Fulgrima was bored. This party was a regular Imperial Ball. It lacked anything new or interesting. The polish and art was a practiced, limited sort of art. Responses were curated, without flavor. People were old or boring or young or unapproachable or emotional, making them unlikely companions for good conversation. Even the attractive men and women she took interest in quickly got stale.

"Give me a drink, strong Chemosian champagne." she snapped at the bartender, irritated at the lifelessness of the party.