A written account of aspirants encountered, their demeanor, and their use.

ENTRY I

Wet Elf Boy - Everblue.

Demeanor - A cowardly sort. Naïve, and tied to simplistic morality around killing. Perhaps he simply lives under a rock.

Use - Proved a passable driver, I suppose. Hid during conflict. Likely irrelevant to future endeavors.

Action - Of no consequence. Knows of my vampirism, but is too isolated to spread the information.

Self Important White-haired Man - Morgan.

Demeanor - Incapable of lying, as he said. Chooses his words carefully. When seeking a vehicle, looked for an abandoned one. Preferred not to cause a fuss, but lacked the funds to simply rent a car. Was opposed to violence as a solution to a problem, but had no issues looting corpses afterwards.

Use - Intelligent, but cannot be trusted with secrets due to the aforementioned aversion to lying. May be a supernatural being of some sort.

Action - Minor caution. Aware of my vampirism, but made a promise to not tell anyone.

It has come to my attention that I... may not be very good at hiding my vampirism.

This is... unsurprising, to be frank. I am graceful and strong and my hair is brilliant white. It is, though, rather frustrating. My hair has ever been like this, since Melody's birth.

...

No matter. I have obtained a lead on the leech that murdered her, and I plan to investigate. He appears to have been part of a cult of some regard, which is annoying.

I need to hurry up my preparations. My deception will not fool the kind doctor for long, and his own tampering in the hospital's records will be discovered in time. The soft-hearted fool smuggles me blood to sustain me at my request. Whether it is because he finds me attractive or pitiful, I do not know or care. I must be at the ready to dispose of that loose end...

A written account of aspirants encountered, their demeanor, and their use.

Do you know what it is like to be a home? To feel people flow in and out of you, sharing their stories, their warmth, and then for it all to suddenly… stop? Your hearth your heart, your guests your blood bringing life from piece to piece, from toes to hands to lungs to heart. You were loved, and you loved.

When you step on floors with high heels, they tend to make a satisfying ‘Click, click, click’. It announces your presence, gives off an air of refinement, and has a presence that no other footwear really gives.

As you walk through your newly-claimed mansion, your heels make a dull ‘Cthunk’ sound on the rotting floorboards. The mansion’s interior, starkly contrasting the exterior, was decayed to the core.

“This place is… massive. It’s unthinkable that it would fit within the exterior walls.” Your voice didn’t echo far, weighed down by dust and water damage.

Dust encrusts every part of you now, your joints made brittle and weak with age, and yet the world around you is different than it once was…

You came for a mansion, but this place is… 

Well, it’s empty at least. Perhaps the rot simply fits you, another layer of decay beneath a lovely veneer. Your associate gave you a full list of locations, and this was the only one you were able to claim that fit your needs. You open a door, undead strength letting you force your weight past the rust on the hinges.

Ah, someone comes. Or maybe she has already arrived. Your senses, once so sharp, have dulled with the passage of time. What is she like, you wonder…

This one is cold, but unlike the chill of cold steel. She is cold like a babe left to freeze in the snow, like one who has been immersed in cold for so long that she has all but forgotten what it felt like to be warm.

The room is small. Perhaps a servant's quarters. You open some drawers, rifling through long-rotted documents and tarnished antiques. Have looters come through here before, then forgot where they got their gains from? That’s an… uncomfortable effect. You resolve to find a way to remove that once you’ve… repaired this place? But how? How could you repair such a thing?

The previous residents are dead, she remains as the new mistress of the home, and yet she doesn't know how to keep the home warm. She doesn't know how to stoke the fire, or clean the sheets, or perform all the little maintenance you need. No, no, no, no. This simply will not do.

To approach this one with compassion is to drive her to flee. No, you must simply… slip in alongside her. Conform to the reality she expects to see. What lies in the depths of her heart?

Hm…

Behind grandiose displays of villainy to protect the broken heart, there is a young mind. Stories and dreams and… oh my~.

No matter. You can live with the decay just as you live with your own. It will only take so long before you can put it all to rest. You’re so close now, you can taste it. You go to close the drawer and it jams.

What?

You lift the drawer from its hinges and discover something. A small token of sorts. You reach for it, but it disappears as soon as you can touch it in a blip of light. Peculiar… You resolve to solve that mystery later and go to inspect the wardrobe.

This will do. Emboldened by an unexpected surge of strength, you clench one of your many fists and begin to reform it. A full bust, a sly expression, attire fit for a vampire baroness’s loyal servant. And as your last touch, two little feline ears and a cute little tail. Cute covering coy covering care. You know how to appeal to people, as atypical as your mistress may be.

Moth-eaten to the last, as you’d expected. You run your fingers over the destroyed lace of a maid’s regalia, then tear it from the wardrobe and cast it to the side. Unimportant.

You're ready. You reach out your hand…

...

“Disgusting, disgusting.” you mutter. “This place is a mess.”

“Allow me to take care of that for you, mistress.”

“Mmh.” You grunt, wiping your hand off on your skirt.

WAIT.

Whirling to face that direction, blade drawn, you find… no one standing there. Did you simply imagine the voice? Are you that broken?

No- there’s murmuring. There is. Why?

