⠀.. μ⎯άγισσα，

* i'll be back by the weekend when i finish my exam finals.. Yeah.

@serphiente //

@serphiente 
            
            /   yes pls 

*      yes hello

@aestreller，  “(—oh, there was company?)  i suppose my timing is just as terrible as danger's.”   [a soft laugh escapes the witch,   quiet and surprised,   as though the idea of someone overhearing her curiosity is far more startling than any threat itself.  curiosity kills the cat and if curiosity is dangerous,   she should at least know that she dances at its edge more often than she should.  but still,  she exhales gently,   amusement warming the curve of her mouth—no regret,  no fear,    just a wry acknowledgment of the moment.]   “so please,  excuse my ignorance.”

@valhalkyrie，    [it's simply the nature of things. a witch is always the anomaly—an ink stain on pristine parchment.   she listens,   it’s nothing new;  still,   there’s a small shift in her posture,   acknowledging their words.  she can only accept the apology woven into her expression,  nothing more.]    “atōs inyí,”    [she repeats carefully,   shaping the drakosi syllables with surprising ease,   letting them linger on her tongue as if tasting their weight.]   “i would hate to begin my stay here with a curse of poor manners..  as if my being isn’t already frowned upon.  i can hear their whispers about me.   the walls carry sound,  and witches don’t need spells to listen.”   [the faintest curve touches her mouth—dry humor,  not bitterness.]   “so yes,   i’ll be careful.”

no one expects a witch /in/ their halls.  [oh, how similar she is to her peers—even when she’d try so hard not to be.  for someone who was so well “traveled” amongst realms,  there were still things in her culture that clung to her like protective vines——or parasitic weeds.  she apologizes with a smile because of it]   —don’t let it get to you.  just… keep to yourself most of the time and they won’t even know you are here.    as for the chef,   just how your head and say   “  atōs inyí  „     he doesn’t have a tongue so he can’t respond,    but he knows  drakosi very well.   it’s the highest of praises,  not to be confused with  “  ataos inyí „   a slim of the tongue and you’ve practically spat on the entirety of his bloodline    @serphiente 

@valhalkyrie，    [the air smells different,  heavier, more ordered—an environment that requires caution, patience,  and above all,  a tempering of her magic for her kind wasn't of good existence here.  yes,  even if it meant less reliance on the small wonders she could conjure with her hands,  she would adjust;  she always did.]   “i see,”   [voice almost melodic,  carrying a quiet weight.]   “how should one properly thank a chef?   —would a simple thank you not suffice well?  i wouldn't want my gratitude to be..   insufficient.  [__]  no one expects more from a witch in these halls,  do they?” 

your first mistake was assuming that i was one. [he’d stand, tucking the paper under his arm with habitual ease.  there was a moment, before he leans—only slight.  he looks at her properly now that they were eye to eye;  he hates what he sees deep down. such hatred would never canvas his face. it was in rosaunt nature to hide what they were really feeling] for you,  anyway.    it would both benefit us if you believed otherwise for everyone here, not just myself. [perhaps he was a gentleman after all. no one would dare warn her that she would be treated far worse than she was with him in this moment.  he already heard the whispers, himself.  “Witchborn„  they say.  spoken with an anger so deeply engraved since the first dragon rider.  that hate was valid,  if only she knew the history]       …you’ll survive longer    [that same smirk she gave is returned.  then dropped just as swiftly as it came.]    welcome, to the nest.  @serphiente 

@rosaunt，    [warlock.  the word catches on her tongue like a misplaced note,  and for a moment something stills in her—something thoughtful,  almost amused.   her head tilts,   just slightly.   warlock.   not witch,  not scholar,   not whatever else they usually whispered when they thought she couldn’t hear.  however,  she was not offended,  not a bit—just merely intrigued at the name choice.  a soft hum follows,   a sound of polite consideration.]    “i was under the impression gentlemen here offered to walk a lady at least a portion of the way.   how silly of me to assume.”     [there’s no bite in her voice,   no reprimand—only a feather-light tease wrapped in something too polite to protest,    but her words were of intention.  she then dips her chin in a small nod,   gathering the note back into the folds of her dress.]   “still——thank you.”
            
            * don't mind madam valerie ragebaiting him 

[a conversation.  there is part of him that finds how open she is to speak to him repulsive.  then again,  rosaunt found all forms of verbal interaction a crime against him—dragoneir or otherwise.  eyes carved from the rarest of emerald gems flick upwards. he doesn’t take the paper; the name he can make out of the name half—produced was enough for him.   he’ll regard nothing else.  not her smile.  not the paper not the obvious inclination that he was expected to /walk/ her there, either]   the steps with the red carpet will take you to our head of the school.  rather strict that woman but if she’s allowing warlocks in our presence i do not doubt her intentions mean well.    the golden door is her office,  you won’t miss it.    @serphiente

* @valhalkyrie，Tee-hee! 

VALERIE SERPHIENTE:  THE PALE ORACLE  ©  est 2014,  revamped 2025.  an original character tied to the morbid and grotesque of dark academia literature & media.  

[SERPHIENTE.]    *    THEN WHO IS SHE WHO SITS ON IVORY?  THE ONE THEY CALL ████.   *̲(a single witch in a court of wizards,  an anomaly among those who measured themselves in incantations and lineage.  where they relied on formulas, she moved like a question they could not answer,  subtle and inexorable.  they watched her with fascination and unease,  unable to contain the way her magic reshaped the rules around her.  she did not dominate with force,  but with the sharp precision of a mind that understood too much.  in their gilded world, she was an elegant shadow—quiet,  untethered,  and always just out of reach.)

“THE OBEDIENT PARADOX,”    ╱  A GIRL of poise and poisoned grace,  revered for a mind too sharp to be called mortal.  she walked the world as if it were a veiled scripture meant only for her to decipher—her steps soft,  her gaze steady, her presence threaded with an ancient sort of hush.  whispers followed her like a second shadow:  WITCH,  OMEN,  DIVINER OF TRUTHS BETTER LEFT BURIED.  she carried magic the way others carried breath,  effortless and unsettling, a quiet force that bent light and logic around her fingers. there was a sacred hunger in her craft—patient,  devout,  almost tender—as though each spell were a prayer and each omen a promise.  yet beneath that serene composure lay something deeper,  older,  coiled like a serpent in her ribs:  not malice,  but inevitability.  she was not a creature who sought power.  SHE EMBODIED IT,  and those who drew near soon learned the truth—her grace was real,  her gentleness sincere, but the witch in her was a storm dressed in velvet..  and every storm,  eventually,  must break.