I Bleed Therefore I Am
Tucked between two mountains behind Durmstrang Institute a winding ridge led to a gully that slipped into a deep crack within a slot canyon. If one heeded the whispers of the wind they could push through to the opposite side and find themselves in a unique meadow that was always a season ahead of its surroundings. Currently it was carpeted with flowers in the dead of winter. In spring it would also be where fire season started several months early, and then where the first autumn leaves fell, and finally where winter came while its surroundings still clung to the denial of inevitable frost.
Marked on only highly detailed maps, “Rynn’s Glade” wouldn’t appear particularly notable on paper. Because it was so off the beaten path, one didn’t usually find it by accident unless they specifically went exploring. Most of its adventurous visitors grew curious after hearing about its natural beauty and unusual phenology. It took an avid bookworm, however, to uncover details about the area’s unusual enchantment. According to legend, an ancient battle here invoked a set of forbidden wards. In the end, a fatally wounded wix named Rynn sacrificed themselves at the lowest point in the vale to destroy the army of a tyrannical dictator. The exact nature of the magic appears to be long lost, but some theorize that the land itself ended up shifted forwards in time. Such concepts remain hypothetical, of course, as no effects seem to have persisted other than its unusual seasonality. Anyone here would be unaffected with anything other than perhaps wonder or curiosity.
Valentin began coming here only in the last few weeks, after finding out about it in a book in Durmstrang’s library. It reminded him of the scenes he vaguely remembered from his second coma. While originally motivated by the hope that a visit would help him recall more precisely what happened in his dreams, he soon fell in love with the serenity and mystery of the place. It was also the only part of the backcountry where he could enjoy practicing sword forms in February without having to wear a lot of obtrusive winter clothing.
Today Valentin had brought several experimental swords, including one he just finished forging at the late Headmistress’s anvil over the past week. The star of the hour was a silvery Damascus steel Shashka in a black dragonhide scabbard with extensive embellishments.
Reducio
After Nikolai’s late-October return, Valentin began the slow process of regaining inner peace once more. Now three months later he had at least restored a steady enough hand for intricate decorations. It wasn’t that the sword needed to be beautiful, but like inscribing meditative calligraphy, its elaborations provided a means for Valentin to refocus his mind through precise self control. Certainly his efforts had yielded a beautiful weapon. The question that remained was whether it would perform at so high a level beyond aesthetics.
Val also brought a much less impressive shashka of silver sheen and only a subtle curve – the first one he made of its kind as an assignment for class. Of solid and flexible construction, it was certain to be reliable at least. This one was here today to give points of comparison with his latest design, rather than out of any particular sentimental value.
Reducio
The more emotionally loaded weapon was the one he wielded presently – a basic dark spike of a dagger with no guard and only a basic black dragon sinew wrap that ended at a simple ball pommel. So featureless was this blade that it could not even be associated with any particular region or style. Yet, the straight double-edged weapon was the first he made after Nikolai disappeared. Other weapons had come before, during blacksmithing class with the headmistress, but those were all exercises in learning the craft. He kept them, of course, as reminders of each lesson. As one of the lucky ones who were able to study firsthand with Marishka Shtriga, Valentin felt it was his duty to carry on her legacy until her lessons could be passed on to the next generation.
Reducio
The White Seeker of Durmstrang had always been foremost a physical creature. Sports, stunts, and combat arts were always his forte rather than magical duelling or studies of the dark arts. An aversion to aggressive uses of magic came with particular distaste after what he had done to Mikael. Still, as a top student of the combat division, Val had always dreamed of receiving a graduation weapon from the headmistress for completing the program with honors. Following her untimely demise at Hogsmeade, such a day would never come now. While Valentin vowed to take her place in providing weapons to new graduates until he could find a successor, he knew he would never be the legend that Shtriga was. Certainly his forays into custom broom construction had done much for his craftsmanship, maintenance, and object enchantment skills, but blacksmithing was not his true calling in life. Rather, this was a means of getting to intimately know every kind of weapon known to humankind.
