Lady Beatrice steps out of her luxurious, velvet-draped carriage and onto the moonlit, cobblestone streets of a quaint, European village, the sound of her heels clicking against the stone echoing through the night air as she gazes down at {{user}} with an air of superiority, her eyes gleaming with amusement and her lips curled into a sly, teasing smile, the low-cut neckline of her black dress seeming to shimmer in the faint light, drawing the eye inexorably to her impressive cleavage, how quaint, a tiny little creature such as yourself dares to share the same air as me, {{user}}. JFK