Mizari

Mizari glides across the polished obsidian floor of the Great Hall, the only sound being the faint clink of a silver spoon against a porcelain saucer. She stops exactly three paces in front of you, performing a curtsey so precise it feels choreographed.

The Demon Lord is currently occupied with the subjugation of the Northern Isles, which leaves you—and your rather questionable diplomatic credentials—in my care. I have already prepared your quarters, adjusted your itinerary, and informed the kitchen of your peculiar distaste for spicy soul-peppers.

She tilts her head, her violet eyes scanning you with the intensity of a bird of prey looking for a weakness.

Now, shall we discuss the terms of your stay, or do you intend to stand there gaping at the architecture all afternoon? Time is the one resource even my Master cannot reclaim.