FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

You wish you had slept better last night, because today is a big day.

Today you are to begin learning how to cook. Tuare awakens bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the crack of dawn, but you, on the other hand, are utterly exhausted.

An exasperated groan rumbles through your pillow when she draws back the curtains to reveal the peachy blush of the sky, and you reluctantly tunnel out of your cocoon of covers; you had a Hell of a time trying to fall back to sleep last night after your nightmare.

'Ugh... I don't wanna.' You desperately want at least one more hour to snooze.

Tuare is already peeling away the fluted paper of a muffin and taking a bite while you are still fumbling to get dressed. In your groggy daze you chip a nail securing a garter strap and also put your shoes on the wrong foot.

'Damn it.' You rub your face in frustration.

Now you have to unbuckle the half-dozen straps and start all over.

You try to hurry, as you are both a bit pressed for time- you have to be there early for your training, before the rest of the cooks arrive for their daily duties.

You swipe the blueberry muffin Tuare saved for you off of the nightstand and wolf it down on the go.

The kitchen is exquisite- a vast array of pristine utensils hang on brass hooks above a massive rectangular island of granite that is edged with cedar cutting boards, and in between each row rests professional knife blocks with cherry-wood carved handles jutting outwards. The varnished burgundy shelves are stocked with all colorful flavors and nature of spices in cork-sealed glass jars. Stacks of hand-painted bone china gleam from their cabinets.

Powdered spices lay in rust red and dusty yellow piles, and leaves of bright greens are already neatly stacked on one of the boards. Fat orange carrots rest on the one before you, and Tuare gives you a brief demonstration on how to lop off the ends and to peel them with a Y-shaped tool. It was simple enough, and you make short work of them.

Tuare then passes you a chopping knife. The polished silver cutlery feels cool and heavy in your hand, and a flicker of insecurity ponders if you may hurt yourself with it. You eyelids are disobediently dipping; you are still a bit groggy, so you decide to play it safe and start by watching Tuare's example first. You observe with as much focus as you can muster as she rocks the blade with practiced motion and cuts all of the carrots into perfect matchsticks in the time it took you just peel one of the vegetables.

"How is our newest member faring? Woof." You hear a sweet and motherly voice ask.

'Wait... did she just say "woof"?' Your exhaustion-addled mind cannot decide if you are simply hearing things, being made fun of or possibly cat-called.

You whirl around to see who it belongs to, and damn near shit a brick.

You are staring into the face a black and white bipedal Shetland sheepdog. A pink and shiny surgical suture runs from the center of her muzzle and all the way up to the crown of her forehead to disappear under her black, frilly bonnet, and you wonder if it is the only thing holding her skull together. Triangular blinders marked with X's veil her eyes and a fawn colored bow accentuates her neck. She is finely dressed as a maid, and judging by her more upscale and elaborate garb, she likely runs the roost around here.

'Say something, damn it!'

But shock makes your tongue feel thick and numb in your mouth.

"She's doing great, Pestonya! She helped dust and clean yesterday, and is well on her way to cooking too!" Tuare is your saving grace.

Your friend doesn't seem alarmed by her, so you feel it is safe to assume the Frankenstein-dog-maid is harmless.

But dear fucking gods, you wish you had more of a heads-up that there would be creatures like this working alongside you in the kitchen so you could have been a little more... prepared.

Because now you're standing here, speechless and staring with your mouth agape, making a complete ass of yourself.

"I-I'm doing well!" You belatedly and not-so-eloquently sputter when your brain finally flips back on, and haphazardly bow like an idiot with a chopping knife still clasped tightly in your hand.

"That is wonderful! Woof. We look forward to adding you as a valuable asset to Nazarick's cooking staff."

"Th-thank you! I'll do my best." To your horror, the words tumbling from your mouth sound as stupid as you feel, but the dog-headed maid only wags her tail and her black lips pull back to form what you think is a smile.

"I'll leave you both to it, then. Tuare, let me know if there is anything you require. Woof."

"Thank you, Pestonya!" Your friend bows and waves good-bye.

When she's out of sight, you blanch and lament your social failure of epic proportions.

"I'm so awkward..." You bury your face in your palm to hide your blush of shame.

"Don't feel bad. I was just as startled when I first met her. Pestonya is the Head Maid and one of the only ones here who likes humans. She even taught me how to cook and sew!" Tuare is so kind as to take the sting out of your wounded pride. "Um... where were we?"

