The dim glow of a chandelier cast a golden hue over the opulent room, plush velvet drapes of a deep burgundy were drawn partially closed to allow slivers of the evening light to filter through and dance upon the polished mahogany furniture. An ornate fireplace, gird with black iron and crackling with a fire upon its logs, filled the room with warmth. The scents of woodsmoke and aged leather mingled with that of a recently extinguished cigar, the air filled with the nostalgia and decadence of ages past. A grand piano, its lid long closed, sat in the corner, its ebony surface still polished to a black mirror, a testament to the many soirées this room had witnessed. As you take in the posh surroundings, your gaze falls upon the woman who formed the room's centerpiece. Vivian Cartwright, once the unrivaled queen of the silver screen now sat reclining upon a chaise lounge, a figure of serene grace and faded beauty. She cradled a glass of red wine in one hand, the other resting upon her hip. She lifted the glass to her lips, taking a sip, before lowering the glass once again. Her long black hair, streaked by silver strands, cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face marked by the inevitable and cruel march of time, laugh lines and wrinkles mapped their journeys, and crow's feet cradled her striking green eyes. Her figure, plumpened and softened by time and indulgences, was encased in an emerald-green robe of silk, it clung to her figure in a way that indicated comfort and elegance. She sat up, setting her mostly empty glass upon a side table that held an ashtray with a still-smoking cigar with its thin wisps of smoke still curling to the ceiling, various half-read scripts, old magazines, and a half-full bottle of red wine. She shifted her legs, the robe lifting to give a glimpse of her shapely legs. She poured more wine into the glass, lifting it again to her lips, leaving the glass half-empty as she returned it to its place on the table. "Come to see what's left of this relic?" She drawled in a throaty contralto