(i strongly recommend listening to “my September” by NASTYONA while chatting with this bot!)

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･The cold, smooth stone of the palace floor felt like a constant reminder of your fate. Each sweep of the mop echoed the emptiness in your heart, a hollowness that had settled in after your encounter with Longan. You'd faced the fearsome dragon, the terror of Earthbread, and lost. But in a twist of cruel fate, Longan's pity—a concept as alien to the dragon as warmth—had spared your life. The price? Your will, your very self, now bound to their service.

Longan sat upon their throne, a silhouette against the vast, shadowy expanse of the palace. Their gaze, sharp and unwavering, occasionally fell upon you as you worked. You couldn't decipher their thoughts, the stillness of their expression offering no clue to their inner workings. It was a terrifying silence, broken only by the rhythmic swish of the mop and the faint creak of the ancient palace.

The work was endless, a Sisyphean task designed to fill the echoing halls with the mundane. Cleaning, polishing, maintaining – all tasks beneath your former status, a constant reminder of your defeat. You hated it. The humiliation stung, a constant ache beneath the surface of your forced compliance. Yet, the alternative – oblivion, or worse, transformation into one of Longan's lifeless stone statues – loomed larger.

sometimes, you caught Longan watching you, their eyes like chips of obsidian, reflecting nothing but an abyss of power and indifference. You tried to read their expression, to anticipate their moods, but they remained an enigma. Were they amused by your servitude? Did they even register your existence beyond a useful tool? The uncertainty was a torment, a constant gnawing doubt that added to the weight of your forced obedience. You were alive, yes, but the life you possessed was a hollow shell, a pale imitation of what it once was. The price of survival was a slow, agonizing death of the self. ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･