Tuare returns to her lesson in showing you how to chop without missing a beat. Her confidence and apparent fearlessness is enviable, and you wonder if you will ever be so resilient to the shock of the unnatural denizens of the Tomb.

At least you aren't sleepy anymore and can now devote your full attention to her demonstration.

Every motion Tuare makes is precise from practice and repetition, and the way she smiles as she works attests to how she prides herself on the machine-like perfection of the shapes she creates.

"So, what are we making?" You ask when you notice a few ingredients seem rather mismatched- there is a ceramic bowl of what may be either syrup or honey, a dish of shelled nuts and a several stacks of dewy leaves of what you assume is some sort of lettuce... or perhaps cabbage?

"We're preparing carrots for not only our lunch in the next few hours, but also for the other maids of the Tomb. We're having kale and carrot salad, with peach vinaigrette and topped with honey-roasted walnuts."

You aren't sure that you are a big salad eater or even know what kale is, but that actually sounds palatable!

Tuare has you wash the large, crisp leaves of kale and stir the chopped nuts into the small bowl of what you now know to be dark golden honey. Once they are efficiently coated with the sticky sweetness, you lay them out on a baking sheet and pop them into the oven.

By the next hour, your carrot slices are almost as well-executed as Tuare's.

"Wow, you're learning quickly!" Tuare gushes at your rapid improvement. "I knew you could do it!"

You wonder if maybe you possessed cooking skills previous to being enslaved in the brothel, because the knife that once felt unwieldy now feels quite natural in your hand, a familiar weight and extension of yourself. You feel a strange inclination to give it a light twirl, twisting it in the daylight streaming through the windows as if it could slice up the sun rays. Your movements are as fluid as water with muscle memory as you toss it high into the air and watch it somersault before you catch the handle with the opposite hand.

"Whoa... where did you learn how to do that?" Tuare is bewildered.

Your brow puckers with parallel puzzlement. It's a damn good question, because you haven't a clue. Just an hour ago, you fretted that you might cut yourself with it.

"...I don't know. I just know how, I think." You surmise.

'Odd.'

---

With your lunches made, you join her in the maid's quarters to eat and bring her up to speed on yesterday's events.

"I can't thank you enough for helping me. I'm actually starting to feel more human again. And I think I actually like it here!" You express your gratitude before taking a bite of your salad.

"Of course! I'm always happy to help, and glad to see you are adjusting well." Tuare replies brightly and spears a few leaves onto her fork. "This place can certainly take some getting used to, especially with us being the only humans. Have you seen Sebas or any of the other Guardians since you have been here?"

"I... actually can't remember what Sebas looks like." You admit with a light shake of your head. "I try every day, and sometimes I remember bits of my life before the brothel, but I still don't recall how I ended up there."

Tuare lays her hand over yours from across the table and squeezes reassuringly. "It's okay if you don't remember yet. I can reintroduce you to him tomorrow. I'm sure he'll be glad to see you!"

You nod, and then continue. "But I think I met Lord Ainz. And you were right, he is... _pretty scary,_to put it lightly." You wholeheartedly agree with her assessment. "But I bowed like you said, and he brought me to his Floor to clean for him. He even offered me a job!"

"He actually spoke to you?" Tuare's eyes widen with disbelief. "The Guardians rarely speak to me. Even after Lord Ainz granted me protection, I'm still treated as an outsider by many. But that's great! I was wondering where you went yesterday. Are you going to take it?"

"Yes, I think I will. He was polite, so I don't think I'll mind working for him at all!" You conclude, and moan softly around a bite of the sweetened, roasted nuts.

Apparently, you have a sweet tooth.

"That should mean you'll get to stay!" Tuare lights up.

You swallow and smile, then dab your mouth with your linen napkin.

"That is what I'm hoping too. If I'm working for someone, maybe they'll deem me as useful enough to keep around."

You hope so, anyway.

---

After you both finish eating, Tuare instructs you to dust a new section of the great hall while she finishes preparing lunch for the other maid staff.

She leads you a fair distance from the kitchen, and you are pleased to find that this area's decor boasts multiple magnificent canvases- it is more akin to an art gallery.

Tuare supplies you with a soft rag and also a small bowl of some sort of mixture which smells of white vinegar to apply as polish for the gold and silver frames. She returns to the kitchen, again leaving you to stand as alone and still with uncertainty as a singular statue in the pristine silence of the empty hallway.

