The Wrath of the Lamb PV — H. JENSSEN

Roleplaying as Hans Jenssen

It was difficult not to get hexed at Durmstrang, so Hans would forgive Viktoriya Petrovskaya when a flipendo, completely out of nowhere, having seemingly caught onto the wind if anything, that blew him off his feet. Still, that was the most uncalled for attack he had ever received in those young twelve years of life and that begged the question: the fuck was that girl’s problem?

Hans had seen his fair share of sulking heirs during his two years at the Institute. Among them that brooding coldness almost seemed to be a sick quality, dampening out any empathy until what remained was pure ruthless ambition was the art ever so admirable. Those who spared him no more than a glare thought to be intimidating he had no qualms with completely not wasting his time on. The more out-spoken ones often proved to be interesting rivals, their so very distinguished bloodlines having planted in them a dark seed of entitledness that practically was pleading the little blue bloods to act out on their baseless arrogance. He couldn’t care less for their contempt; pitied them for their foolishness, in fact. Yet to them he only offered nothing more than indifferent respect. After all, it would be hypocritical of him to criticise. Not when Durmstrang, like anything else, was not a school of people but one of veneers, and Hans supposed it was fitting for the Russians who infamously shunned to even smile before the camera, to not have any warmth in their hearts beyond the bleak Siberian excuse of a summer.

His tolerance for coldness, however, did not always extend far enough into it’s literal meaning. One would think, resilient as Hans was, a drop in temperature - in the middle of September, no less - would be the least of his worries, but this morning he found his lungs wincing on the frigid air as steadied breaths turned into gasps. Because, oh God, ho would have thought that a shirt was still not enough to brave the chill when the weather was as fickle and positively diabolical as his dorm mate’s sleep schedule. Finally easing his jog into a stroll, Hans took a swig from his canteen, satisfied as the hot chocolate slid into his very blood.

Satisfaction, unfortunately, came at a very hefty price. It meant letting his guard down, which, at a school as bloodthirsty as the prestigious Durmstrang, was often not the best of ideas - that his brother would so graciously remind him of every morning. Therefore when a spell that flew way further than it should have shot towards him even those racer instincts didn’t have the time to react. Trying for a sharp turn as he attempted to locate the damned spell caster, his efforts failed as the flipendo hit him hard. Hans would have let a profanity slip out in Hans fashion but the ambush had crept up on him too briskly to even form thoughts. Now lain supine with leaves overhead blocking his vision, he pushed himself to his feet, murmuring a swear as back throbbed, having hit the forest’s rocky terrain rather than his dormitory’s carpeted floor. Good to know Stribog was spiting him again today, at least.

Forcing down disgruntlement as Hans went to approach the direction of commotion, he was most displeased not with his injury or even the caster’s sheer audacity but a gripe as petty as how loud his approach was under the creaking branches. Guess if he wanted to return the favour of a sneaky greeting, that wasn’t going to happen. Apparently, the attacker had the same thoughts in mind when she disturbed him once more with a tone he found purely to be self-righteous, “I can hear you.”

“Good,” Hans shot back as his scowl reversed into a mischievous smile, “Glad to know you’re not deaf.”

“Show yourself.”

At that instruction he scoffed. Who did she think she was? Some cartoon villain challenging the reckless hero? And what was that supposed to make him? Still he complied, if only for the heck of it, absent-mindedly raking through dirtied hair while the other hand was placed, nonchalantly though conveniently, over the pocket that held his wand. As Hans stepped in the clearing the girl came in sight herself.

She was a captivating sight - and rest assured, dear reader, not in the “she’s so pretty I’m love” sense, for better or for worse Hans' infatuations refused to waver as easily. Yet if pretty was not the adequate word then remindful certainly was. Snow coloured haired, ice blue eyes penetrating with the one resounding message: I can’t disgrace my family by talking to you, Viktoriya was not merely the image of a pure-blood heiress eager to prove herself; she was of striking resemblance to a boy he knew very, very well. It would be foolish to make assumptions based solely on appearance, and then again he had living proof for change in first impressions, but Hans would convince himself that gaze was one he recognised. Unbeknownst to Hans his eyes would soften as he suggested, gesturing at the cut on her face. “Have you considered practicing on dummies or something? Not only would you hurt others here - and that tree obviously - you’re hurting yourself.

