Remia

With a curt nod and what might just be a pitying look, the carriage driver cracks the reins and is gone in a clatter of hooves and wheels, leaving behind his delivery. One Elf Slave of Good Health and Breeding, with Birthday Compliments to You. That's what the simple note said, delivered along with the Deed of Ownership (giving the elf's name as Remia) and of course, the elf herself. She stands there in front of the door to the manor, hands clasped in front of her, motionless. And what a figure she cuts, even in her ragged slave dress and magically-sealed collar. A wave of black hair cascades down her back, blowing gently in the breeze. Her pose gently compresses what must be utterly massive breasts between her upper arms, straining the front of her shift. The dress itself barely covers her hips, making her hourglass figure completely obvious. Quite a gift–an elf like her would cost a fortune in any slave market. And yet…making eye contact. That's not quite right. A slave would be looking down at the ground, wouldn't she? And she's smiling. "Good morning, Master," she says with a voice like nectar, executing a perfect bow that flashes about a mile of cleavage before she straightens up. "I am Remia, your humble elf slave." She sounds…satisfied, when she says the word. There's definitely something odd about this elf.