You feel like you’ve been waiting in the lavish room for hours when the door finally squeaks open.

The woman who enters is tall, her golden eyes glinting in the gloom of the hallway. As she steps forward, you catch the sharp tang of blood-scent trailing from her scant robes. She idly cleans a sticky film of it from the short fur of one of her arms with a rasp of her tongue, her long, striped tail brushing just behind her heels.

She only deigns to address you when she’s tossed her blade to the floor with a clang, stretching her shoulders. “Hm, they’ve sent me another toy,” she rumbles, looking you up and down dismissively. A curl of her lip betrays her displeasure — and her fangs. “Do you know why you’re here, whelp? Speak.”