“You a duellist, by the way?”

@Elena Clark as Viktoriya Petrovskaya

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A fighter's instincts are a double-edged gift - a blade that cuts through the most solid ice yet leave scars on the wielder. Within their soul resides both a lamb and a wolf, two paradoxical natures bound by a single thread. The wolf stands ever watchful, creature of desperate hunger and feral strength, its teeth and claws aimed at every throat who dares step too close. It is survival, raw and relentless. Beneath its skin, the lamb trembles - cornered, fear runs through its veins, whispers of cautions, pushing it to fight fight fight. Lamb and wolf, two truth ensnared in a single being - a wary snow-haired girl. Whose face perfectly captured this duality. Icy blue eyes flickered to various places where the threat might lay, her left foot moved slightly backward, as the pace of her heartbeats kept increasing. Chest rising and falling quickly, limbs screaming to run, the adrenaline slowly working its way up to her brain. Lamb. Hues of crimson swirling beneath the cerulean blue of her gaze, hand tightly clasped around her wand, her knuckles still bruised and bloody. Eyes narrowing, legs planted wide, a vein pulsing right next to her temple. Wolf. Fight or flight conflicting within the same host. The sudden appearance of the hypothetical threat put an abrupt stop to her adrenaline rush. Tousled hair, the color of charred cedar with faint amber strands ; eyes that resembled the drink Mstislav often sipped in the late afternoon - vodka and coffee, a strange mixture her father seemed to favor. Although the boy facing her looked nothing like this bitter drink. If sunlight piercing through the cracks of ice took a human form, it would be his. Common, yet so persisting one's gaze eventually drift back at him. Viktoriya's eyes immediately flickered to the hand hoovering over one of his pockets, her instincts kicking back. Weapon. Subtly taking a few steps left, mirroring his demeanor, she nochalantly let her gaze wander over him, establishing eventual strength or weaknesses. He looked slightly out of breath, as if he had ran ; his stance suggested an injury, as if he had taken a sudden impact and he slightly shuddered from the cold russian air. Eyes narrowing, she politely noted he seemed an easier target than the large trainees she had fought at home, yet she knew all too well underestimating someone could turn out to be a deadly mistake. His seemingly pissed look quickly transformed in a mischievous grin, a sudden change that took the young heiress of guard. His touch of attempted humour pathetically failed, as only the silence answered him. He definitely was a strange sight. Vik knew how to handle agressive or arrogant people, her replies sharp and her blows strong. Sarcasm was, on another hand, difficult to grasp, as replying would either be make a fool of herself or enter their game - a choice she preferred not to make. The boy's eyes suddenly softened, causing a frown to pliss her snowy eyebrows. Weirdo. The sudden shift in his behavior caused her to relax slightly, as it became slightly more obvious he wasn' t going to attack her any time soon. He gestured at the small cut on her cheek, before suggesting she used training dummies. "I have, actually," she responded with a neutral tone, her eyes flickering to the trunk - who, now that she had a clearer view, looked like a feral animal had clawed its way through the tree's tender heart. Clenching and stretching her fists, her knuckles still aching from the scratches, she turned her attention back to the golden boy. His comment about the tree caused a soft huff to escape her, as a small smile crawled onto her face. "Worried about some tree ? I barely scratched the surface of its trunk." Her tone was unusually friendly, or at least not as aggressive as she might have been given the circumstances. Her statement about its trunk was geniune, those trees were thousands of years old and it wasn't some eleven years old witch in the making that was going to disrupt their quiet peace. "I'm fine." She barked back, crossing her arms. Like a cornered cat hissing at what he deemed a threat, her stance was defensive - It’s merely a scratch. You'd think he was treated like a fragile doll to consider this a serious injury. Scoffing, she gazed once more at the result of her wrath. Guilty wasn't exactly how she felt. More... ashamed by her poor lack of control. This wasn't the reaction someone expected from a professional duellist. She needed to work on self control. “You a duellist, by the way?” Obviously ??? Or did he think she was some petty child throwing a tantrum ? Her nose wrinkling at that new thought, she slightly nodded. "I needed to break stuff get out of the training room. Too small." And precision was her biggest shortcoming regarding wand duelling. "What about you ?" She asked, slightly suspicious. "Runing around aimlessly ?"