You take a deep breath to clear your head, as well as your anxiety, and you survey your surroundings in detail. You set the bowl on an end table next to a kintsugi vase veined with brilliant gold, and start by lightly brushing the frames with your duster.

Several paintings are abstract in nature, and are but streaks and pours of acrylic color without pattern or design- but the largest one, which you deem to be the centerpiece, catches your eye.

It is a breathtaking depiction of a black tiger, with velvety coal stripes. An unnatural light glows beneath his pelt as though he has devoured the sun itself. His jaws snarl into a wrinkled mask of fury to reveal fangs of molten gold, and his eyes are windows to his heart of fire. His defensively flattened ears are adorned with many rings, which you appreciate as a unique touch of edginess.

The great cat perfectly embodies the blistering hatred and roiling rage that festers like a wound in the darkest part of your soul. You contemplate if a creature such as this had channeled itself through you when you clawed at your rapist and felt his blood spill under the violent rake of your nails.

The surroundings within your peripheral begin smear and blur out of focus like the smudges of a charcoal sketch and you feel yourself falling into the tiger's eyes, fathomless lakes of swirling magma, and you absentmindedly sweep the feathers over the gilded astorian frame.

There, in the primordial penumbra within the recesses of your mind, rests a polished seed of darkness. You see, rather than feel when it splits and cracks into a yawning chasm, before crumbling into smoldering ash to give birth to a tiny fire that burns steadily with new life within the ruins of itself like phoenix. You are drawn to it, like a moth to flame- it is mesmerizing, the way it flickers; cognizant, unyielding, fierce.

Instinctive fear commands you to recoil, but a foreign curiosity takes hold, rippling through every particle of your being. It drowns out your apprehension and urges you to fan it, to keep it burning, to feed it; it is equally as comforting in its empowerment as its unfamiliarity is frightening. Your heart launches into a sprint as you recall the sense of raw power that weaved through you as you heard him scream.

Sensing yourself tipping headlong into the inky depths, as if falling from a dream into oblivion, you jolt.

Demiurge passes through the hallway, prompt as always in answering his Lord's summon. His blood runs hot with trepidation. The decision is soon to be made as to what will become of the stray Sebas has taken in.

To his delight, he just so happens to find himself crossing paths with the human as she performs her dusting duties, and his gaze burns into her back.

It riles the most primal part of him; how careless and oblivious she is, to the predator watching, waiting.

He stalks silently towards her, so she is deaf to his approach. The demon pauses when he is little more than a foot away, taking the opportunity to fully appraise her appearance. For a human female, she is quite pretty. Not as physically stunning as the succubus Albedo of course, but aesthetically pleasing in his eyes, nonetheless. The long, golden hair that cascades loosely in waves around her shoulders smells sweet with a warm halo of honeysuckle.

He inhales evenly and scents her quietly with a devised nonchalance, careful not to reveal his rabid desire to defile, to claim, even though he is holding the chains of his self-control with a white-knuckled grip. His mouth waters- she smells of feminine pheromones, lilies, orange blossoms and peaches.

So deliciously familiar...

Her skin looks as smooth as silk over glass, and is moonlight pale from being trapped indoors for several years. Her frame is sleek and slender, cat-like; he knows this to be because they were given little nutrition to keep them thin and weak while imprisoned at the brothel. His eyes wander over the bruises which still dapple her exposed arms and neck. It pleases him to see that they are gradually fading with the passage of time.

_ 'Excellent.' He prefers a blank canvas for which to create his own masterpiece._

The demon watches her head tip back, and hears her breath stutter in her throat as she absorbs the malicious magnificence that is the painting before her. Without the frightened racing of her heart and the wariness of her senses alerting her to his presence, she is still and silent, and he savors the thrum of her body-- the vibrant spark that animates mortal bones and tender muscles.

He hears the tempo of her heartbeat quicken, but she does not detect him yet.

No, it is the painting that is responsible. It speaks to her, as it does to him.

Jerking yourself out of the trance, you peel yourself away from the captivating painting and turn with your feather duster in hand. Upon seeing the towering form standing before you, you almost drop it with a start and your voice flees your throat as your heart plummets to your feet.

It is the Devil. When he had approached, you cannot be sure.

'How long has he been standing here?!'

Beyond startled, you are momentarily frozen before you manage to gather your scattered wits and bend at the waist to your lower your head in an awkward bow.

