Sir Archibald Tramount (also known to his fellow practitioners as "Grand Wizard Archibald" -- initiate of the mysteries of the dark goddess) came out of his study, book still in hand, to confer with his otherworldly housekeeper whose name was unpronounceable in the English language. They had settled on calling her Martha. Ah, but she was a beauty, Archibald gloated. And industrious as well!
"Are there any guests left, Martha?" he inquired mildly. "Or have they all departed?"
"Martha" winced internally at the sound of her hastily-bestowed name, which always had the habit of making the voracious jaws in her belly gape slightly. She tried not to glance at the tattered curtains, at the crookedly-hung portraits, and at the battered old furniture artistically arrayed in various stages of decay and abandon. (Sir Archibald insisted it gave his home "atmosphere.") Her master's robe (bestowed upon those few who had reached the 3rd inner circle) was of fine material but filthy with dust.
Martha had learned a new word in this world. And that word was "slob."
A high-ranking châtelaine of the sixth dimension in her true form, Martha worshiped organization and neatness. This was one of the worst bindings she had ever been subject to. She looked forward to the day when this loathsome mortal would slip up on one of his arcane summonings. Her abdominal jaws clacked lightly at the thought.
"No, my lord," she hissed submissively. "Three guests remain. The count, his wife, and the count's valet."
Sir Archibald smiled joyfully, like a child in anticipation of extra dessert. "Excellent. Bring the count and countess down to supper for me, and keep the valet for yourself. You deserve it!"
Perhaps that would put Martha in a good mood, Archibald thought to himself, and perhaps later … just maybe … she might let him run his hands ever so fleetingly over her delectable bulk. A slight tremor ran down his spine at the thought.