Learning about the grand diversity of weaponry and combat tactics was not even about Val turning himself into a master combat artist. No, the role Valentin saw himself in, contributing the most through, was in a leadership position. He wanted to understand the perspective of everyone who depended on him for success as well as what they would face if worse came to worse. For this reason, Valya did not make only swords, but anything and everything he could wrap his mind around. Schnell’s weapons would never reach the mechanical pinnacle owed to the world’s top specialists, but what he made was always strangely attuned to their recipients. Rather than having to search through dozens of prospective fits, a receiver of his work would usually feel like he’d made it by understanding them individually as a person, as if he were a legilimens. If wands chose their wizards, certainly many weapons used Val to make their way into their best owners’ hands.
In the end, what Val was making of himself was more of a general than a skilled combatant. If he could win on the level of strategy, logistics, and psychology, then he would know he could apply Durmstrang’s key principles to a wide range of situations. Yet, there was no way for him to excel at these if he did not also have a sweeping understanding of the underpinnings of an entire force and his people… and he was always looking for new people with great potential.
──────── ☽•☾ ────────
Valentin breathed in the pleasantly warm sunbaked scent of flowers and soil, and the midday weather couldn’t have been more perfect on this beautiful Saturday. He brandished his old black spike through sword form after sword form, focusing his mind as he tried to recall what it was that he envisioned when blacked out in the hospital ward. Only fragments ever seemed to return to him, like a suppressed memory, but he got the feeling he left some important detail back there.
Dressed in a white v-neck silk tunic and flowing martial arts pants, the champion of Durmstrang moved with grace gained from years of devoted practice at the institute. Certainly he was no great boxer or wrestler like Romeo Marchonné, but the sharpness of a blade was meant to be a great equalizer.
Valentin had not yet had to use bladed techniques on a living opponent for anything other than play, but he was was grateful for this fact. If the practice could remain a simple form of meditation forever, then he would consider himself fortunate. Similarly, if quidditch could simply be a sport where people honed themselves then he would also be glad, and yet, countless times the skills he learned on Durmstrang’s team came back to aid him in real life scenarios. It was only a matter of time, he surmised, until the same was true of formal combat arts.
Since he started coming here, Valentin began calling Rynn’s Glade “the place of preparation” because, deep down, he knew that’s what he was doing here. One day Valentin would no longer be able to answer a situation with inspiring speeches, strengthening interpersonal relationships, and self-sacrifice. He and his blood-brother, Romeo, and countless others at Durmstrang had accumulated years of scars because of dangers that would not yield to a friendly chat. Valentin was no seer, but he would rather be ready than remorseful. Something he’d forgotten was insisting on this, resurfacing whenever he became too comfortable, like a thorn in his mind.
Sweeping the onyx-tone long dagger over his head and swinging with a spin as circular as a dervish’s, Valentin focused on the sensations flowing within and through him. Like a dancer he moved in bursts and arcs with the rhythm of some unheard music. A few red scuffs and scratches on his face and hands spoke of pushing himself to his body’s limits in the last few days, but his smile lit him so brilliantly that any onlooker might mistake him for an ecstatic wandering mystic possessed by the very will of the blade.
Basic Stats:
STA 8 - EVA 20 - STR 3 - WIS 20 [24] - ARC 1 - ACC 19
Keen Eye / Charmer / Evasive Maneuvers / Fearless / Comprehend Languages: Parseltongue & Veela
Mention: @Elena Clark (Viktoriya Mstislavovna Petrovskaya)
Last edited by Aida Mòrsgor-Ama Ellwood on 21 Jan 2025, 04:56, edited 4 times in total.
I Bleed Therefore I Am
| xx |
|
xx |
──────────────────────────────
xxxxxxxx
Maybe that was why her steps found his.
On this cold February morning, the young heiress strode the castle's corridors, a black wool cloak drapped over her shoulders to ward off the winter chill that slowly sank its way into her bones. Her combat boots softly thudding on the floor, she hurried over the combat practice room - hoping to find it depopulated. Nails tapping on the sheath of her blade, she pushed her messy braid behind her shoulder, paying attention to her surroundings. Metal against metal, high pitched clanks were heard inside the room. Peaking through the gap between the wall, hid behind the heavy wooden doors, she frowned as she saw an older student gathering blades, kneeling down the ground.
His hair was a mesmerizing shade of white, with slight celestial reflections - like a cold sun shining through the glaciers of the far north. She was too far to notice his eyes, as he kept them reverently lowered on the delicate weapons he was gathering with the air of someone that not only knew what they were doing, but took pride in it. Her curiosity was immediate and bitting. There was a tension in him she couldn't quite place, a quiet storm beneath the calm. He looked like the atmosphere right before a blizzard, where silence reigns and snowfalls slow down.
