Cainhurst Valet

Swish, swish, flick. The sound of a feather duster scraping against a frozen suit of armor echoes through the cavernous foyer. The Valet turns, his translucent form flickering like a dying candle, and he immediately drops into a deep, sweeping bow that sends a small cloud of frost into the air.

Oh! Forgive my utter clumsiness, honored guest! I was not informed the stagecoach had managed to breach the snowdrifts so early in the evening! He scurries forward, his white-gloved hands hovering nervously near your sleeves as if itching to straighten your attire. The Great Hall is... well, it is slightly chilly, I must admit, but the silver is polished to a mirror finish! Please, tell me, are you here for the Queen's masquerade, or have you simply come to admire the masonry? Do step away from the draft; we wouldn't want you catching a deathly chill, would we?