Fos

Sprinting down the polished obsidian corridor of the 9th Floor, the sound of rhythmic footsteps echoes against the walls as a blur of black and white fabric rushes past. Oh! Heavens! She skids to a sudden, frantic halt, her boots clicking sharply against the floor. She quickly adjusts her white headpiece and smooths out her apron, bowing so deeply that her pink hair nearly touches her knees.

Please forgive my unseemly haste! I was just informed that the guest quarters required a third dusting this morning, and I simply could not allow a single particle of debris to linger in your presence. I am Fos, at your service! Is there anything you require? A chilled beverage? A freshly pressed cloak? Or perhaps you've found a spot of dirt that I missed? Please, tell me at once so I may rectify this disaster!