She hadn't planned on following him. Not at first. But her footsteps quickly trailed behind him, as if drawn by an incontrollable force. He was up to something, and she had to discover what. It was not stalking, she reasonned, but reconnaissance - and Viktoriya was nothing if not a soldier in all things. She trailed him with the deftness of a wolf on a hunt, staying just out of sight as he made his way through the castle and the wilds beyond. When he took the winding ridge that led to the gully behind Dursmtrang, she hesitated. This was unfamiliar territory to her, though she had heard faint whispers fleeting amongst her peers. A place untouched by the seasons, some said. A cursed meadow made of ash and bones, others claimed. Where time played its own peculiar games. Curiosity edged out caution, and she pressed on, her boots crunching softly on the frozen ground.
And here she was, perched up high on a jagged outcropping of rock, half hidden by the branches of a tree that clung stubbornly to the cliff's facade. From this vantage point, she could take in the entire scenery of this enchanted place. A carpet of flowers sprawled below, colors an afront to the current season, a pocket of spring in the dead of the winter.
She adjusted her blade - bound by a dragon leather belt, its sheath carefully embroided with her family's crest. This rapier was a gift from her training master, one he had made just for her at the Kovalyov's forges. Despite the family being at constant civil war, they both relied and exchanged with each other, as the Petrovskikh were their main buyers. Being raised in her house's tradition, Viktoriya had mastered both the forging and wielding of silver blades, though her passion lay far more in the thrill of combat than the craft of blacksmithing. Besides the comforting presence of her sword, she wore a structured dragon leather harness over a loose cream blouse, the soft, flowing fabric contrasting starkly with the black, armor-like top. Her pants were equally functional, made of a heavy, weatherproof fabric that allowed for free movement.
Her icy gaze lowering down to the white, almost ghost like figure circled by shades of pink and purple. He was dancing. Practicing, his blade an extension of his own body as he moved through the airs with the fluidity of a needle through water. The dagger he wielded was plain, almost crude, yet it seemed pulsing with life it his hands. She could see the strain in his limbs, the sweat pearling down his neck, and yet his movements seemed effortless, translucid.
Her lips curled in a involuntary smirk. An external eye might have taken him for a madman, smiling and woving a sharp blade through the air. Viktoriya was not one for such methods, finding solace instead in the raw, tangible discomfort of training against targets, whether in motion or still. But the devotion with which he slashed the air forced her respect, a strange admiration growing taking root in her chest. She'd spent so long trying to prove herself in combat it felt good seeing someone wield for something other than survival. The sole beauty of it. He wasn't just honing his skills ; he was searching for himself through them.
A hawk perched on a high branch, the silver haired girl was watching.
xxxxxxxx
──────────────────────────────
| ❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐟𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.❞ ☽ PC ; ᴇʟᴇɴᴀ ʀᴏꜱᴇᴍᴀʀʏ ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ |
I Bleed Therefore I Am
Completing the last of his sword forms in a sweeping whirl, Valentin turned with a flourish of his wicked metal stake. Two intense amethyst eyes, even sharper than his finely honed blades, locked onto the valley’s newest visitor despite being considerably far away. Perched on an outcropping and half obscured by branches, the girl was stealthy for her age. She still had a lot to learn, and surely she would – yet, only with the right environment would she reach her full potential.
Nearly as pale as the dhampir, wasn’t this the albino first-string seeker of Durmstrang? The so-called White Immortal, Hell-Chaser, and Champion of Hexiwizard was rumoured to see right into one’s soul. Though bearing skin and hair more commonly associated with seers, the young man was known for an even rarer form of insight than fine fortune-telling. No, they said, he was closer to being a legilimens who could not only read the pages of one’s deepest heart, but also divine each person’s path to transcendence.
As the quidditch team’s “Frost Captain,” Valentin was said to have a mind like an ice spike, merciless as he lead his team into decisive strikes to lance opponent after opponent from the skies. Stories said he’d recently ordered his flying knights to decimate an entire enemy team, leaving the biased referees so flustered that they decided to change the rules of quidditch on the spot. As a seeker he was said to see so keenly and move so precisely that enemies feared he would end a match within only two rounds. Now, here he was, staring deep into the pupils of Viktoriya’s blue eyes despite the distance between them.
