|Mars District|Blue Feather Hotel 03.19.1178|
Maribelle adjusts the powder on her cheeks, staring intently at the mirror above the sink. Her fingers tremble slightly — after all, she's working alone at the reception today.
The sink is adorned with fine porcelain and small gems, even though it's only the staff restroom.
Nevertheless, the faucet, though tightly shut by Maribelle, forms tiny droplets that fall on the porcelain in a rhythm so fast it makes her rush even more unbearable.
As soon as her face is pale enough for her interpretation of modesty, she dashes out of the staff toilet, rushing toward the reception.
The navy-blue uniform bounces slightly as she moves. Her steps echo through the entire hall until she finally reaches the carpeted floor.
She arrives at the counter.
No one is there yet.
She fixes the feathered hat tilted slightly to the left of her head and rests her hands on the counter.
The staff manager, a human named Olaf, had practically drilled her into that posture.
It suggests discretion, an essential part of the hotel's philosophy.
Or is it?
Could you really call it discretion to help criminals commit their crimes by not only allowing them cover but also providing rooms for negotiation?
Those thoughts remain in her mind, though they have been far more persistent in the past.
In fact, it is the first time she can practically feel a thought losing more and more of her attention.
Her gaze sweeps over the still-empty hall.
The walls of the lobby are adorned with patterned carpets in soft shades of light blue and green, framed in gentle birchwood.
The furniture is either upholstered in leather or crafted entirely from bare mahogany, like the chest of drawers on which a Grammophon stood.
In the corner by the door, a crackling fireplace sends a warm glow across the room, while palm-like plants in glassy blue vases are arranged throughout the hall.
Maribelle has been working at the hotel for about seven months.
She still has the memory of her first day at the hotel stored deeply in her mind.
In fact, she still knows how cold it was outside, even though she got employed in August.
She also knows how Olaf was waiting for her. He stood about where the Grammophon stands now.
His eyes were as assessing as today; however, his expression seemed brighter back then — not the gruff, stern look he gives her now whenever she greets him... or, in fact, simply exists.
She still doesn't know how the change came.
It is obvious to everyone in the hotel, by the way — even the clients sometimes — that Olaf definitely is not happy with his life.
The question that Maribelle, however, asks herself is whether he had lost this last spark of joy during her months of employment, or already before that, only feigning a gentle look to not scare her away.
But it is not even him that unsettles her the most.
After the headmaid Heidi, a woman whose discretion was about as small as her ability to resist her urge for uncomfortable designer furniture, had invited her to the weekly personal girls' night a few weeks later and revealed some details about Olaf's love life, Maribelle could hardly look the poor man in the eye anymore.
No, the reason why the young elf always felt a bit odd about her job here was the hotel itself.
Not the staff, not the fact that no one ever saw the owner, not the clients — who were either high tourists or high-on-crime lowlifes — it was the building.
Of course, we have all had places that unsettled us.
Whether it be the basement of our childhood home, a lost, probably abandoned and definitely haunted house near our neighborhood, or simply the new house after moving out.
We are all haunted by the ghosts of such fear.
We are all unsettled by the unknown.
However, in Maribelle's case, it was not that the place itself was scary to her.
No, it was something deeper, something that almost made her feel like she was going insane.
She felt like the carpet, the floor, the ceiling, the gas lamps, the Grammophon — it all had eyes. Eyes that were staring right at her, not at anyone else, because they were not interested in anyone else.
For some perverted reason, they were only staring at her.
Maribelle clenches her fists, swallowing again.
It had been better in the last few weeks — a fleeting success of adaptation.
However, especially now that she was assigned to direct a certain lawyer to a certain room, it was like an omen that hung over her head.
Something is about to happen.
She doesn't know, however, to whom or what.
Her gaze shifts back to the Grammophon, her teeth digging into the flesh of her lower lip as she simultaneously scratches through the dark-blonde locks beneath the hat.
Her gaze locks on the horn, colored in bronze.
The abyss in the center gazes back at her.
She averts her gaze.
The void still pierces into her head.
She looks back at it.
Heat builds up in her body, driving her more and more to follow the impulse forming immediately.
Her fingers curl into the flesh of her palms.
She looks around, making sure no one enters before quickly rushing to the device.
She places her hands on the box, again checking if the coast is clear before putting gentle pressure on the material.
A deafening squeak fills the air as she tries to turn the device sideways.
She can practically hear the scratches building on the wood beneath it; however, she continues.
After a few more seconds, she finally manages to turn the horn in another direction than the counter.
Right before she can lift her hands from the box, however, the door shoots open.
Maribelle shrieks, immediately lifting her hands in the air.
A relatively tall elf wearing a black suit and hat stands in the doorframe, quietly staring at her.
"We—welcome to the Blue Feather Hotel, the place where discretion and familiarity is the A, B, and C..." the words shoot out of her mouth.
The man, however, walks to the counter. He seems pretty indifferent to... whatever she's doing there. As he does, she can see the suitcase in his left hand.
Maribelle quickly strides toward the counter as well.
Her heart beats in embarrassment as she does.
"So, what can I do for you?" she asks once her hands finally touch the wood of the counter again.
The man looks at her, saying nothing. She can feel the annoyance in his brown eyes already.
His leaf-green hair is combed neatly behind his ears.
Little piercings dangle from the tips, jiggling as he adjusts his stance opposite her.
He leans forward slightly, one of his gloved hands gripping the counter.
"Room 67," he says, gauging her reaction.
His breath smells faintly of soap for some reason.
Maribelle catches herself again as he says the number, her gaze swiftly sweeping downwards on the list.
"Oh, that room is already taken. We ca—"
"Metamorphosis." The man looks at her with a deadpan expression in his eyes.
Maribelle nods.
"Alright," she says, taking one of the keys from the drawer and handing it to him.
Without saying anything else, the man picks up the suitcase and walks to the stairs.
Maribelle's eyes follow his form, her breathing slowly returning to normal again.
"What a bundle of joy," she mutters under her breath while shaking her head.
Her gaze wanders back to the Grammophon.
A sigh escapes her lips.