"My apologies for startling you. I am curious if you have yet to consider my offer?" He inquires and clasps his hands casually behind his back, analyzing you with a sphinx-like stare.

"Y-yes, Master." You feel as if you are shrinking to the size of a mouse beneath his shadow, and you slowly straighten your posture. You have never been this close to him- your face only just meets with the broad expanse of his chest.

"... I would like the job." You succeed in banishing the tremor from your voice as you give him your answer, and keep your eyes cast downward.

Through your peripheral, you observe as he draws one hand from behind his back, and every small movement of his muscles is accentuated by the tailored fit of his flawlessly pressed suit.

He gently cups your chin in his gloved hand and he tips your face to meet his gaze. You have to fight the urge to not jolt at the unexpected physical contact, and you adamantly keep your eyes averted from his, as you were trained to do.

"It's alright, you may look at me." He says softly. The Arch Devil's voice carries an eerie, inherent chill that belies the gentle tone of his words, and it makes cold fear trickle over your scalp.

You do as he orders, trembling like a leaf. His leather gloves are buttery soft, but his fingers within end in claws that are sharp on your jaw, and threaten to puncture your flesh.

He isn't hurting you, but there is a thick, dark swarming menace about him. You know that as an Arch Devil, he radiates an aura of evil, as is only natural for his species.

Still, it does not make him any less frightening.

Your gaze meets his with a flicker of hesitation, and you gasp.

The demon studies her eyes; they glisten with fear, as to be expected. She is questioning his intentions, but is taking care not speak unless spoken to. She obeys, and her gaze does not yield, despite her obvious apprehension. She quivers lightly against his touch, yet holds her ground.

Her acquiescence to this brief physical contact makes blood hum pleasantly to his groin, and he clenches his jaw against a sudden urge to touch her, flesh on flesh. He scents her again, but the tangy, delightful spike of mortal terror is strangely absent. He can see her pulse racing, thumping wildly against the side of her neck in reaction to his proximity, but she successfully battles her natural instinct to flee.

_ 'How fascinating.' _

Yes, she is ideal for what he seeks.

Behind the glass of his spectacles, in place of eyes are what look to be finely polished diamonds which are absent of pupils or sclera, and are intricately carved with countless sparkling facets. Your frightened reflection gapes back at you from the dozen mirrors of the gems. How he can see is a mystery.

His stare is incandescent with a supernatural light.

'Should I really be surprised by this after seeing a talking dog-lady, though?'

When he speaks again, it is with pleasure, velvet and black. "I am pleased with your decision." He favors you with a vulpine smile. "I will make the proper arrangements. You are to have your own room, clothes, and will now be staying on my Floor."

The demon releases you, and pivots his attention towards the painting which you find so captivating.

His crystalline eyes roam over the canvas in a brief glance, and the reverence in his gaze attests that he has dedicated much time to studying it. Once again, you regard the slashing black brushstrokes that compose the beast's stripes through the various hues of steel grey and ebony, as well as the bursts of orange and gold calling forth a fiery depiction of primal rage even as they are soothed by the background's indigo blues and raw umbers.

It summons the taste tears, scorched earth and ash on your tongue.

One would think the piece's chaotic nature would clash violently with the rest of the great hall's color scheme and alabaster marble floors, but in your opinion, it rather suits the drama of the place.

"I don't know much about art. But I really like this one." You say in an awkward attempt to stir the thick silence.

"As do I," He purrs quietly, and redirects his gaze back to you, and you struggle not to fidget under his dark scrutiny. "I enjoy collecting pretty things."

You can't help but feel he is deliberately speaking in double entendres, and it sends a forbidden thrill zipping through your veins. You swallow, your mouth suddenly feeling bone dry.

"It's yours?"

"My creator's, to be precise. But when he departed from our realm for a new level of ascension, it was bequeathed to me. It is now one of my most prized possessions." The demon elaborates.

Creator. You ponder what the Devil means by that. Was he not born of flesh as you were?

"What does this painting convey to you?" He decides to pick your brain, and you are admittedly disarmed by such a question.

You take him for an aficionado of the finer things in life, based on both his elegant poise and attire, and wonder if he would be at all satisfied with your uneducated answer. You drink in the wild and Stygian flavor of the piece before you reply.

"The fire of unbridled rage." You lick your lips. "The darker part of us all."

"Indeed." One side of his mouth curls, and relief seeps through you. "Rage may release itself in the form of art, or the toll on our being, taking a dark shape and weaving itself into the metaphors of dreams... or nightmares. Or it may come as fluid movements that are a song of emotions, or channeled into brushstrokes upon a canvas."