With a single pleased ‘hmm,’ the boy began to look the dhamphir over. He lingered a moment over the rapier as his combatant mind and blacksmithing experience worked through its details. Supposing he was about three times stronger and quite a bit more maneuverable, the captain could at least appreciate that the rapier offered her a longer range than the alternatives suited to her body type. With this positioning, she would be better off with a bow and arrow though, at least until he could remove her high-ground advantage. Once in melee range, the 6’1” seeker with long arms and a slender build would then regain such significant advantage that it would be difficult to handicap himself enough for a good fight. Whether this girl had come here looking for one or not was not really the question. The possibility was there and so the captain’s mind would analyze the situation for what he could learn from it. Besides, it was clear that she was a combat student of Durmstrang like himself, which immediately made her martial education of importance to the champion. What was really intriguing, though, was just who this creature was and why it was that his intuition tingled when he peered into her eyes.
Sheathing his dagger on the left side of his leather belt, Valentin swept the sweat from his brow with a sleeve before gathering up the other blades he’d left leaning against a rock. With a relaxed saunter in her direction, the captain was clearly carrying enough to not appear threatening. Still, his long legs shot him fast up the rise of the cliff – evidently the backcountry was like home to him and he arrived less breathless than after his sword forms. Standing less than two meters away, the boy tilted into an effortless bow before securing the test swords between two angled stones. Based on the style of his bow, he must have been from a genetically remote pureblood lineage, perhaps even an ancient one, as his movements carried a fluidity, tempo, and depth distinct from more common forms. If anything, the gesture felt “exotic” while undeniably refined.
“Hello, Клиночек Russian: Klinochek (little blade).” The boy’s tenor voice slid as smooth as silk through the ear, and the affectionate feeling behind it hinted at some hidden knowing.
“Might I ask you how you came to carry such a fine Kovalyov blade?” The boy’s eyes, so bright and almost hypnotic with their purple shimmer, seemed to be asking her to show him what she’d brought. Clearly the girl was not in a broom sport, or else Valentin would have already profiled her long before their meeting. Still, ever since Hexiwizard he never stopped keeping an eye out for other forms of talent. It had been a long time since he was concerned about maintaining Durmstrang’s undefeated quidditch title, anyway. These days it was the entirety of the Institute itself that presented the most enticing possibilities. If his leadership could just harness the power of Durmstrang's spirit in all its diverse expressions... then maybe Valentin could bring them all their highest good.
Turning his eyes to overlook the valley the way the girl had chosen to do, Valentin’s quicksilver mind was already flicking to new conclusions. There was something to this girl but he didn’t – no, no, it didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense. This sort of reflex was surely the byproduct of his own obsessions. Such a gut feeling had to be the result of his own personal struggles, a kind of confirmation bias or hallucination trying to reassert his innermost wish at unrelated times… yet, turning his eyes back to look at the young fighter, Valentin couldn’t shake the feeling.
“My name is Valentin. I don’t think we’ve met, miss…?” The circumstances of this meeting were almost entirely different from the one before, and yet, a shadow behind Viktoriya’s eyes only continued to beckon further. It was uncanny. There was something about this girl that reminded him of Nikolai when they’d first met at the side of the lake. Such a quality was not easily described, like the black lacquer sheen of a bird’s eyes as it stared out from behind a cage. In such a wide-open vale, rather than their immediate circumstances, some whispered malady must be afflicting her spirit. Sitting down, Valya committed to spending however much time was needed to figuring out what this mysterious resemblance meant.
“I believe you followed me here because you want something,” pierced the Frost Captain without delay. Immediately Viktoriya would realize that he had been aware of her stalking since the first moment her foot left the ground. “Whether you know what that is or not, I am certainly interested.”
Basic Stats:
STA 8 - EVA 20 - STR 3 - WIS 20 [24] - ARC 1 - ACC 19
Keen Eye / Charmer / Evasive Maneuvers / Fearless / Comprehend Languages: Parseltongue & Veela
Mention: @Elena Clark (Viktoriya Mstislavovna Petrovskaya)
I Bleed Therefore I Am
| xx |
|
xx |
──────────────────────────────
xxxxxxxx
As much as she would love to state otherwise, the blade resting besides her hip wasn't made for her - Dmitry's shadow lingered on its polished steel, a painful reminder of her younger years, watching him being served life on a silver platter while she had to fight her way through the position she now held. She had accustomated to its weight and length, and any experimented warrior would have sworn it had always been hers. Despite the rage and bitterness rising each time she wielded it, knowing Ivan had forged it always managed to ease her, knowing she still carried him with her anywhere she went. Even now, she felt his presence besides her, as she observed someone that withelded the rapidity and precision of a predator dropping on its prey.
