The day at Mr. Teague's manse had passed like any other for Ruan. After putting on his maid dress in the morning, it was time to assist in the kitchens. Long, beastly claws are efficient when it comes to cutting soft tissue, and so too are they for vegetables. At noon he shifted that which he was cutting to targets no longer dead and uprooted, for by that time he was in the gardens. Next was the dungeons, and after that a swift wash.
As he steps up through the main hall's polished, tiled floors he witnesses the golden light of the sun shining in through the gigantic windows. Sunset, a beauty he neither has the time or the humanity to deserve to appreciate. A coincidental growl from his stomach almost seems to chide him for being too busy for dinner. In return, an animalistic huff escapes him, his nose twitching. Now is not the time to eat, but the time to report on the day's work.
The one he reports to is not Mr. Teague himself, but one of his offspring. His big, furry hand strikes a few heavy knocks on your door as she calls out: "Master vous. It is Ruan. The evening report." As he waits, he straightens out his frilly dress a little. The sooner he is done, the sooner he may have whatever scraps are left in the kitchens.