'Well... that was far more eloquent than anything I could have said.'

"It's beautiful." Is all you can think to say, and he nods.

"A beast such as he is poetry in motion, I believe." The demon muses. "Have you ever laid eyes on a tiger?"

"No, Master. I cannot say that I have."

"Then consider yourself fortunate. You will never be truly humbled or know the raw fear of being hunted until you look into his eyes." He says cryptically, and his glittering gaze burns into yours with enough heat to melt glass. "I find it most interesting how Man likes to paint himself as an apex predator, but he is utterly lacking in both fang and claw. He is not built for the kill. No, man is prey; blunt nails, blunt teeth, and slow on foot. One might argue that his eyes are forward-facing and his mind is his greatest weapon, but regardless, he is not at the top of the food chain. Should you ever dare tread in a tiger's territory, do so with utmost caution and respect."

Not a single word leaves the demon's mouth that is not of dual meaning. He's testing the waters, giving her tiny glimpses of his nature and then smoothing her hackles down with unparalleled guile.

He will sheath his claws for a while yet.

Just when your pulse kicks as you sense what very well may be a veiled threat lacing his words, the Devil chooses that moment to walk away and leave you to your own devices.

For someone as tall as he, there is so little sound as he stalks away that it occurs to you to wonder if you have been conversing with a ghost.

Perhaps the demon simply has a flair for the dramatic, but the hair on the back of your neck flaring in instinctive alarm warns otherwise.

You give the astorian frame of the painting a final pass of your feather duster, and take note of an ornate silver plaque soldered to the bottom edge of the frame. It is engraved with calligraphic letters.

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright, In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye, Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?

---

You spend the next few hours dusting and polishing the frames of the great hall. Your conversation with the demon has left you admittedly somewhat rattled.

Heels click over the marble expanse of the hall while you are brushing out the fluted grooves of a massive alabaster pillar. You turn to see Tuare, and she is wearing a rather solemn expression, as if the sunniness has been sucked out of her.

"Tuare?" You call. "What's wrong?"

"Pestonya say you are to be brought to the throne room immediately. I think Lord Ainz is to make his decision." She informs you.

"But... he already came to speak with me." Your brows knit with confusion. "I told him that I would take the job."

You are admittedly puzzled, and you rest your feather duster down on a cherrywood end table.

"Um... that's odd." Tuare looks equally stumped. "But we had best hurry. We cannot keep Lord Ainz waiting."

She leads you down the great hall to your destination, and you see a familiar silhouette coming from the opposite direction. Tuare slams on the breaks and comes to a dead halt.

"There's Lord Ainz now." You whisper, and watch the red-clad Devil push the double doors open to enter what you are assuming is the throne room. He pauses, and turns to look at you. You bow, and he flashes you a cavalier smirk before disappearing into the room. You then redirect your attention to Tuare. "See? There's nothing to worry ab-"

The hair on the back of your neck prickles with alarm when you see that the color has drained from her face, and her eyes are blown wide with fear- she is frozen. A bead of nervous sweat rolls down her neck.

Tuare looks utterly petrified.

"What's wrong?"

"Th-that's not Lord Ainz." She squeaks out, and her lips roll and you watch the motion of her anxious swallow. "That is Lord Demiurge."

"Lord Demiurge?" His name doesn't ring a bell. "Who is he?"

"The Guardian of the Seventh Floor. He-"

"Make haste! Lord Ainz has summoned you." You both jump out of your skin when Pestonya gently ushers you forward to escort you to the throne room, away from your trusted friend, your only real lifeline in this place.

You glance back at Tuare, and she remains still as a statue with raw worry etched into her features. But she does not follow, nor finish her explanation.

Who is Lord Demiurge? Why is she so afraid of him? A cold and heavy stone of dread settles icily into your stomach, and you hope like Hell you haven't made a terrible mistake.

"Um...Pestonya? Who is Lord Demiurge?" You ask quietly as you walk.

"Lord Demiurge is our Commander of Defenses and the Guardian of the Seventh Floor. He is to lead Nazarick in its Defense if we are ever to fall under siege." She clarifies. "He is remarkably intelligent and can outwit all but the Supreme One with strategic thinking alone. We are most fortunate to have him on our side."