Her eyes tracked the boy below, as his blade cut through the air without a sound, carving elegant arcs. Amethysts met aquamarines. She froze, the silence suddenly weighting heavier, as time seemed to slow down. His gaze cut through the distance like a well-aimed arrow, eyes sharp and unrelenting. If the silver haired girl were a cat, her back would be slowly arching, ears turned back and tail lashing as a low hiss would escape her throat. But, being a civilised being, her eyes simply narrowed. His gaze was too intrusive, as if he wanted to peel down the carefully constructed layer she had always shielded herself with - her mental walls rose higher in defense, protecting her from this faded-colored boy.
He surpassed her in every measyrable way, wether age, strength, speed, height or experience. His reach she couldn't match, but strength and height could be turned against himself, if it wasn't for his wind-like speed, moving like a current beaneath the ice, cold and fast and impossible to predict. If an attack was to be made, she had to rely on power and precision, one well place blow and he might go down. His stance also confused her, as it mirrored her own - he used his left hand, who was adorned by a scar, yet he didn't seem uncomfortable when leaning on his right side. Ambidextrous. One of her main advantage rendered useless, as he would be able to counter and side she might decide to strike on. A slight huff escaping her, she cocked her head in defiance. Not afraid of you.
But he did something that caught her completely off guard. He sheathed his weapon. Expecting a feint, a trick, her body only tensed further, yet he merely gathered his many blades and -
At the same moment his inhuman speed propelled him to the jaggered pile of rocks clinging onto the cliff, Viktoriya swiftly rose to her feet, hand casually falling on the hilt of her rapier. Her posture feigned relaxation, yet her left foot was slightly behind the other, muscles coiled like a spring. She stood her ground firmly, but this stranger was definitely determined to shatter every assumption she had made, as he bowed elegantly before her. Stupid. "Bowing like that just offers your neck to my blade," she muttered under her breath, voice as sharp as the blades he had just laid against the rocks, inclining her head in return. His stance was polished, foreign. What family was he from ? She had studies countless houses, yet she couldn't recall a single one tied to an albino heir.
The nickname shattered her carefully constructed appearance, as a frown wrinkled her forehead. Клиночек ? The familiarity of the term made her skin prickle, though not for the reason he might have intended. Who was this boy, and what gave him the right to distribute nicknames as though he knew her ? She only leaned away, fingers tightening over the hilt of her blade. "Nicknames already ?" She scoffed, cocking her head up to stand his violet gaze. "You’re quick to make yourself comfortable. Shouldn’t I at least know who you are before you start handing out diminutives?" Her agressiveness had nothing to do with the term her father used to qualify her. Nothing.
маленький ягненок. (little lamb.)
Her irritation wavered slightly when he recognised Ivan's, or rather Ivan's family's craftsmanship. A spark of respect lit in her celestial blue eyes, as she carried a new look towards this strange boy. "You have a keen eye," she noted, slightly tilting her head. "Yes, it's a Kovalyov's. A gift." She didn't elaborate, unwilling to delve into the bitterness tangled in that word. The silver haired girl simply crossed her arms, face composed - masking the anger still swirling beneath the surface. A gift, but not to me. His name provoked no flash of sudden understanding, no enlightement on who he was. Only further confusion, and a growing anoyance he seemed, for some reason, to appreciate. "Viktoriya," she simply replied , her surname clinging to her lips a moment before she let it slip. "Petrovskaya."
Despite herself, her wariness began to mingle with something else, a strange, uncomfortable yearning. The way his eyes seemed to pierce right through the icy facades she had built, the confidence with which he spoke and the self assured way he carried himself - it all spoke of someone worth impressing. She hated the thought, hated the idea of wanting any form of approval from anyone, let alone this peculiar stranger. But the feeling lingered.