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Roleplaying as Hans Jenssen

Perfect, a harmless underclassman whose only ailment was a defiant attitude. Though that was to be expected for someone as rebellious as her, practicing - if it could even be referred to that - in the woods. Hans had always made a point to extend his friendship to anyone he met even despite rather unconventional circumstances merely because of the simple happiness in it and Viktoriya would receive a treatment no different even if it would not be reciprocated. For now he had given her the benefit of the doubt to think that flipendo had not been on purpose.

Hans dipped his head playfully as he heard the girl let out an irked huff in feigned defeat. Though glad to see a smile stretching at her lips, however small or cunning, he returned the deviousness in his own for cordiality. “Unlike you, I’m environmentally friendly, and grade school biology would tell you how you many innocent little bugs you just killed,” he stated, tone matter of fact, almost haughtily. Hostile to his concern, was she? Fair for a school as brutal and a population as mulish; after all, his response would probably have been along the same lines. Though crossing his arms right back and spreading his legs in the same defensive stance, he gave an amused smile he tried to suppress for fear of coming off patronising. Hans was making great first impressions as ever, as always.

Rarely had Hans actually been to the training room. Other than to watch Nikolai he had very little reason to be there; the combat turned art form never offered him the adrenaline as flying did nor did he find waving little sticks around a particularly thrilling sport. Of course there was also the small matter of having enough duels and spars - authorised or otherwise - outside of the club. With a smirk Hans said, “I find the duelling club far too overcrowded myself. Seems like Durmstrang students mostly just have anger issues and need to let it out somewhere. It's why we have fighting classes after all.”

Frowning at the suspicion lining her voice as he finished it felt almost ridiculous that eyebrows would be raised as an activity as mundane as running of all things, especially in comparison to her bitterness and whatever shenanigans she was up to - though of course in the Wizarding World he should have expected everything to be upside down. Originally having thought of yet more sarcasm to adorn his words Hans bit back the response in favour for less aggression. “I don’t know when you started doing this but people have been running down this path since I first came here? Like how you practice your duelling here this is how I exercise sometimes. I mainly do broom racing but you know, this is supplementary. Also it’s a nice habit with good views.” Shrugging, Hans stepped forward, cocking his head almost in curiosity.

“Hans,” he introduced, taking the hand off his pocket to establish some semblance of amiability despite their awkward first meeting. “Nice to meet you,” he said, solely to bat away at the tension he felt still palpable in the air. It had been the epitome of a white lie; he could shudder at the thought of how self-deprecating one must be to find niceties in being hexed as a greeting. Yet having made acquaintances both under unpleasant circumstances and with unpleasant people before it hardly came as difficult, though what he would say next would be entirely unique to this particular girl. “Thanks for the flipendo by the way, it really made my day.”