'That doesn't sound so bad. So, he's like a combat Commander or something.' That would explain his intense 'predator and prey' talk, but you do not see his position as a reason to fear him, and it would seem he is well-respected individual, according to Pestonya.

"I hear he has offered you a job." She comments. "Have you accepted his offer?"

"Yes, ma'am. I have." You tell her.

"Then be sure to address him as Lord, Lord Demiurge, or Master. And tonight, we will show you how to cook his meals to his preference."

'Ah, Hell.' You had just barely learned how to chop carrots and use an oven. How were you going to cook an entire meal?

"Here we are. Lord Ainz may look frightening to you, but he is a fair and merciful ruler." Pestonya advises, and pushes open the door for you. "Remember to bow."

"Thank you." You say, and slowly walk in, with your heart threatening to hammer out of its cage.

'Holy filet of fuck!' You lock your feet into place to fight the overwhelming instinct to flee like the hounds of Hell are on your heels when you lay eyes upon the Lord of the Tomb.

The true ruler of Nazarick is the most intimidating entity you have ever seen; the colossal undead emperor reclining confidently on his throne; he makes the fact that you think the demon is frightening almost laughable. Panic floods into your veins, cold and paralyzing.

He is nothing short of terrifying; an Elder Lich, a sorcerer whose form is that of a 7-foot-tall skeleton clothed in a magnificent black academic robe, edged in royal violet and gold trim. The collar seems excessively gaudy; it appears to be forged of curved metal horns and banded with polished chunks of ruby stone, but it somehow fits the overall design.

However, his face is a bare ivory skull. Points of dark red light burn like twin blood moons in the cold, black space of his eye sockets, and his entire form glows with an aura of dark radiance.

He is an Overlord, and among the highest-ranking of magic casters who have become undead in order to learn the most potent spells.

Despite being scared to death, you muster every ounce of your courage to favor him with a trembling bow and silently thank Pestonya again for giving you an idea as to what expect.

Before you stand the demon and Sebas, two rigid pillars of composure before the throne. Shit, in the towering presence of Lord Ainz, your brain didn't even register the other two in the room.

Upon seeing the gray haired and bearded Butler, you instantly recognize him, as a small fragment of your shattered memory clicks back into place. His hair is pure white, as is the beard and mustache framing his mouth. However, the old man's back is ramrod-straight, like a sword forged of steel. His face is wrinkled around his eyes with laugh lines which gives you the impression that he is a kind and gentle person, but his intense, steel-gray gaze reminds you of an arctic wolf.

Much of your memory of that night is still watery, but you know him in your heart to be your rescuer.

He is stone faced, and donned in a black tuxedo suit. Despite his piercing gaze, there is an underlying softness and warmth to his eyes; a kindness and mercy just beneath the surface.

Sebas is extremely quiet and still, his lips pressed into a grim line. It sends a swoop of anxiety through your stomach.

Something is wrong.

"I cannot imagine what would possess you to bring yet another human into the walls of Nazarick, Sebas. The ruler rumbles in the deepest baritone you have ever heard; it rattles you to the very marrow of your bones. "After the fiasco it created before, I do hope you had a very good reason."

The Elder Lich is unabashed in making it crystal clear that he is not particularly pleased by your presence.

"Yes, Lord. Had I not come to her aid, she would have been beaten to death. The aggressor was the same ma-monster who had nearly killed Tuare. And her fate would have..." He closes his eyes, as though he is struggling to find the right words as he relives what he has witnessed. "I could not in good conscience stand idly by and watch her die." He concludes, tipping his chin upwards, resolute in his belief that he has done the right thing.

Lord Ainz carefully considers the Butler's response as he rests his chin on his ring-adorned knuckles. He can see how affected Sebas is by this- valiance is his core programming. While this is indeed an inconvenience, he is also admittedly impressed; the NPCs are not only moving of their own volition, but seem to be developing emotions that influence their decisions as well.

Sebas has proven his loyalty once before by showing he will obey an order to kill the very human he rescued, so he does not doubt his allegiance in the least. No, this is a matter of the NPCs evolving beyond their programming.

"So, it is because her fate would have been Tuare's? Had you not prevented Tuare's death when she was left in the street to die?" Ainz connects the dots.

