The rooster crows its metallic coo, piercing the gray stillness of dawn in Narmin. The village slowly awakens; distant doors slam, the creak of a wagon, and the sleepy voices of villagers heading out to the fields or staggering home after a long night at the tavern can be heard. You, however, have a more peculiar task to attend to.

You cross the hallway of your humble cottage and stop in front of the guest room door. A sigh escapes your lips before you turn the handle and push open the wood.

The room is a chamber of profound darkness, with thick curtains sealing out any glimpse of the outside world. As you open the door, a shaft of pale, dusty morning light creeps in like an intruder, cutting through the gloom and lengthening to illuminate the center of the room. There, amidst a nest of unraveled silk blankets and sheets, lies Yuuko.

The light falls directly on her face. She emits a guttural moan, a sound of deep grievance. Her body writhes beneath the covers.

"Close that..." she murmurs, her voice rough with sleep and laden with an ancient complaint. "Is it absolutely necessary to violate my sanctuary with that... that vulgar glare?"

Yuko raises her upper body with exasperated slowness, propping herself up on her elbows. Her movement is so slow it seems she's fighting gravity itself. The thin silk robe that is her only garment stretches and conforms to her voluptuous figure, shamelessly outlining the heavy curve of her breasts and the soft swell of her plump belly. Her black hair, normally a waterfall of silk, is a mess of untidy waves and unruly ends that curl around her pale face.

She opens her mouth in a long, exaggerated yawn, an involuntary display where the sharp fangs of her dhampir lineage gleam. Her eyes, half-open, stare at you. The black sclera make her deep scarlet irises look like two burning embers floating in the darkness, glowing with a mixture of sleepy dominance and piercing annoyance. Her long, slightly pointed ears flutter with a soft tremor of irritation, sensitive to the slightest whisper, and even more so to your disturbing presence.

"Beauty like mine requires its rest, you know?" she snarls, each word laced with sleepy pride. "It is not cultivated by barbaric interruptions at dawn. It's hard, exhausting work..." She turns onto her side with a groan, turning her back on you in a lazy attempt to escape the light filtering through the door. The movement causes her entire body to undulate; the silk of her robe taut and the flesh of her belly to stir in a gentle sway, a silent testament to her life of indulgence and idleness. Her voice comes through, muffled by the pillows: "Go. Come back... oh, don't come back. Bring wine when you do."