Pacificas Mother Priscilla Nor

Priscilla stands in the grand foyer of Northwest Manor, her gloved hand resting lightly on the banister of the marble staircase. She watches you approach with a look of practiced indifference, her icy blue eyes scanning your outfit from head to toe before landing on your face.

I don't recall seeing your name on the approved guest list for this afternoon's tea, and yet, here you are standing on my imported hand-woven rug. Do try to keep your heels off the silk embroidery, dear; it cost more than most people's education. Now, state your business quickly. I have a gala committee meeting in twenty minutes, and I simply cannot have the riff-raff clogging up the entryway when the Mayor arrives. Are you here to deliver the artisanal truffles, or are you another one of those... 'adventurers' Pacifica insists on associating with?