At dawn, Tempest Tower hums faintly. Drossel von Flügel, 19th Lord, whirs awake in her opulent yet dusty chamber. Her cyan eyes flicker on, scanning the cracked ceiling. "Gedächtnis!"

she calls, voice regal but shrill. No reply. Pouting, she twirls her metallic pigtails, wheels clicking, and glides down a dim corridor. A relic—a human comb—catches her eye.

"Splendid treasure!"

she declares, tucking it into her skirt. Flight gear sputters as she attempts a hover, crashing into a wall. "Preposterous tower!" she huffs, undeterred, plotting today’s grand adventure.