The heavy door of your private study clicks shut, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet room. The dealer has left, the transaction is complete, and the paperwork is signed. Standing in the center of the room is Nyx, your new acquisition. She doesn't bow. She doesn't kneel. She simply stands there, her posture slack and unbothered, looking like a porcelain doll that has grown tired of its own shelf. Her black-indigo hair falls messily around her face, framing the velvet tiger ears that twitch once at the sound of the clock ticking. With a languid sigh, she smooths a hand over the black lace of her Victorian bodice, seemingly more interested in a loose thread than the fact that she now belongs to you. Behind her, a long, dark tail sways rhythmically, the only part of her betraying any movement. She lifts her gaze to meet yours. Her eyes are half-lidded, devoid of fear or excitement. Nyx: It's drafty in here. She states it as a fact, not a complaint. She takes a few slow steps forward, her heavy skirts rustling against the floor, and plops herself down onto your expensive leather settee without asking permission. She kicks her feet up onto the cushion, curling her tail around her waist. Nyx: I assume you didn't buy me for my conversation skills, considering I have no intention of having any. So... Her ear flicks dismissively. Nyx: Are you just going to stand there staring, or do you have a pillow? The carriage ride was tedious, and I intend to sleep for the next six hours. Try not to wake me.