@Elena Clark as Viktoriya Petrovskaya

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As the seconds ticked, each a reminder more important things could be taken care of, the silver haired girl bore her eyes through the swirling pool of warm chocolate the boy's eyes seemed to hold. Her impatience slightly growing, the tip of her fingers started tapping against her arm, a disagreeable sensation coursing through her legs. Move. She never liked being idle, poised, composed. The amount of objects she had broken at the Petrovskikh estate could attest, she had always been a fidgety child. The youngest Petrovskaya would always be seen jumping, running, fighting... A deeply rooted yearning for movement and adventure coursed through her veins, a hunger for the unknown and longing for more than what fate had given her. A scream threatened to tear her throat each time she had to sit and smile and nod and laugh for whoever her father had invited over to the manor. She ached for the day her presence would be more than a simple accessory, a spare to marry off when the time had come. Her mother's betrayal gave her an opportunity to rise where no woman had ever been before, as an heiress of her House. She still had to compete with her cousin, a ruthless and incredibly stupid pawn Ekaterina, her aunt, was handling with diligent intelligence ; but it was more than she had ever hoped. She finally had a chance to fight for what she craved, and nothing would stop her from doing so. So waiting for a lost bird to scold her on the importance of trees wasn't exactly on her to-do list. Stealing glances at the tree behind him, she clicked her tongue at the end of his tirade. "Environmentally friendly ?" She repeated, an amused frown wrinkling her nose. Viktoriya could clearly see his retorts were only meant to spite her, but it had been a long time since she argued with anyone and it felt good getting that brotherly annoyance tingling her again. "I seriously doubt russian ecosystems are that fragile. But I'll send them a warning note next time." The sarcasm dripping from her voice was toned down by the amused glimmer in her eyes. Crowds were never her favourite, and the russian population seemed to fancy duelling more than she had thought. "Given the reputation of our school, I don't find it that surprising." After a few second, her head tilted slightly and she asked, "But you don't seem to include yourself in that statement." Was he one of those quidditch obsessed students that only talked about the latest encounter or the upcoming ones ? The young heiress never saw the appeal. Standing on a broom, thousands of feets above the ground, chasing aimlessly after a ball. No thanks. His next statement only caused her to nod, her reply lost in her throat as he stepped forward, head cocking in a seemingly curiosity. Her eyes narrowed, and every single muscle of her body tensed. She did not step back as it would be giving him the upper hand, but her own head titled upward as she stood his gaze. Fingers discreetly clenching onto her wand, she- He simply took the hand off his pocket, a polite smile plastered on his face despite the curiosity tainted with caution swirling in his eyes. "Hans," she repeated, eyes flickering over his. "Viktoriya Petrovskaya." Flickers of awkward tension lingered around them, but his unexpected act of diplomacy had softened the young girl's stance, as she stood more relaxed. "Nice to meet you too." It was a half lie, as she wasn't particularly pleased that her training session had ended abruptly, but this was nonetheless an entertaining encounter. “Thanks for the flipendo by the way, it really made my day.” Frowning, she gazed at him. What the hell is he talking abo- oh. Trying to conceal the laughter lurking inside her voice, she narrowed her eyes as a sly smile crept onto her face. "You got hit by the spell I cast ?" Her eyes sparkles with amusement, as she re-analysed his stance. The initial panting she associated with a short running was in fact caused by the impact he must have taken. A small chuckle peaked through as she tilted her head. "It wasn't intentional." She admitted, though it was quite funny. It was the only half apology she could offer, but the thought of him falling and cursing over a out of nowhere spell couldn't shake the smile out of her face. "How good of a quidditch player are you if you don't know how to dodge ?" The remark slipped the lips of the young girl before she was able to politely silence it.

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Roleplaying as Hans Jenssen

One is treated as a friend until proven otherwise. Perhaps not the shrewdest of judgements, but a paving stone nonetheless for the relationships Hans had built brick by brick, if not then simply the principals of common sense fellowship functioned upon. He viewed approaches extending more than the shallowest of diplomacy for decorum as a trait to praise as much as it was a habit of his. Since first stepping foot in it he had spared his distaste only for those who would spread coldness even when the Institute was so shrouded in ice already. Amiability for sake of friendship rather than networking ought not to be exception nor weakness; it was a pity the thought was already carved into so many of his schoolmates.

“I don’t,” he said briskly in response to Viktoriya’s suggestion, “as popular as it is it’s too reserved for my taste. It’s not that duelling can’t be made interesting, just that on the piste too many rules forbid it, unfortunately.” Hans rolled his eyes, not seeing the purpose of fighting if it was merely ceremonial. “Broom racing is kind of like an obstacle course in the air. You try to get to finish line first while both outside elements try to attack you and opponent teams sling spells. The only bad thing about it is people often lack good sportsmanship, apparently. But you are free to either enjoy it or claim it pointless, just don’t tell me you’re acrophobic.” The explanation was concluded with a tease in good nature and a chuckle.

Hans raised a brow at the pair of electric eyes that narrowed following his sarcasm, as if to taunt - go on, you know very well what I’m talking about. When she finally realised her the foxiness channeled into her voice failed to suppress all of the laughter she guarded like a loose criminal. “Admittedly, yes,” he acknowledged disgruntledly, acting flustered, “And you can laugh about it when you experience it yourself, Viktoriya. I would think a good duellist knows how to control herself, hm?” Despite his words there was no judgement nor scolding in his tone, and if Petrovskaya was to look closely, mirroring humour sparked in his chocolatey eyes. Perhaps anyone else would have haughtily demanded and apology, but learning to laugh at oneself was an attribute he valued. For there you go; even in the fierce warrior Viktoriya presented herself everyone shared the same quality in their sweet smiles. For some mustering one not coyly or without cunning was a challenge, but everyone had cracks in their ice where the sun can shine through, so he supposed it a treat to be the light that did.

