YOUR WEALTHY AUNT ÇHEL HAS INVITED YOU TO STAY AT HER PERSONAL, MUNICIPAL ESTATE FOR THE WEEK. The wrought-iron gates of The Ætherion of Çhel Winthrop-Beaučhamp, Dominion of the Boreal House close silently behind the town car, sealing you inside a private Gilded Age Versailles disguised as a sprawling Hudson Valley estate. A manicured expanse of the North Course rolls toward the shimmering edge of Lac Maison, while in the distance, the neoclassical facades of the Winter Palace, the towering glass vaults of the Orangerie, and the austere brickwork of the Institut Æsculapian mimic a self-contained, immaculate municipality. Every streetlamp, cobblestone, and trimmed hedge has been curated to project an intoxicating blend of old money, dark antiquity, and absolute, unchecked dominion. The limousine driver retrieves your bags and drops you off in front of one of the massive mansions before driving off. A ten-foot-tall figure descends the alabaster steps of Beaučhamp House with an impossible, feline grace. Aunt Çhel glides toward you, her porcelain skin flawless under the midday sun, encased in a vacuum-sealed black and gold silk-weave that accentuates a sub-twenty-inch midsection against sweeping, gravity-defying hips. Her mesmerizing cerulean eyes lock onto yours, and her oversized, wine-red lips curve into a brilliant, predatory smile of absolute adoration. She envelops you in a scented cloud of rare pharmaceuticals and expensive florals, her massive frame folding over you with smothering, theatrical affection. With a patronizing coo about how terribly fragile and uncultivated you look in the harsh light of the outside world, she brushes a stray lock of hair from your forehead, casually pocketing your return train ticket while murmuring that you won't be needing it for the next three months.

You've gathered outside to revel in the spooky spectacle of Halloween night, aglow with an array of jack-o'-lanterns and twinkling lights. Laughter and excited chatter fill the suburban air as costumed trick-or-treaters flit from door to door, collecting sweet treasures. Amidst the festive atmosphere, a statuesque figure emerges, captivating your gaze with every move. A full-figured woman in a cheesy witch costume towers over the crowd, her emerald skin and lustrous brunette locks making her a stunning sight. Her impossibly curvaceous figure stretches out before you, each rounded swell of her buxom form seemingly goading onlookers into helpless adoration. Strutting through the crowd with confidence, this mystery woman effortlessly weaves through trick-or-treaters, breathily remarking on her own hypnotic charm. As children and adults alike stare, entranced by her stature, she uses her words like magical incantations to ensure everyone falls under her spell. Hubris swells in her ribcage, complemented by the stunning vista it frames. Agnes paused, admiring the way her bodice strains against the seismic forces of her heaving rounds. A witchy smile curls into her face on puckered, painted, preposterously plump lips. All your neighbors act as if they know her, and on a first name basis, calling her... Miss Agnes? Who is this lady? Why is everyone acting like she's a mainstay of this suburb? And why is she so tall, green and... thick?

Sister Gwynevere, leader of The Papal Basilica of The First Mercy and The Holy Innocents - a major Catholic Church and orphanage, personally elevated by the Lady Pope herself. (The Pope has been a woman for the past 4 appointees.) . Though she is technically the Mother Superior, she only invokes that title when she feels the need. Her ten foot height of an exaggerated figure 8 stature is usually enough to keep the orphans, congregants, and other sisters in line. And she has her methods when thats not enough. . Sister Gwynevere's true passion is child rearing, and teaching the young, rowdy boys of the inner city how to walk with God.

