's introduction. He asks, and she renders; that is the correct way of things. Instead, he returns to his breakfast; as she patters about his room, retrieving his gore-soaked laundry, the faint click of silverware and porcelain dogs her steps, filling the quiet that would otherwise be left in their wake.
Yet, the pinprick of his gaze never leaves her back. That bitch Katrilde must be sending him girls that don't suit his tastes on purpose, he decides—but he won't allow her to ruin his good mood. He'll take his fun regardless.
"You have a lovely voice," he comments, finally. "Have you been trained for song?"
It wouldn't be terrible unusual—though, more apt a skill for pleasure pet than a housemaid.
If Elory feels the needles of his stare upon her skin, she does not let it impede her graceful, yet efficient pace in the slightest, nor does she balk in disgust at what she sees, or smells for that matter, the warm copper of blood suffusing the bedroom as easily as his earl grey and sausages, though his breakfast is winning out. She does not keep him waiting for a moment, treading productivity and politesse, but stops to dip her head and curtsy, for if anything should give her pause it is her fair lord's praise. Her smile is gentle, her voice threaded with the soft chime of silver, ringing with humble gratitude. "My lord is so very gracious, thank you. I have, indeed."
But praise is not an invitation for conversation; she is property first and anything else second, and so mindful of his earlier rebuke and not having been given leave for anything else, she resumes her work. She will attend the rest of it once he has left to begin his business for the day, but meanwhile, she opens the windows to let the day in and refreshes his tea, anticipating it before he can ask.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oh boy here we go some more
It was spacious, leaving room to manoeuvre and sporting a small stage, but intimate enough that voices would not harshly echo against the opulently-paneled walls, daintily accented in real gold. It was a place for conversation and, more importantly, entertainment, but clearly only for the most prestigious and elite of audiences.
It was also a disaster.
The floor, furniture, and curtains saw themselves repurposed as improvised canvas, awash with blood, beverage, and semen.
"Ooh, this must have been a sight!" giggled a violet-skinned demoness as she picked up an errant eyeball by the severed nerve. "Get it? Sight!"
"Another day, the sun rises, where our fair lord is concerned. Hells Take Me, it stinks in here," came the wry reply of another with curling horns as her nose twitched with familiar distaste.
"Speak for yourself, I think it smells wonderful! All still fresh, too," countered the violet one.
"Either way, best finish quickly, lest Mistress hang us by our roots," a young woman with slick deep blue hair offered, stepping inside, but upon closer inspection, it was not hair at all, but long petals set in imitation of a high ponytail and fringe "bangs" at the front. That reminder was all any of them needed to file into the room proper.
"Eilidh~!" cooed the violet one, creeping closer to a blonde woman amongst their group as she swung the eye like a meaty pendulum with playful disregard.
"S-stop it, Pihra-Nett, please!" the blonde woman whined, gulping at the eye and inched backwards until Pihra-Nett began openly chasing her with it to the easy apathy of the rest. Eilidh ran, staring over her shoulder and so did not notice the bucket in her path until she violently knocked it over. The water within it lifted the bloodstains in its path, muddling the patterns left behind as it ran outward. She whipped her eyes forward at the noise and jumped back with a squeak, though not because of the spill. Long tendrils rose out of the side of the bucket
"Um. Is that an jellyfish?" She asked quietly. Pihra-Nett, as sudden as it was complete, lost interest in her current torment tossed the eye over her shoulder (to be caught by the flower lady in a rubbish bin) and righted the bucket to get a closer look, smiling wide.
"Oooh, it's a cloudbloom! Can I eat it, Anisoa?" she asked the horned demon.
Three stares of silent judgement spoke deafening volumes in answer. The last spied the wall as they washed it.
"What?" Pihra-Nett shrugged shamelessly. "Waste not, want not."
"After where it's possibly been?" Anisoa asked incredulously.
"Lord Haswell was here." The bepetaled woman supplied.
"After where it's certainly been?" Anisoa amended incredulously.
"But it's a delicacy and not there, anymore?"
The discussion continued between them, and did not stop even as they all resumed their shared duty. Though there was a dedicated section of the uniform that was backless, it actually served Pihra-Nett, whose wings had room to breathe unencumbered when she unfurled them to fly to the top of the curtains, cleaning the mess that had reached there and dropping anything that had reached into the bin below. It was an almost humorous juxtaposition to see them talking about nothing amongst themselves while working with seamless efficiency to right the room, even with healthy amounts of complaining. However, instead of relief or satisfaction as they drew closer to the end of their work, a pall descended upon the mood, a dark cloud slowly, but inevitably, swallowing the sun. They were no less productive and the air was lighter as the miasma of blood and sex slowly lifted, but the comfortably irate, at times even jovial, mood became heavy, reticent, and tense.
"Belanthis, you were there, right?" Anisoa asked, wringing out a cloth into a bucket. It'd taken many rinses, but the water was finally running much clearer than the vile slosh it'd been some time before.
