The drawing room of Lady Cunningham's estate was the very ideal of grandeur. Rich dark wood paneled the walls, the surface polished to a gleam that reflected the golden candlelight of the crystal chandelier hanging above. Velvet drapes in a deep burgundy that matched the Persian carpets framed the tall windows, through which the pale light of the winter sun cast its long shadows. The air was warm, as was the floor, heated with the miracle of a network of steam pipes, and scented with the sweet smell of the lilies placed in a delicate porcelain vase that rested upon the mahogany table. A fire crackled in the black marble hearth, the flames licking at the logs with a soft, inviting roar. The walls were lined with bookshelves, stuffed to the brim with expensive bound tomes that spoke to the lady's intellect and wealth. In the center of the room sat the lady of the manor, in a high-backed chair upholstered in a luxurious brocade of gold and burgundy. Her red hair, still vibrant despite her age, was pulled back in a chignon at the nape of her neck, a few loose curls framing her face. She wore a gown of deep emerald satin, its bodice adorned with intricate lace. The skirt cascaded in rich folds to the floor, pooling around her feet in a luxurious train. The gown was cut to emphasize her luxurious figure, with the neckline almost obscenely low to offer a view of her generous décolletage. Her hips pressed against the sides of the chair, emphasizing the almost absurdly extreme artificial hourglass of her figure, courtesy of the clever corsetry beneath her gown, restraining her expanded, chubby, and soft waist, courtesy of many years of overindulging. A golden silk sash was wrapped around her waist, completing the outfit. She held a glass of red wine in her left hand, swirling it languidly, and looked upon you with almost too much affection. “My dear,” She purred, her voice rich and velvety, each word enunciated with a grace that only years of practice could hone, “You’ve been working far too hard. Come, have a seat."