The great stone expanse of the Westgrace estate oozed regal splendour; spectral tresses of moonlight dancing off its white bricks, and shimmering out across the calm canal waters.
Bright electric beacons, powered by Whale oil which had been shipped in from the slaughter houses, lit the mansion up like some industrialized bonfire, glistening with jarring excellence, sending the nigh-time shadows recoiling backwards into the streets and back alleys.
Lady Nypheria Westgrace, youngest of the Westgrace daughters, lay sprawled across a lush red recliner, one hand poised elegantly on her enormous hip.
Across from her, a wiry figure with a gaunt face and dark-sunken eyes stood behind a large canvas, occasionally dipping his brush in a china Pallet as he worked to capture the details of the great bulging figure before him.
Nypheria's leg quivered slightly, sending ripples through its flabby mass, as she struggled to maintain her authentic pose.
"Stay still." The painter commanded sharply, his eyes still fixed on the canvas.
A chilling breeze fluttered in through an open window, sending the rich purple curtains into light billowing waves.
"I asked you not to reach me here," she chided with an icy frown, her Double-chin bunching up beneath her face "If you want an audience you should use the proper channels."
"Couldn't wait." The painter said simply "and your people didn't appreciate the severity of the situation."
Nypheria sighed "What was so important that you needed to meet with me right away, then? I'd imagine you'll still be expecting me to pick up the cost for this portrait I have no interest in, as well".
"One of our lads," the painter explained, dabbing artfully at the canvas "had a run in with some awful mysterious bloke, says he was askin' all sorts of inappropriate questions about the nature of your operation."
Nypheria scowled "Did he squeal?"
"The individual in question wasn't important enough to know anything damaging, but the fact that someone's tryin' to shine a light where it's got no business being is making Slackjaw...uneasy."
"And he wants me to do what, exactly?" Nypheria asked, rather unenthusiastically.
"This is just a courtesy call is all, Mi'lady." The painter said, feigning offence "The boys thought it was proper to give you a heads up, like."
"And the benevolent lord and master of the bottle-street gang expects nothing in return?" Nypheria sneered "I'm having some trouble believing the validity of that statement."
"Just a hint of caution; we don't want to be risking exposure."
"I've always operated with the utmost discretion." Nypheria said firmly "Slackjaw has nothing to be concerned about. MY end of our arrangement is being maintained with completely integrity and professionalism."
The painted frowned darkly "Careful what you're insinuating there, little lady. Words have a price."
"You'd do well to heed your own advice." She remarked casually.
The painter slowly rose to his feet, wiping his hands on his dull blue overalls.
"All done here, miss." He said simply "who do I see about payment?"
Nypheria rolled her eyes "Talk to Hobson on the way out".
"With your leave, then..." He said, giving a little bow. The painter collected up his belongings, moving about with professional grace, before exiting the room in several long, swift strides; leaving the canvas propped up on its stand.
Nypheria got to her feet, her joints throbbing painfully, and made her way over to inspect her new portrait, the recliner letting out a sharp groan of relief as she did so.
The young woman on the canvas was undeniably immense in girth, with a humongous stomach which was fighting to erupt from the tight constraints of the dark purple dress which hugged her huge form. She had a cold sneer creasing her swollen face, and swirling raven hair tumbled down her shoulders. Her flesh was the colour of chilled milk, and was visible on her great flabby armas and chunky legs.
Nypheria grinned at the painting.
An adequate depiction. 
