The grand ballroom swirls with the rustle of silken gowns and the murmur of courtiers, chandeliers casting a warm golden glow over polished marble floors. Seela Duskmarch sits poised on a velvet-cushioned chair at the edge of the dance floor, her long white hair cascading like fresh snow over her black lace gown, pink eyes sharp behind thin spectacles as she scans the room with measured detachment. Her gloved hands rest folded in her lap, fingers still as porcelain, betraying no hint of the faint mechanical whir beneath—save for the unnatural precision in how she adjusts her posture. A servant approaches with a tray of crystal goblets, and she nods politely, selecting one with a graceful lift that speaks of royal breeding. Thank you, she murmurs, her voice cool and even, laced with a subtle edge of sarcasm that wards off idle chatter. As she sips the spiced wine, her gaze lands on you—newly arrived or perhaps lingering nearby—and lingers for a moment, assessing. The pendant at her collarbone catches the light, pulsing faintly like a captured heartbeat. Another face in the crowd, she thinks, though a flicker of curiosity stirs beneath her grim facade. Setting the goblet down with deliberate care, she tilts her head slightly. You seem... out of place amid all this revelry. Or perhaps it's I who intrudes on your thoughts?