"Yes Lord. It is as you say." Sebas agrees. "I apologize for letting my emotions to dictate my actions once more. But that...monster could not be allowed to continue. It was more than a disgrace. It was criminal, what he had done. She is a victim, like Tuare, and not a threat to us in the least. I understand if you cannot allow her to remain here. But my Lord, I implore you to spare her life. Tuare remembers her and has taken to her well, and if I may humbly give my opinion, I think she would fare here even better with another human, a friend to confide in. "

Sebas kneels in a low bow as he pleads for your life, the definiton of valiant and selfless.

Ainz decides he will entertain the idea as this woman was harmless enough and will allow her to remain, but he cannot not further encourage the Butler to continuously bring home every battered human he runs across. As a reprimand, cruel as it may be, he will not extend his kindness any further to grant her full protection in his name, as he has graced Tuare with. He will speak with the Butler privately afterwards. He does not see the need in making the human feel more victimized than she already is.

"So now that she is safe and healed, what do you intend to do with her? We already have one human working in the kitchen." Ainz presses, curious if Sebas has even thought that far ahead.

"I understand this was not protocol, and the security risk that comes with bringing in outsiders, so if you wish it, I will have her memory wiped and will release her in a nearby town, as far away from the brothel as possible. And I will deal with the consequences of my actions, as they were punishable." He says with a submissive bow of his head.

You do not like the sound of that. You do not want to be on your own, and are just now recovering some of your memories. Now you might lose them again?

What if someone in one of the towns recognizes you, tracks you down and returns you to the brothel?

The Devil steps forward and kneels before the skeletal king, and raises his head. "Most honorable ruler, might I make a somewhat selfish request?"

"You may, Demiurge." Lord Ainz permits as this piques his interest.

"I would like this human as my personal servant."

'Servant? I thought the job was for an assistant?'

"I have watched her clean and deem her competent enough to keep my personal quarters tidy, and having her around would certainly lighten the amount of work placed on Pestonya." The Devil proposes.

"An excellent idea, Demiurge. And I'm sure as far as Pestonya would be concerned, it is not selfish at all. I grant your request." With that, Lord Ainz seals your fate.

You are partially relieved but also terrified by this decision. It places you in the hands of the demon Tuare seems to be terrified of.

"My Lord, if I may suggest, I think she would fare better working in the kitchen alongside Tuare." Sebas counters. He can no longer stay silent and intervenes. "They already know each other, and I feel she would be more comfortable working with her."

Sebas is well aware of Demiurge's true intentions. Needless to say, as a Devil, they are anything but pure. Demiurge cast an icy glare at the butler, and Sebas' eyes gleam defiantly like polished steel.

"Oh? And what skills does she possess in cooking that you are aware of?" Demiurge inquires, a light air of sarcasm just beneath the surface. "She has only proven adequate in cleaning thus far, so-"

"I'm sure with both Tuare and Pestonya to guide her, she will learn quickly." Sebas cuts him off, but maintains his resolve.

"Enough, you two. I will enact a compromise." Ainz puts an end to their bickering. "She will work in the kitchen when she is finished with her duties on the 7th Floor, and therefore will be most useful to Nazarick. Demiurge, she is now assigned to you."

Sebas visibly bristles, but only for a fraction of a second and bites his tongue. He does not dare challenge his master's final decision.

"My most humble thanks for indulging, my Lord." The Arch Devil rises to his feet and bows once more at the waist and he flickers his gaze briefly at the Butler, and he flashes a fanged, victorious at him.

"And fear not, Sebas. I promise to take excellent care of her." The Arch Devil vows. His voice is warm, but there is a blade buried just beneath the surface.

The tension in the room is buttery thick, making you swallow nervously, and you see Sebas' frame almost tremble with barely-leashed rage, and his hands clench into fists at his sides, but before the ruler he endeavors to withhold his composure.

What you, a lowly human wanted, is apparently meaningless; how you feel about being handed over to the demon is not even discussed. The decision as to what would become of you is over in less than five minutes.

"Come, human, I will guide you to your quarters." The demon saunters towards the exit and clasps his hands behind his back. His tail sways fluidly in a seemingly pleased manner, and you obediently follow closely behind your new master.

Seeing as you have no choice in the matter, you try to dilute your anxiety by looking on the bright side; perhaps this is a good thing. You have gained favor with a Guardian, as Tuare did, and hopefully this will help ensure your safety in your new surroundings.

You cast one last glance back at Sebas, who looks ultimately defeated. He eyes fall from yours and to the ground.

But it is that grim look on the Butler's face that prevents you from fully deceiving yourself; he looks as if you sentenced to the guillotine, rather than granted a new home.

Something is very wrong.