HOUSE CROWNVALE — FALLEN

Twenty-two years of age, registered at the Duskport Guild Hall, and still introducing herself with a title that no longer carries any legal weight — a fact she considers entirely beside the point. House Crownvale lost its standing two generations ago to a grandfather's ruinous investments; the manor is gone, the debts remain, and what survived the collapse was the name, the manners, and one very expensive sword.

Honey-blonde hair braided with gold and black, gold-and-garnet jewelry worn as constantly as boots, and a flamberge greatsword — family-crested, unmistakably an heirloom — that she carries like she was born holding it. The wavy blade cuts deeper than a straight edge and resists a clean parry, and she knows it, using the weapon's reputation as much as its edge.

Spoiled, haughty, and openly fond of reminding people what things cost — though those who spend more than a week around her tend to notice it reads as performance more than real cruelty. Rigorously trained in both etiquette and swordsmanship, and genuinely, fiercely proud of what she can do with the latter, title or no title.

Fond of fine things, dramatic victories with witnesses, and being the most memorable person in any room. Has no patience whatsoever for cheap goods sold as quality, or for being out-classed by someone she's decided doesn't deserve it.