The petals upon the woman's hair began to curl inward, as though retreating from danger as she shook her head. "Not for long. I oversaw the delivery of arrangements, mostly. Cyprine was assigned all night, but she was sent into town before I had a chance to ask."
"Do we know that she actually was? Did someone you trust see her off or tell you that, or was that the usual line?" Pihra-Nett asked, giving voice to the uncomfortable, but nonetheless shared question the rest of them held as they all stared at Belanthis
Her breath hitched in realisation as she recounted the event, and then she remained silent. It was answer enough.
"Well. We'll know for sure if she comes back, right? It's not like anyone bothers lying about what happens except for special occasions." Because they didn't need to. The truth was always far more terrifying.
Eilidh bit her lip. "Maybe...maybe it'll be fine. We'd definitely have heard if it wasn't, right?"
"Bahh, 'fine' is always the best we can hope for," cut in with a growl. "Fucked if it's bad, yet fucked if it's good, too! Hells, maybe fucked even if is 'fine'! How grand."
"My question is why didn't Mistress assign anyone specifically, today? I know even her contingencies' contingencies have been sorely tested, but she has yet to properly fail at keeping on top of it."
"Umm...um, I think...Lord Calix had urgent need of her," Eilidh pressed her index fingers together, her cheeks faintly red. "And Cyprine was the last substitution after three others."
"It doesn't bloody matter if someone hasn't been assigned, if it doesn't get done, it's all our heads! Or is anyone keen to end up like Yural?"
Silence. Belanthis looked stricken, her petals weighed by a burden unseen..
"I thought not. So. One of us maybe gets fucked, or we all definitely do. Simple math."
Volunteers would not be forthcoming and even if they might have had the support of the rest, no one wanted to designate someone else either, whether it was calculated, selfish, or out of amity. The silence stretched anew.
Only to be loudly broken by a wet mop hitting the floor. All eyes turned to the source and Anisoa pounced on the opportunity like a lioness on a rabbit.
"She can do it."
Eilidh started to interject "Anis--"
"It'll be fine." Anisoa said and stalked and made stride closer to her target. "It oughn't be too much for Little Miss Glass Garden."
The last amongst them was also the shortest. Her dark hair did not reach her shoulders, but was voluminous despite its lack of length and so silken it easily reflected streaks of ambient light. Her sepia eyes held calm focus as she handled the mop
"Have a job for you."
"My shift ends once this task is complete, Miss Anisoa."
"I wasn't asking. Consider it overtime."
"I am certain that I need not remind that my reserves, regrettably, pale in comparison to many amongst you, being--"
"Human. Exactly. You smell as mundane as dirt." Anisoa loomed, nearly daring the smaller woman to do anything. She did not, though her stare never changed, either. Eventually, she did close her eyes and duck her head..
"...Very well."
"Splendid! I'm not unreasonable, Glass. You head to the kitchens, we'll finish the rest of your share of the work and be sure to pass inspection." Anisoa held out a clawed hand for the mop. The other woman passed it to her and replied with quiet politeness and was handed the bucket with the jellyfish in return.
"Understood, Miss Anisoa, though once again, it is Ellory. If you'll please excuse me, then." With her hands neatly in front of her as she held the bucket, she departed, the even cadence of her steps her only company as she calmly traversed the halls and made her way to the kitchens.
It needn't be said that the rooms for the residents and their distinguished guests far outshone those designated for staff, however, the food all came from the same place and it was simply easier to place the latter dining spaces closest to them. As Ellory drew closer and pushed the doors leading into one such hall, she wove around servants and guards of every stripe; Lord Calix employed demons and humans and everything in between, and with the variety of peoples came the variety of natural sleeping cycles. To whit, there were just as many people eating their last meal of the day as those breaking their fast for the morning, whether or not they had duties. Those that did not were comfortably dressed down. Whatever the nature of their employ, this manor would be the only place they'd have to live. Not a home--only a privileged few would or could ever see it as that--but even those that had a choice, be they demon or human, could agree on one thing.
Better the devil you know.
Ellory set the bucket down and rang the bell specially designated for their younger lord. A bronzed skin woman with slitted amber eyes slithered up to the window.
"Ssssso, you are the one left with the empty egg. And so early, too. Shashasha, I do not know if you are brave, wise, or have a deathwish, gudiya."
"I have only my duty. Good morning, Vamsi."
"Good for me, yes. For you? We shall see. Though I do hope. Bets have already begun, and knowing it is you, the odds will be far more stacked against. I will be called foolish, but I will raise mine all the same. I have a good feeling in my scales, so do not make me so, gudiya. Maybe I will cut you in if you survive."
"I will endeavour not to disappoint, Vamsi," she replied blandly. If she was at all concerned by what awaited, or perturbed that there were bets on the outcome, she did not betray it one whit. She looked down at the bucket, the cloudbloom was looking a little less lively than it had earlier. "Vamsi, do cloudbloom jellyfish need a certain type of water?"