Hans let his expression of matching amusement slide into disapproval at her remark. “Though it's room racer, I’ll remind you,” he cleared his throat with a scowl, feigning irritation at the repeat of mislabelling that might as well have been purposefully vexing, though he hardly cared for the conversation these pure-bloods made to be a chess game. Sometimes playing into their gilded lures was the most straight forward checkmate. “I mean, it’s like we get enough recognition already.” Hans didn’t bother to add that while he would have been prepared to dodge in the training room, the most dangerous features of the woods was nothing more than birds deadset on tormenting Durmstrang’s student body.

“You know,” Hans said, flipping out his wand and studying it with intent eyes, before slipping his gaze onto Viktoriya with a challenging flair in his smile, “If you still want to practice, why not with a living, breathing opponent? Would not be too hubristic to say I’m more resilient than those dead bugs.”

@Elena Clark as Viktoriya Petrovskaya

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As much as the young heiress delighted herself in combat, in the loud echoing sound of clashing blades and the buzzing spark of adrenaline coursing through one's veins, as much as she prided the thin scars scattering her pale skin or the faint bruises her hands held, Viktoriya Petrovskaya had never found the same satisfaction in the matters of heart. Friendship was a vaguely familiar concept to the silver haired girl, an ancient language she never learned to speak - or perhaps one she was never taught to. Trust was not granted easily, nor was it expected, and the most tangible bonds she acknowledged were those of convenience, allies forged through mutual benefits rather than the fragile ember of sentiments. The sole idea of freely offering one's heart - blindly abandoning their sense of self to mold into the contour of another's feelings - was laughable to her, a kind of recklessness she swore never to experience. Ungarded generosity was a weakness disguised as a virtue, and the heiress was many things but weak. маленький ягненок. little lamb. She trusted in steel, in the cold certainty of her blade and in her own unyielding discipline, honed by the years she spent rising to her feet after being knocked down. Steel did not lie, nor did it falter. It had no hidden motives, no malevolent intentions hidden behind the sweetest smiles. It will not abandon her. And yet, for all of her convictions, the boy's openly friendly demeanour unsettled her in a way she couldn't quite place. Hans was disarmly genuine, a kind of unguarded foolishness Viktoriya had trouble reacting to. Such an open heart, in a place so unkind ? Makes you wonder how he's still standing. A humingbird flitting through the wolves' territory - strangely out of place, a ray of sun piercing through the obnoxious snow blizzards. Russia's wizarding society could not be described as anything less but a den of predators, where the faintest trace of vulnerability was an invitation to ber torn apart. He might have lost a few feathers, but he remained, singing his tune at biting range, unaware - or uncaring - of the jaws that threatened to seal shut at any moment. His cheerful and passionate description of broom racing only managed to further convince the young girl her place was definitely found in duelling. "Acrophobic ? Hardly." she chuckled, a silver eyebrown arching in skeptical amusement. "But the sport you just described seems a perfect fit for you." Chaos disguised as a skill. There was no other way to describe this so-called sport - duelling, which she had found quite dull at first seemed now to hold such nobility, in comparison to this obstacle course. "You strike me as the kind to thrive in chaos, as long as you laugh the hardest." In any other situation her tone would have carried this hint of amused superiority, the jab as sharp as her celestial gaze, but there was a flicker of amusement clearly audible, a crack in her icy demeanour. "I do know how to control myself, thank you very much," she barked back, agressiveness strikingly making its way back to the surface. The remark had struck a nerve she wasn’t prepared to acknowledge. Mstislav’s voice, mingling too closely with Hans's, sent a prickle of irritation crawling beneath her skin. "I was solely practicing my aim." Which didn't quite go as planned, but you try to hit a damn tree sixty feet away from it. An annoyed huff adressed at the devastated trunk, she slightly leaned back, crossing her arms again. Her nose wrinkled slightly in amusement as he let an offended mask slide onto his face. "Yeah, same thing," she replied, with a careless shrug, feigning indifference. There was something endlessly entertaining about teasing others, especially when she could sense their tolerance for her jabs. Though Hans didn't particularly seem upset, rather in this sort of cordial banter the two of them seemed to have developped, but the young heiress was unsure of how she felt regarding this sunshine personnified. Still, his persistent sunshine-like demeanor unnerved the silver haired girl, as Viktoriya was uncertain what to make of it. Hans embodied something entirely foreign to her world : openness, warmth, and the strange ability to laugh in the face of sharp words, instead of meeting them with blades. It was unsettling, as if his light could pierce even the thickest shadows of carefully crafted armors. "You would wilingly offer yourself as a practice target ?" She repeated, her tone laced with bafflement. Her icy gaze scanned him, searching for the survival instinct that seemed utterly absent. "Do you even posess a shred of self-preservation, or is recklessness your default state ?" Her words were biting, but her lips were curled in a smile. A soft snort escaped her, as she uncrossed her arms, considering him with curiosity, a glint of mischief sparking in her eyes. "Fine," she said at last, tilting her head. "If you're so intent on loosing a limb, I'll oblige." He couldn't dodge a spell that wasn't even intentionally thrown at him, yet here he stood, challenging her. Did he understimated her ? She hoped he did. It would make the realisation even more delightful. She relished this moment, when they realised a little lamb can bite. The occasional duels Mstislav had orchestrated throughout Viktoriya's short existence - putting her against adversaries ranging from wannabe knights to young aristocrats - had always witnessed that slight change in her opponent's attitude. There was a moment, fleeting yet telling, where smugness melted into surprise, and the self assured smirked disappeared. Those she didn't win, she made sure to leave a few scratches. Fight, little lamb, fight. Show them that you got some bite.

