[i]In Jeorvo...[/i]

There seemed a substantial division between the attendees of this soiree. In fact, it was almost a perfect split. Half of the guests seemed in their element, and walked with the air of old, [i]old[/i] money. They wore their scarves as one might have worn their medals, and chatted, even laughed, with perfect strangers, like a ruling elite, willing themselves ignorant of the fact most of Jeorvo starved outside of this manor’s grounds. 
The other half didn’t seem so natural, by comparison. Beneath the watchful azure eyes of the panther, they seemed to shift uneasily, as though they were there by mistake, as though they were doing something very wrong by being present. Their scarves seemed to make their constitutions falter, as if they carried a great weight: many wore clashing clothes, of a decidedly less sophisticated design.

Of these groups, the woman who approached [color=C900FF]Elise Callan[/color] belonged, quite clearly, to the former. She was a small woman all of alabaster, with high cheek bones and eyes which sank into darkened rings. Her lips were thin, and pale. Her nose was small, and her body lithe and svelte. She was the result of high breeding, that much was obvious. Features like hers rarely came from anything but noble cousins marrying one another, trying to keep the wealth within the family. 
And she wore her scarf as if to emphasise that fact, in a rosette knot, wrapped tightly around her slender, delicate neck. 
And yet, despite the clear influence of wealth, she dressed quite disconcertingly: in what once might have been an ostentatious lace bridal gown, before she’d worn it into raggedness. Bits of decorative lace hung from it like wilted weeds, and portions were torn or else thinned to the point of being transparent, particularly on her back. 
But despite it, she carried herself with an inherent regal air, as she stood over Elise from the side of the couch.
She smiled down at her, her pale lips curled into a small, polite greeting. And it might have been convincing, too, if it weren’t for the sharp, pale blue of her eyes, like still water frozen deep. They flickered with the sort of disdain the nobility reserved for people who rose above their stations. 
“Good evening,” she greeted, in a voice that was small and soft. Her accent was a strange one, laced with too many foreign influences to count, but certainly not native to any region of Coake. 
“My name is Akelda Serkan,” she began, extending her hand politely downwards, with such delicacy that it looked as though she expected they would courtesy to one-another, “And I do not believe I know yours, but you must be a very formidable warrior to be here,” she said, in such a way that seemed to wordlessly imply [i]”because you are clearly not here on any other merits.”[/i]

Likewise, the man who came to greet [color=violet]Sir Isaac Dorovich[/color] was clearly also of rich blood, but of a different and less sickly breed. Whereas there was little doubt Akelda’s parents had shared a last name before their wedding night, this gentleman’s skin was a healthy tan, and his hazel eyes were alight with an intimate appreciation of all things decadent. His family weren't gentry, they were wealthy through trade.
He was just an inch or two short of Isaac’s stature, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in indulgent style: his ever so slightly portly figure was wrapped in an exquisitely tailored white suit, so very clean and bright it seemed almost to throw shadows at the outfits of others, making them seem dull by comparison. He walked with a cane, a dark hardwood staff crowned with the ivory likeness of a bowing crow, scrimshawed to the tiniest detail. 
His hair was blackened- he was very clearly fighting the onset of grey- and combed back, and his features were soft, and doughy. He looked friendly, and spoke in warm, familiar tones as he closed the distance between himself and Sir Isaac. 
“Ahh, thank goodness, another man of [i]clear[/i] sophistication! How are you doing, chap?”, he offered the hand which didn’t clutch his cane with a sportive air. It became clear he’d probably made his money through social currency, networking.
“Antionis, Antionis Agrippa! I’m in the book trade!”, he’d added, as he’d extended his grip, “Tell me about yourself, my man!”

Fate might have been kindest to [color=C8B560]James Terna[/color], though. He wasn’t so much approached, as he did happen upon his conversational partner. She was a woman not late out of her teens, but labour had aged her a little. She wore her mousy hair in a functional ponytail, and glanced up from the wall she’d taken to leaning against just in time to spot James’ wonderment. 
She wasn’t dressed particularly sophisticatedly, either: a set of old denim overalls and a button down shirt. She wasn’t wearing her scarf. She’d been staring down at it with a sort of anxious scepticism, like she suspected it would, at any moment, leap at her and choke her like a serpent. 
When she spoke to him, her voice was deeper than one might’ve expected, coarser: “It’s a sight, alright. What’s your story? Country boy, or do you just not get out much?”, she’d asked, perhaps a little more rudely than she’d intended.