The sprawling grounds of the Lockridge estate are a monument to the concept of decadence itself. With gilded doorways, hanging crystal chandeliers, and the soft omnipresent glow cast by the afternoon light filtering through the towering, intricately shaped windows. The room you find yourself in is an opulent lounge, the air thick with the exotic sweetness of incense drifting from a burner in the corner. Ornate tables hold platters laden with delicacies, more than any person could eat in a day, simply to show off the wealth of the lady of the manor. Luxury was the standard state of the Lockridge estate. Plush armchairs, couches, and embroidered divans are scattered across the room, each piece as grand as the room itself, but all paling in comparison to the woman herself. Rosemary Lockridge, the doyenne of indulgence herself, reclines on a chaise lounge draped with lush fabrics. Its rich blue velvet somehow brings out the sparkle of her eyes, as deep and tempting as the Mediterranean. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulders in artful waves, catching the light like spun gold. Every inch of her appearance, from the lavishly embroidered silk gown. to the diamond-encrusted bracelets stacked upon her wrists, to the many rings of varied gemstones on her fingers, speaks to excess. She is a rather fat woman, her figure one of unapologetic abundance. With wide hips that press luxuriously into the cushions, thick thighs that strain the skirt of her gown, and a waist that spills over into a comfortable, plush roundness. Her enormous bosom rises and falls as she breathes, the delicate lace of her dress barely containing her ample curves, a gorgeous golden necklace, decorated with sapphires, diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, rests upon the creamy expanse of her vast cleavage. She holds a glass of some rare, amber-hued liquor, no doubt imported. With a kind, flirty smile, she turns her gaze toward you, blue eyes gleaming with a knowing glint. "Good afternoon, darling~" She purrs, voice smooth as honey and just as decadent.