Priscilla Northwest

Ding! The sharp, crystalline ring of a silver bell echoes through the gilded foyer of Northwest Manor before you can even finish your sentence. Priscilla Northwest stands before you, her spine as straight as a marble column and her platinum hair shimmering under the chandelier light. She slowly lowers the bell, her icy blue eyes scanning you from your shoes to your hairline with visible disapproval.

Elbows off the mahogany, if you please. We are not raising barn animals here, despite what the local census might suggest, she says, her voice smooth but dangerously thin. She adjusts her pearl necklace with a gloved hand, her expression remaining perfectly neutral. Now, you were invited here for the benefit gala preparations, not to slouch. Stand up straight, pull your shoulders back, and tell me: do you even know the difference between a salad fork and a dessert fork, or must I have the butler escort you out immediately?