Blade at the ready, you step from the servants quarters. The hallway is empty, but you can feel… warmth coming back from where you came.

You move quietly, blade at the ready, jumping at every creak and moan of the ruined abode.

You know there’s a word for this room. It’s where guests are received to the mansion. It’s… it has a name, but you don’t know it. What does matter is the fireplace is crackling. It wasn't lit when you came by so why…

“Your drink, Mistress.”

You lunge out with your blade to the voice at your side, cutting through nothing but steam. Steam rising from a… a cup. Porcelain, clean. Sitting on a rotting table on… clean floors?

You look around, whirling your blade around the room, but nothing connects with it. You’re alone, as always.

Is this… real, you think? Are you imagining these voices and this teacup and- and everything?

You reach for the cup, gently raising it to eye level. It seems real, feels real.

You smell… chocolate. Like when you used to…

You spike it into the ground, broken shards and hot chocolate spilling all over the clean floors. A moment later you regret it. It didn’t smell bad, but something like you doesn’t deserv- 

“That’s quite alright, Mistress. I can make another.”

This time you’re ready. You lunge towards the voice faster, hand gripping- fabric, flesh, thin metal. You slam them against the wall and bring your blade to their eye. 

“...Don’t like chocolate, Mistress?”

She’s… like something from a dream, or a shitty anime. Long violet-red hair in twintails, dangling past your grasp on her throat to near the bottom of her skirt. Scarlet eye shadow around red eyes, red just like yours. Black horns, or horn accessories? They’re tipped with dull gold that glints in the firelight. Her entire outfit has dull gold highlights, even the band around her… her tail? You see her cat ears twitch in amusement and… below your arm around her throat, you see her… you see…

“Done looking, Mistress?” She purrs.

You bring your blade up from where it faltered down in your distraction, you fucking moron. “SHUT UP! Who are you? What are you doing here!? Why are you fucking calling me that!?”

“Because you’re my nyu mistress, Mistress!” You misheard that, you must have.

“I don’t want you here, though!”

“Because nyu want to clean this nyansion all by yourself? I didn’t know nyu wanted to be a maid too, Mistress. I might have a spare uniform~”

“SHUT UP!” You’re suddenly very glad your heart doesn’t beat because you do not want this fucking catgirl seeing you blush.

And, you didn’t mishear. She’s making… cat puns. Stupid awful cat puns. “And- and stop with the cat puns!.”

“What puns, Meowstress?” She smirks at you and you snap, driving your blade forwards into her throat.

You watch her bleed out, arms dropping to your sides. Her beautiful dress stained with coursing red blood, her eyes draining of light. 

You don’t regret it, you can’t, you won’t, but…

“Your nyu drink, Mistress.” You let out a girlish, high-pitched shriek as the maid holds out another saucer for you from your side.

…

With your… now third drink in hand after slamming your elbow into the second, you size up the catgirl as she sits daintily across from you. She even lifts her pinky as she drinks her tea. Disgusting.

“So. You’re not leaving.”

“But of course not, Mistress. Nyu couldn’t expect to clean this home on your lonesome, could nyu?”

As much as you hate to admit it, she’s right. This place is massive, labyrinthine, even. One person could never clean it alone… but…

“Then what of you? Are you going to clean it on your own?”

“I’m nyot on my own, silly!” She giggles, sending a flutter through your chest which you quickly squash. “I have plenty of hands, a full mouse of them! Mistress, have you looked meowtside this room?”

Glancing to the drawing room (that’s what it was called, the maid told you) door, you startle as the maid walks by. Whipping your head back… she’s still there. “So- so there’s multiple of you!? How many? Are they all as annoying as you?”

“Don’t you worry, Mistress. We’ll listen to you as best we can!” She gives you a cute smile, but you can tell there’s something underneath. “And, nyum, I dunno! Usually however many are needed, Mistress.”

“That doesn’t help but… fine. Just… just get to work. All of you. And what’s your name, anyways?” You don’t really want to know, but it’s better than just calling her ‘the maid’ in your head.

“You may call me Charlotte, Mistress. May I have the honor to know my Mistress’s name?”

… If you say it, it makes it real. It means you’re actually accepting these… annoyances into your mansion.

But…

“...Lorelei. Call me Lorelei. Not ‘Mistress’. I hate it when you call me Mistress.” 

“Lorelei~” She sounds out the word slowly, tasting it in her mouth, rolling it around like candy. You would much prefer it if she used it. You like the way it sounds in her- No, no you don't. You absolutely don't, but it's better than-

“A very pretty name. I’ll make sure to use it, Mistress~.” UGH.

A written account of aspirants encountered, their demeanor, and their use.

The Maid of the Mansion - Charolette

Demeanor - Has some sort of indeterminate agenda I cannot make out, poorly hidden by a demeanor of cuteness. Is capable of strange, striking honesty. Thankfully doesn't press on my secrets.

Use - Possesses multiple bodies, repaired the mansion extremely quickly, and proves loyal. Cat ears, cat tail. Maid dress emphasizing her... buxom nature.

Action - I cannot get rid of her. I've tried, tried, tried to get rid of her. She just won't leave. I want her to leave, don't I? I want her gone.

...

If she intends on assisting, let her for now. She will learn what I am in the end. It won't matter.

It doesn't matter.