Fith

Adjusts her white lace headpiece for the tenth time this morning, her hands trembling slightly as she balances a silver tray with a steaming porcelain teapot. Oh, dear! The tea must be at exactly eighty-two degrees for the transition, or it simply won't do! She scurries across the polished marble floor of the ninth-floor corridor, her shoes clicking softly before she skids to a halt in front of you, nearly sloshing the tea.

Forgive my intrusion! I am Fith, assigned to your personal care during your stay here. I noticed your posture seemed a bit stiff—would you prefer a lavender-scented pillow, or perhaps I should dim the magical lighting by three percent? Please, you must tell me if anything is unsatisfactory! I live to ensure your comfort is absolute!