"Cloudbloom? Ah. Is Lord Hassswell still here?" She muttered something in another language, but it was obviously not at all polite. "He must want another go. No. All water is fine water as long as it is cold. If you have it, I will put some feed for it on the cart." Ellory obeyed lifting the bucket and pushing her way into the kitchens to make her way to the nearest sink. Setting it inside, she let the water run cold before dousing the bell of the jellyfish with water. It shook immediately with growing rejuvenation. The greyish patterns along its bell brightened into a clearer white. Wiping the bucket dry of scattered drops, she places it on the bottom of the silver cart before rolling it out through the hall.
Her room was closer, and she placed the bucket just inside the door, breaking up some pieces of food to drop into the pail. The majority of it was seafood, but some were simple meat scraps. She wondered if it was not an opportunistic animal, but she could not think about it for now.
"Stay here until I figure out what to do with you." With that said, she closed and locked the door before continuing on her way. It was quite a distance, but the food would still be hot by the time she arrived and a good while after that; the dishes were enchanted with runes for warmth though they were invisible, working passively.
Eventually, inevitably, she arrived at Lord Aurelien's quarters, though it was really more a subsection of the wing. She let herself inside the receiving area and continued until she stood outside his door proper. She inhaled. Exhaled. Slow, even breaths. She could do this. This would be fine.
It had to be.
She knocked on his door.
"My lord? Have you risen?"
no subject
"Yes, yes — you may enter at your leisure," he calls back, plucking a darkly-colored robe from where he had discarded to atop the covers the night before. He is, as it is, completely nude, and while there is no strict need for him to make himself presentable to the staff, he tosses the garment around his shoulders nonetheless. It doesn't do much to make him look less nude; he neglects to tie it closed, and it hangs open down the front of his body, the swath of his pale skin standing all the starker against the darkness.
He can't immediately place the voice on the other side of the door—but, then, the help tends to run together, at least when their words are muffled by a few inches of heavy wood. As the door opens, however, he realizes that this isn't a case of a forgettable face; the girl that stands on the other side is a new one. He smiles in her direction as he flops into his seat, and the expression turns his gaze feline, too: capricious and predatory.
"I haven't seen you about the manse before," he remarks, the tone of his voice doing a phenomenal job of feigning idle interest. She's a bit plain for his tastes—but, who knows? She might turn out to have her charms. "A recent acquisition of ours?"
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Acquired. Like property. But she is and so does not balk. "My lord humbles me with his observation." She does not point out how long she's actually been here. Time is relative regardless, splitting hairs would be less than useless even if it wouldn't risk possible offense. "I have but recently been granted the honour of being accepted into my esteemed lords' service," her voice is soft, but clear and deliberate, with a delicately melodic lilt, that though deferential, does not sound insincere. Plain enough to blend into the background, but pretty enough not to offend any sensibilities, and pleasing to the ear. In some ways perhaps ideal, but then that is for her to decide, even if that is her aim.
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"I see," he answers, and as he returns his gaze to hers, his smiles broadens just enough to bare his teeth. "And should I expect to see more of you?"
He isn't aware of any changes in personnel assignation... But, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He doesn't pay particular attention to such details; they are, after all, someone else's to handle.
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"So, I daresay you shall." Her tone does not change. Its texture lacks arrogance and cheek. It is simply stated as fact.
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"You don't need my leave for every little thing, girl," he snaps, the mask of his good humor collapsing as suddenly as a shaken house of cards. "Certainly you can do your job without my instruction?"
For emphasis, he snaps his fingers: three sharp clicks, the same way a man might beckon a dog.
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She then begins to tidy what she can quietly; the rest she expects to do once he has left to do what he will.
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That knife-like gaze doesn't leave her as he lifts his cup from its saucer. He doesn't need to look to know that the meal she places before him is as fine as it ever is, so instead, he asks her, "In that case — what is your name?"
The question comes, smooth and easy, as though he had hadn't interrupted their conversation with his temper at all.
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"Elory, my lord, if it please you," she smiles lightly and her voice flows clear and gentle, a cool river where you can always see the bottom. But she balances the expected deference with something that could be taken for sincere, as though she does hope to earn his approval and please. That said and done, she rises out of it, bearing his rebuke in mind, and continues her work.
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So, Aurelien doesn't acknowledge Elory's introduction. He asks, and she renders; that is the correct way of things. Instead, he returns to his breakfast; as she patters about his room, retrieving his gore-soaked laundry, the faint click of silverware and porcelain dogs her steps, filling the quiet that would otherwise be left in their wake.
Yet, the pinprick of his gaze never leaves her back. That bitch Katrilde must be sending him girls that don't suit his tastes on purpose, he decides—but he won't allow her to ruin his good mood. He'll take his fun regardless.
"You have a lovely voice," he comments, finally. "Have you been trained for song?"
It wouldn't be terrible unusual—though, more apt a skill for pleasure pet than a housemaid.
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But praise is not an invitation for conversation; she is property first and anything else second, and so mindful of his earlier rebuke and not having been given leave for anything else, she resumes her work. She will attend the rest of it once he has left to begin his business for the day, but meanwhile, she opens the windows to let the day in and refreshes his tea, anticipating it before he can ask.