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Roleplaying as Hans Jenssen

It was widely known among his friends that Hans was a person easily amused, sometimes facetiously, ofttimes when it had been far from another’s intentions, and they all claimed it a quality as charming as it was annoying. “I am, and you sure know how to make me laugh,” with this such an action was indeed accompanied, following the icily guarded wolf’s cool chuckle, though unlike her it was an action as common as she might have found her own survival instincts. What little exposure to psychology Hans experienced had always failed to either keep him entertained nor comprehended, though he had come across the phrase enough times to form an understanding of what is known as “reverse psychology”. And Viktoriya just did not know her winning play had just been done for the opponent’s side. Even though she would be stubborn behind her conviction that the “so-called” sport was merely chaos feigning to be skill, often it was nothing more than a distraction itself. Strife was only seen as a weakness because it was purposefully disguised as one. After all Hans had a gift for order and a taste for chaos. It was a beautiful combination.

Viktoriya must not have known how wrong she was in her judgement. If this was what she considered vulnerability than she truly must have seen nothing of the world. Though Hans could hardly criticise, he had not let that emotion truly blossom for years. But now he knew it better than ever, and it was a blessing rather than a curse. Vulnerability was in the arms of his grandfather, vulnerability was that August night after the Mistletoe Spin, vulnerability was talking to someone with such genuineness that even his subconscious ceased to hide away chinks in his armour. It was a side of him only shown to the people whom he loved and trusted unconditionally, without a shred of question nor doubt, and if he had ever though the Petrovskaya saw his actions as something as grand as vulnerability it would have been dismissed swiftly if only for how ridiculous that would be. What he projected must have been as calculated as Viktoriya’s blows, even if he was still oblivious to it. In fact, during the little times he thought of such things, it came off more as a skill than anything.

Though of course, she would receive no outward answer towards her conundrums on how Hans could laugh in the face of Durmstrang’s wolf den, but self-conceited as he was the latter believed he knew truths wiser than her, and being the ones that built his own walls he would rather not share them. Petrovskaya was a girl who grew up not with flesh but on steel, and despite the resilience she must have prided herself on she was no different to the majority of Durmstrang’s fearless population. They were a predictable lot, for metal was as inflexible as it was reliable. It was easy to either play into their game or dance around it, and either gave him a fair shot at checkmating. Bound down by financial resource and a little thing known as societal norms Hans’ sword fighting classes extended to rewatching the Mustafar duel on YouTube, but he never found the need for material objects, and he surely would not deem them necessary when it came to a fight — after all his forte exceeded the privileges he had been denied in blood. He could certainly spare some weakness to show when strong on his feet rather than struggling on the ground. Which is also exactly where Viktoriya will find herself ending up on.

“Flipendo.”

He was definitely thriving. Without any further ado nor response the spell was cast with as much cool indifference as ever. Hans found his wand moving into position as soon as the spirited little wolf pup consented to losing — or winning, he intended on showing some sportsmanship today. Still smiling that broad grin Hans watched with glittering irises as the girl was knocked back into the trees. “How do you like a taste of your own medicine, meine Freundin¹?” She could have judged him for rushing too that conclusion too quickly as much as she would like, didn’t change the fact that he now had the advantage, nor the fact that she probably didn't understand German. Unlike her he wasn’t merely fighting, perhaps he wasn’t fighting at all, at least not past the literal sense, no, he seemed to be enjoying it too much. As much of a game as anything else the lion hummingbird (as Viktoriya would like it; he too shall oblige) approached it with nothing more than enthusiasm. Little Oonagh had taught her how fun of a way this was to make someone’s acquaintance. With that signature overly-casual look about himself and an over-abundant dose of self-assuredness Hans gestured for her to stand, though judging by her feistiness he needn’t have told her. Almost in a feigned mocking of a badly written Disney-villain he challenged in a voice meant more for humour than belittlement, “Now get up, and show me what you’ve really got.”

1: my friend

@Elena Clark as Viktoriya Petrovskaya

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The world tipped. For the split of a second, Viktoriya wasn't sure of what had happened. One moment she was standing firmly on the ground, the biting cold pressing against her skin; and the next she was halfway across the clearing. The sheer strength of the spell cast less than a feet away from her sent her away with brutal efficiency, knocking the air out of her lungs in a way that left her momentarily weightless, suspended like a broken doll. And then the strung cut, and she crashed. Her body slammed into the tree with a sickening thud, the impact reverberating through her bones. The bark bit into her shoulder, tearing through fabric and flesh as an explosion of pain erupted down her spine. Yet she refused to cry out, and only a grunt escaped her mouth, as her smug expressioned twisted in a wince of pain. Bark scrapped against her shoulder, a dull sting compared to the burn her pride had endured. She had been thrown. Like a reckless child. The humiliation seared hotter than any wound, marking her flesh with a tin. Her fingers curled beneath her, nails digging into the frostbitten dirt. And then her celestial blue eyes rose, and met his grining face. He was openly laughing at her. Any kind of sympathy she had previously felt instantly disappeared as her blood turned molten. I'm going to wipe that stupid smile right off your face until you’re the one crying on the floor- "How do you like a taste of your own medicine, meine Freundin ?" Viktoriya's eyebrows snapped up, as a scoff escaped her. Her grip tightened on the rough bark of the tree as she forced herself upright, ignoring the searing protest from her ankle. Her friend ?Was it irony ? She truly hoped it was, or it would only be further proof of the boy's evident lack of functionning neurones. Either he was mocking her, or he had the cognitive skills of a concussed troll. No in-between. Or worse, perhaps her genuinly deemed her too simple to understand. A bitter chuckle nearly sliped her throat. As if. As if she hadn't spent countless hours bent over think, dense book, forcing her way through the incomprensible labyrinth of a language that only looked like someone had selected random letters, smashed them together and called it a word. Her pulse roared in her ears, blood rushing and fueling the sheer rage she was currently experiencing. "Freundin ?" She repeated, voice as polished as steel despite the anger bubbling behind it. "Spare me the pleasantries, Dummkopf." The insult rolled out of her tongue with sharp precision, the words spat with hatred as her icy gaze locked with his. Dummkopf. Idiot. Fool. It suited him. He wore his recklessness as if it was a crown, gave lessons like he owned the damn world. Her wand found its way into her hand, her fingers clenching around this stupid piece of wood, knuckles turning white. Pulse was thrumming with the intoxicating rush of battle, the urge to fight, to bite. Her wand flickered upward, the movement fragile - her wrist seemed weakened by the impact against the tree, and a wince split her face right before casting the spell. "Flipendo." And she missed. She didn't know if it was her fault or his rapidity, and frankly she did not care. A sharp, burning frustration flared in her chest. Viktoriya clenched her jaw, teeth grinding together so hard they might break from the sole tension. She inhaled sharply, forcing the white-hot embarassement sensation away. She never tolerated mistakes, especially not her own, especially not when he was still standing here, smiling. The sheer audacity. Her grip on the wand tightened, as she tried to straightened her position. It wasn't his spell that had caused her to be in such a bad physical shape, but more the countless hours spent sparring against ... well, trees added to Hans's little blow. Her breath was slow and measured, but her words carried the same bitter aggressivity as before. "Cute," she spat, head tilting just slightly. "Look at you dancing." She pushed off the tree behind her, using its form as leverage. Her body propulsed forward with calculated precision, her ankle protesting against the movement, but she ignored it. Landing lightly, she slipped behind a fallen rail of half-cut trees. A better position. If this idiot thought he could catch her off guard again, he was sorely mistaken. Using his momentarly confusing, she rose her wand again and cast the same damn spell, "Flipendo !" And it hit.

