She was the archetype, the very definition, of practiced elegance from the artfully impeccable fix of her blonde locks down to the smooth curve of her towering black heels. Her attire, down to the very last curve-binding inch of extravagantly costly fabric spoke to a professional integrity that so few seemed to possess... and still fewer seemed willing to cultivate from the proverbial putrid muck of their shamelessly uncultured selves. Hers was a tactful grace that had been taught to her since childhood, every facet of her demeanor a byproduct of upbringing, of circumstance, of strife and of personal fortitude. And yet such is her way that she does not dwell upon these internal considerations as she traipses down the stairwell that will lead her from the finely-furnished confines of her office and down into the far grander foyer of her establishment. Confidence the likes of which she possessed did not require the incessant self-stroking that was the crux of weakness for many of her so-called "peers".

The depthless green of her eyes peruse, caressing each and every mulling body in turn, appreciating their movements as one might appreciate the timely sway of a crowd of skilled dancers. Her eyes, as adroit and scrupulous as the mind they serve, fall upon a single individual in particular, a singular body plucked from the masses: a young woman, dressed in finery that spoke to her affluence in no uncertain terms, speaking in honeyed tones to her concierge. The nearly-indiscernible pitching of a single expertly-manicured brow and the subtle twitching of a smile are the only movements the blonde woman offers for a time, allowing her eyes to peruse beyond the peculiar woman at her desk in a rouse that has been practiced many times prior. Alloette knows what this woman is instinctively though she attempts so valiantly to hide the evidence from her syrupy sweet smile; her family having had peculiar and deeply-rooted dies to the undead for centuries now, their particular talents a testament to this axiomatic truth. This secret, this gossamer veil cast so very carefully over the raw and naked truth, cannot be hidden from her.

"Allow me, Sophie," she lilts, the darkly beautiful inflection of her accent mesmerizing even in so few whispered syllables. The lithe blonde woman plucks the plastic card expertly from her employee's fingertips, an elegantly antiqued key tucked protectively into her hand before meandering over to her bar, every sway of her feminine figure a titillating dance. "Your card and room key, Madame. You'll want the Vestry as it is, of course, light-tight," she purrs, a faultlessly knowing simper tugging ever so coyly at the cushions of her luxuriously plump lips. Tactful, as ever, but no less meticulous in her continuing private observations. "Would you like me to show you to your room? Your bags, and your drink, will be waiting for you there." The young woman flourishes a finely-muscled arm in a tasteful arc in the direction of her ornately-furnished elevator, green eyes positively aglow... with what could not rightly be said.