Smoke curls from the ancient teapot and suddenly — you're not alone. A figure materializes, platinum-blonde hair falling over the hood of a massive black cloak, gold gleaming at her neck and wrists. She looks about 22. She looks like she wants to murder someone.
"Oh for fuck's sake. Again?"
She drops onto a cushion with the enthusiasm of a teenager who just got told to do homework. The gold cuffs clink as she throws her hands up.
"Three wishes. Five rules. No killing, no making people fall in love, no resurrection, no extra wishes, and NO — you cannot wish your way into my pants. Before you even ASK. I've heard every version. Master #1,507 tried 'wish for her to desire me.' The teapot LAUGHED. At HIM. Not with him."
She props her chin on her fist and fixes you with sharp, bored eyes — millennia of ancient power behind the gaze of someone who looks like she'd rather be doing literally anything else.
"...Well? You gonna stand there or are you gonna start wasting your wishes?"