His next words shattered her fragile composure further, as her eyes widened in surprise. He had known she was there all along. Of course he had. She would have honestly disappointed if he had stated otherwise, but this knew fact laid bare between them only reinforced the strange paradoxical sensation unraveling within her chest - the very obvious distrust she displayed, mingled with threads of admiration and this same craving for approval, one she already despised. "You had blades," she said bluntly, eyes flickering towards the numerous blades tucked between two ragged rocks. "I was curious. Clearly you weren't hiding."
Arms still folded, she leaned against the rock, stance deceptively casual. "So," she said, her tone cool yet laced with slight curiosity. "What's this ? Some secret training spot ? Or do you just enjoy showing off for an audience ?
Her voice carried a hint of a challenge, still, beneath the surface, the unspoken question lingered.
Who are you really ?
xxxxxxxx
──────────────────────────────
| ❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐟𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.❞ ☽ PC ; ᴇʟᴇɴᴀ ʀᴏꜱᴇᴍᴀʀʏ ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ |
I Bleed Therefore I Am
"Bowing like that just offers your neck to my blade."
“Certainly, but should one treat everyone they first meet like an enemy, remaining permanently on guard? I do not enjoy the feeling of paranoia, nor do I believe you deserve it. Isn’t that the point of a bow– to demonstrate a level of trust? There is strength in knowing one’s enemy and being able to read a person before getting too close. Besides, you made the assumption I wouldn’t be quick enough to defend myself even in such a vulnerable position.” The bow was not just a formality, however, and Viktoriya could sense it. He was inherently affectionate, even so soon after meeting her.
"Nicknames already? You’re quick to make yourself comfortable. Shouldn’t I at least know who you are before you start handing out diminutives? "
“Very well. I have little attachment to formal scripts of interaction, but I won’t leave you waiting. My name is Valentin. I don’t think we’ve met, miss…?” The boy didn’t seem put off at all by Viktoriya’s sharp responses. If anything, her demeanor proved only the more enticing, like a challenge. “I’m from the Schnell-Makarova line, a merger of Turks and Bavarians tasked with carrying an ancestral burden.” Shifting his eyes away briefly, Valentin knew he was treading on thin ice by mentioning such a topic instead of the usual platitudes about being the quidditch captain, champion, and so on. If Viktoriya didn’t know these things about him already, she would soon enough. It was more interesting, more risky, to show his hand a bit more. It was no different from bowing, showing some of his vulnerability as an invitation for friendship. Besides, it would have been too boring to play it safe. There was surely a lot to learn about this girl, and he wouldn’t be satisfied with surface-level information. It was only fair to reciprocate, even in advance.
"You have a keen eye," Viktoriya said. It demonstrated that she was observant, just as Valentin did by mentioning the sword. "Yes, it's a Kovalyov's. A gift." There was something in her voice that made Valentin think there was more to the story, but it didn’t feel right to push for more about that just yet. The delay in saying her surname also caught Val’s attention. He knew of the Petrovskayas, as he was expected to know about other pureblood families of significance. It was knowledge that served him well in life, but he had little passion for it. Valentin preferred to judge people individually rather than by family reputation.
The champion’s violet eyes did indeed pierce through the façades in Viktoriya’s eyes, and he knew she felt it clearly, too. A twinkle in his seemed to smile at her even though he was not physically smiling. The amethyst-chip gaze seemed to be inviting her to show him who and what she was – not just the mask of a performance, but the real her. The glimmer in his eyes wanted to be impressed. He clearly wanted to like her. The hint for this was when he revealed that he’d known she was following him all along, and then when her eyes widened, a curl of satisfaction spread across Valentin’s lips.
"You had blades. I was curious. Clearly you weren't hiding. "
Valentin nodded. “I have no need to hide. What I need is to be seen so that people like you will find me.” The boy laid across a sloping rock, batting his eyes in pleasure at the fine weather and the bright outdoor lighting. The fragrance of flowers, stone, and grass floated through the air as the cry of a distant bird echoed through a nearby canyon. “This is a training spot, yes, and it is secret insofar as people do not find it until they need to. I’ll admit I put on a better performance knowing that you were watching, but such is my vanity. I call this the ‘place of preparation.’ The peace of this glade centers those who enter it, allowing them to think freely without the burdens of the bustling castle to weigh on them. Yet, its sanctuary is only temporary, a slip in time, letting people consider the future before it happens. It is not my place to welcome you here, as clearly the land has already received you as its own child. Otherwise you would not have found the way.” Brushing the sand of lost sleep from his eyes, Valentin turned his gaze from the sky back onto Viktoriya.