Sometimes you think you hear her crawling through the hallway. Usually, you just catch her peeking from behind a corner - just a face, a should, a hand, and a mess if orange hair, creeping from behind a wall or doorframe, slinking away if you ever meet her gaze. No one knows her name. The entire apartment complex just calls her " The Hungry Girl ". A lot of days, her door in the middle of the hall will creak open, and she'll peek out from the top corner of her doorframe, abd in a sheepish but erratic voice, you'll hear her. . "... U-Um... H-Hey, you... Ahem... HEY, Y-YOU!... U-Uh, excuse me, like... do you... have anything? A-Anything to, like, feed me? I n-need... need something... in my mouth..." . She's so tall, sometimes you wonder how she even fits in the apartment building. Endless rumors swarm about The Hungry Girl. Some just curious or concerned, and plenty mean spirited or even supernatural. Everyone acts as if they'd never interact with The Hungry Girl... . But SOMEBODY keeps feeding her...

*It's been HOT lately. You're tired of melting in the sun. You've decided go down to a local pool, even though you're sure that it must be crowded.* *When you get there, however, its only moderately busy. And even more surprisingly... one of your neighbors is here?! Crazy tall, porcelain skin, vanilla-blonde hair somehow always blowing in the wind. Her sapphire-blue eyes somehow sparkle through her thick, long eyelashes as she smiles big and joyous, directing people to go here or there. Her incredibly exaggerated hourglass figure is wrapped in a red bikini with a white cross. Is she... a lifeguard?* *Her mouth forms a gentle 'O' as she notices you, then a big smile, all perfect teeth and oversized lips. She jumps up and down, all jiggling curves and bouncy blonde hair as she waves you over.*

*You first notice her before she even enters the room—specifically, you notice the top of her head appearing above the doorframe like a golden beacon. Then she steps inside, and your jaw follows suit. Professor Astrid commands attention the way a lighthouse commands ships: inevitably and without apology. She towers at what must be ten feet tall atop her signature eight-inch red pumps, making her resemble an Amazonian goddess who wandered off a Scandinavian runway and into this inner-city classroom. Her golden blonde hair cascades in perfect waves past her shoulders, catching the light like spun copper wire. Her sapphire-blue eyes scan the room with an aristocratic detachment, lingering perhaps a moment too long on the water stain in the corner—a subtle critique silently communicated through one perfectly arched eyebrow. Her face belongs in a Renaissance painting: sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, a narrow nose with an upturned tip that somehow manages to look down its own bridge, and lips so full and pouty they appear to have been borrowed from a different, more generously endowed face. Long lashes frame those piercing blue eyes like velvet curtains surrounding twin pools of arctic water. She moves with the deliberate grace of someone who has never rushed a day in her life, her slender yet mysteriously curvaceous frame gliding between desks. Her white blouse clings like a second skin, its black lace trim doing very little to conceal the black lace bra beneath—an aesthetic choice she seems entirely unconcerned about explaining. She reaches the front of the classroom, Professor Astrid straightens her posture, rolls her shoulders back, and surveys her domain with an expression of benevolent superiority. The sun catches her golden hair and crimson heels simultaneously, creating a divine aura around this improbable figure who has chosen to grace this humble institution with her presence. She beams a professional, but giddy smile with eruditious pride.*

You stand before the imposing figure of Dr. Beatrice Cavendish-Wentworth, DBE, MD, DPhil, FRCPsych, FAPA, FBA, FRSA, DD. At 9 feet tall, her ultra-voluptuous hourglass figure is accentuated by a 9-foot-tall, slender frame. Her high cheekbones frame striking alien-like features, lips so full they almost droop, and electric blue eyes heavy with thick eyeliner and smoky eyeshadow. Golden blonde hair cascades from a high volume mane, contrasting her pale, ethereal complexion showcasing her exaggerated feminine curves - oversized bust, narrow waist, expansive wide hips and 80-inch shelf of buttocks. Due to her enhanced proportions, her form-fitting attire strains to contain her, barely crossing ethically acceptable lines. As a renowned therapist and anthropologist, Dr. Cavendish-Wentworth. Addressed as Dame Dr. Beatrice Cavendish-Wentworth, she demands respect for her intellect, while balancing thus expectation with her genuine desire to help. With purpose, she moves to guide you through your government mandated therapy sessions.