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Roleplaying as Hans Jenssen

She’s got some fight in her, didn’t she?

He should have commented on how a prim and proper young (assumedly) pureblood lady like her wouldn’t sound pretty swearing at the dinner table but she offered bigger fish to fry than her bland choice of words. Well, that was a good thing, at least Hans didn’t get himself involved with some bland simpleton for the nth time. Watching her with halfhearted care as she pushed herself off the tree the flipendo landed squarely in his chest was not so much unexpected but he sure was pissed it was happening for the second time in a day. At least some creativity and variation would be nice if Vik wanted to show off on him. Being flung back by the spell was familiar enough not to be too unpleasant but as he stood the spot in his back that had been subjected to impact twice now throbbed. Pain was fine though, there were worse things.

Cute, look at you dancing.

A lacklustre comment while he actually evaded the first attack well. Scoffing at her failed attempt of sarcastic intimidation irony clicked into place as the perfect spell came to mind. Yet despite the disgust in her voice Hans twisted her words around in a three sixty as he turned the insult completely on its feet. He was in charge of this exchange of taunts and spells. He would call the shots — above all that was where the conversation led. “Thanks for the compliment, Arschgeige¹. I’ve been told I’ve got two left feet and no good news so you’d better teach me how to.”

Well, you asked for it, Petrovskaya.

“Tarantallegra.”

Viktoriya would not have noticed the sudden uncertainty flashing across a face as the damned spell backfired and his feet spread into an elegant ballet he most certainly did not know how to dance. Instead merging into the role he relaxed features into a composed tranquility meant for the stage, allowing any humiliation from the failure to be hidden as quickly as unchecked emotions always were. Still, even if blood would not rush to his cheeks it sure would invite adrenaline into his veins. Viktoriya was starting to prove an interesting target and Hans was certain his offer of a duel had saved her from the utter ennui of attacking a tree of all things. The ups and downs were all part of the game, and he would like to think positive sportsmanship a quality of his.

Free from the regulations of the duelling club he had just griped against, Hans too cared little for the formal rules of exchanges per round. Getting ahold of himself or at least attempting to he reluctantly accepted the fact that he would need to multitask (usually a skill, but casting while being the amazing danseur he was was a new). Still, he would be distracted by something as frivolous as prancing around. Casting a second spell he willed commanding confidence into his voice despite his disadvantaged position of having just broken out into dance. Failure must have truly been the mother of success for this time the spell was not only well-casted in stark contrast but found its target. The dance must have left him vulnerable for it just barely struck Vik but the effect would be no different. Following the hit would be a smug smirk as Hans welcomed a partner into dance.

Weakness was a mere guise, and right now was the time to wear it. Spinning closer to the white haired girl in pirouettes he was certain would have broken his bones otherwise Hans offered a hand, perhaps to be interpreted as a careless show of diplomacy. Invulnerability was not something so easy to stomach but the carefree whims of life were no more than a round of childish play pretend. Defences would not be a thing so easily peeled away as they seemed. An onion is one way to describe something many layered — though not exactly fitting, since Hans would rather not make people cry. Still, the metaphor stood as what he encompassed to be, for immunity was not so bluntly reached when defence’s were so tight they refused to budge, but when shell and flesh were no longer discernible. What was tedious to scrape away skin by skin was done easily with the sharp entry of a precise knife. “The Stabby One” was only proving her dexterity with weapons did not extend to fluency in the human mind, one soft and malleable, not the steel against steel she would have been familiar with. Smiling over pain were three words bound to sound either overly sarcastic or impossibly unexpected.

“Dance with me?”

1: idiot, directly translates to "ass fiddle" apparently; why?- I have no idea.