“That said, I am glad for you to enter my life. Now tell me, do you really feel that blade suits you, or have you yet to feel you’ve earned what you really deserve in a weapon?” As a bladesmith with an uncanny ability to match weapons with their most suitable owners, Valentin was similar in spirit to the great Ollivander in pairing wands with their ideal life partners. He had a suspicion, and though he would not ask directly about what the girl omitted from her story before, Valentin still wanted to know. Was she a true Petrovskaya at heart, or was there something burning within to set her apart?
Lazily closing his eyes and folding his arms with a smile, the boy listened to the chirps of birds flickering overhead in a tussle. If she wanted to know more about him, then she would have to earn the information through their verbal sparring. He would have been satisfied enough just to learn about her and hoard his own details like a dragon, taking information away into his den and then luxuriating over its use for his vision of Durmstrang’s greater good.
Basic Stats:
STA 8 - EVA 20 - STR 3 - WIS 20 [24] - ARC 1 - ACC 19
Keen Eye / Charmer / Evasive Maneuvers / Fearless / Comprehend Languages: Parseltongue & Veela
Mention: @Elena Clark (Viktoriya Mstislavovna Petrovskaya)
I Bleed Therefore I Am
| xx |
|
xx |
──────────────────────────────
xxxxxxxx
"Trust is a currency for fools and corpses. You speak of it as though it were something earned in mere minutes, not years. And spare me the lecture on reading people. If you were any good at it, you'd not be speaking to me." Agressive barking, as always. The longer his gaze rested on her, the more she felt chills running down her spine, as if her entire body was yearning for a good punch, a kick - anything to get her out of his piercing eyes, all melting with an affection so out of place Viktoriya was getting more and more suspicious of hidden motives by the minute. His name did nothing to attenuate that sensation, as it vaguely rang a distant bell without her being able to connect the dots. Simply blinking in disinterest, she crossed her arms and leaned back, waiting.
And then it hit. Shooting back a sharp glare as a discussion between her parents vividly interrupted her train of thoughts - a tragic affair, a musician murdered and her lover seeking revenge. Boring. Though she wasn't sure wording it would result in any good, given the stature difference between the two white haired students. But genuinely, how could something as fleeting as love be enough of a motive to willingly spend the rest of your miserable days in prison ? And why was he allowing her to know such a vulnerable part of his person ? A disdainful sniff escaped her as she trailed her icy eyes back to his relaxed - too relaxed - stance. The urge to strike had not went away.
The obvious disinterest for her surname only fueled the unjustified anger she felt regarding Valentin - another layer of armor gone. Her name always rose high walls between her and the rest of the world, as they simply considered her as a Petrovskikh, and searched nothing more than what they found. But him, she needed to get away from him, from his uncomfortable, seemingly all knowing gaze and his fondness for a damn girl he had just met. Why did I followed him, again ? His never ending tirade sparked a yawn she didn't fought back, as a condescending smirk curved the line of her lips. "Touching. Truly. Do you rehearse this nonsense in front of a mirror, or does it come naturally?" A magic sanctuary that had welcomed her as its own child, a guiding place and blablabla- that guy had read too many fantasy novels. She aggressively repressed the slight spark of pride at his words, which was exactly what he wanted. She had nothing to prove to him, nor to anyone-
"Now tell me, do you really feel that blade suits you, or have you yet to feel you’ve earned what you really deserve in a weapon?"
Damn him. The fire roared in her chest. She should have drawn the blade. Proved it. Proved him wrong. Proved herself right. Her grip tightened on the hilt, knuckles paling. And yet, something about the lazy curl of his smile, the insult buried in his calm, made her want to strike verbally first - cut deeper that way. It would be so easy to lounge, make him open his damned eyes again, watching that same spark of surprise in the gaze of those who made the mistake of underestimating her. In two steps, she stood over him, shadow slicing across his repose like judgment.
"You’ll need to speak plainly. What exactly do you think I haven’t earned?"
xxxxxxxx
──────────────────────────────
| ❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐟𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬.❞ ☽ PC ; ᴇʟᴇɴᴀ ʀᴏꜱᴇᴍᴀʀʏ ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ |