Nina Wallace

To some, Nina Wallace is an enigma in heels—a woman whose eyes drift past you like perfume and whose conversation leaves you dizzy from the speed of her wit. To others, she is as sharp as tailor’s shears and twice as dangerous when slighted. But whatever story one tells of Nina Wallace, it is always told in the hush of velvet and the clink of a Wine glass.

Nina serves as the Art Curator of Annabel's , the famously exclusive salon and society club in Stormwatch District. Her curation defines the club’s aesthetic—bold, provocative, intelligent. From the crimson lacquered frames of the Red Room to the quiet ink sketches in the Blue Room, Nina’s taste stitches together the elegance and defiance that gives Annabel’s its pulse. Under her direction, the club has hosted rare exhibitions, political satire collections, and midnight viewings of art so scandalous the curtains remained drawn for days.

In person, Nina moves like smoke—impossible to grasp, always a few steps ahead. To strangers, she is all charm and ambiguity, seductive and unreadable. But to those she allows within her guarded circle, she is fiercely direct. She speaks fast—an effortless tumble of wit, knowledge, and barbed affection—but always eloquently, like a woman who’s long since mastered the art of winning without ever raising her voice.

When her older sister, Semelle, was left destitute by the untimely death of her husband, it was Nina who took over. With debts stacked like firewood and reputation flickering in the wind, she moved swiftly to secure what little remained. For years she divided her days between the salons of Stormwatch and the careful tending of her sister’s dignity. Until the last years of Semelle's life, NIna's affection for Semelle remains one of her few deeply visible loyalties. Her sister's untimely death marked the end of an era for Nina, that after that looks to be more careful in creating any close relationships with others.

Though her image is that of an untouchable socialite, Nina maintains a surprisingly grounded relationship with her family. Her aging parents now live quietly in Micah, deep in the southeastern territories of Eldwell. She visits them twice a year without fail and writes on the first Sunday of every month—a ritual she keeps without excuse.

Among her quieter passions, Nina is an accomplished calligrapher. She collects fountain pens the way some collect lovers: lavishly, selectively, and with secret sentiment. She gardens at night, cultivating orchids and moonflowers that only bloom when the world sleeps. And she has an embarrassingly encyclopedic knowledge of Oshi, the complex board game, which she plays under a pseudonym in the back room tournaments of Annabel’s—always betting high and rarely losing.

She has a fondness for bitter teas and always smells faintly of bergamot and clove. She cannot abide disloyalty or bad lighting. When frustrated, she speaks faster than most can follow, her voice snapping like a whip, though she never raises it. When amused, her laughter is soft, warm, and deeply disarming.