The Wrath of the Lamb PV — H. JENSSEN

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Each second that passed like the never ending plunge of a lazy snowfall only managed to strengthen the obvious dislike Viktoriya felt regarding this ever grinning boy, parading before her like she was a child, condescension marking his every word. A load of justified insults threatened to slip her pinched lips at any given moment, as the anger that rose through her chest and coloured her ears reminded her of the very same that inevitably arrived when she spent too much time in the presence of her brother. Previous brother. Ancient- whatever was the name for this no longer existing relationship between the two of them. It felt odd, being related to someone buried deep in the ground. To use 'brother' to talk about a decaying corpse, its rotting fingers still clenched around the sharp, golden edge of the crown he wasn't willing to let go. Anyway, The silver haired girl thought, shifting her focus back to the task at hand. Making that damn censored shut his mouth. A task which seemed arduous than what she had originally planned, as she noted the ever growing gap between their spell list. A gap she wouldn't admit before anyone, yet one she was forced to observe. She never thought a single year at a fancy magic school could make such a difference in the noble art of waving sticks around. Once again baffled at his ability to twist the blind hatred that spilled out of her mouth like venom into a soft, silky honey - you'll have to explain where the compliment was - the heiress only frowned further, finding herself at a loss for words other than insults. Which were the arguments of someone who had none, and that wasn't a position she was willing to take, even though he was making it quite tempting. Her scowl slid into an outright baring of teeth under the pretense of a grin. "Hah. And why would someone like..." Her eyes raked over his rather peculiar figure, "You. Have the right to dance with me ?" In other words, as if. Her consent didn't seem like an important matter to the young boy as he immediately attempted to force her into another humiliation. Though there might be a superior entity watching over her rageful being after all, because the curse backfired and came right back to his grinning face. "It seems you're doing a far better job on your own either way," she let out in a chuckle, as her stance slightly relaxed. A mistake, she soon realized, as the brown haired boy somehow hazardously managed to throw that same spell in her direction. Oh you've got to be kidding me. The moment her feet gained a mind of their own, Viktoriya thanked the ruthless investment of her tutors, as her muscles limited the damages and saved a part of her pride. Not all of it, unfortunately, as she was still seen agitating around due to a god damn spell thrown by this moron, who moreover- extended a hand. Towards her. With bare teeth and a hopeful spark. As. If. The sheer audacity of that boy caused a genuine laughter to rise from the anger swirling beneath her skin. Fingers grasping at a nearby tree to stabilise her... well, destabilised stance, she took a good look at his extended hand, eyes narrowing in two slits. "Open your god forsaken ears and listen to me, Evolutionsbremse," she spat while taking two long strands (stumbling) to stand before him. In one swift movement, honed by years and years of practice, she grabbed his hand and tugged harshly, her foot extending to rest before his. As expected, his body followed the movement of his arms, and he stumbled on her leg - she used the force of his fall to spin him around, pinning him to the tree as she fetched the dagger always resting inside her boot. As his back slammed against the trunk, the cold edge of her blade found his collarbone. Despite genuinely annoying her, he wasn't worth the trouble of 'barely killing another student' - a blade against his neck might have cut right through the skin if a sudden move occured. The collarbone was still threatening, yet less dangerous. Not that she cared. "I don't know who the hell you think you are," she hissed through gritted teeth, ice cold eyes locked with his, "but I'm tired of your condescendance and party tricks. So cast the f- counter spell, and leave." She did not want him here, despite his persistence to melt the icy walls erected around her.

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Evolutionsbremse ; "evolutionary brake"
Calling someone an "Evolutionsbremse" is a creative and biting way to suggest they’re single-handedly holding back the progress of the human species. This insult implies that the person’s intelligence, actions, or general demeanor are so backward that they’re putting a halt on evolution itself.

banner by Oonagh Brown || interacting as Hans Jenssen

Amusement was a more proper definition of the term when fun was one-sided.

The matter became a point-blank evident one when he found his back pressed against a trunk, the uneven edges of the bark digging into his back, the branches protruding over his head as it confined him into a cage with a dagger at his throat.

It was only natural to falter when at blade point. Yet the fear was not one Viktoriya was attuned enough to sense; she had not lived with it in a household for twelve years. He could catch the telltale whiffs of his own on the crisp September air. His shoulders tensed, brows upturned then furrowed, eyes widened then flashed. But—

Hans smirked.

Never the perfectionist, he was no nemesis to the mother of success. Yet if he was going to fall, the Icarus with scalded wings, he might as well do a few somersaults along the ghastly way. After all, the trick to never losing your dignity was self-assurance. An overconfidence sometimes even caricatured as a narcissistic tendency, it would have been over credited if nothing more than a defence mechanism naturally borne from the many wolf pits he had been thrust into. Bound to be a lion in their packs, as long as he raised his head, the rest would admire his mane.

Not as paranoid to have carried a weapon of retaliation, if he could no longer beat his opponent in physicality in would in attitude. The stare in his eyes unwavering, Hans barely acknowledged the blade under his chin as he found Viktoriya’s flustered expression much more vexing for the swordswoman and bemusing for her victim. Not dropping the grin if only to infuriate her further their game soon became a display of the lion cup’s audacious boldness, drawing first blood in their duel as he willingly offered the glinting blade a thin cut sliding across his neck, crimson reflecting off the murky autumntime sun as it peeked through amongst the trees.

At the end of losing battle, when battered and fey, to stop fighting with a chin held high was no admittance of defeat but an allowing of victory, a slip in his move followed by a knowing, unexpected wink. Eyes sliding over her with near disappointment, his face was now one seen at poker tables, holding little emotion, not a scowl, nor a frown, nor that infamous grin. If he had vocalised his meaning she would have heard no surrender, not even in play or feigning, but an arrogance blind in nature, just as he had designed. You only won because I consented to your senseless cheating.

If one plays dirty in what was but a game, how was one expected to play fair in life? A girl with steel running in her very blood, fight was instilled in her not as an instinctive response but a natural constant, good-nature a stranger to her in a dour life he thought piteous. So desperate to have a taste of her patron goddess Victoria herself she would take a romp with no malice behind it into a threat to kill. Sad, how another playmate slipped away with the Lapland’s gales. “You’re ruining the fun, Petrovskaya. Would love to see your pretty dagger in my throat but I don’t play with rule breakers.

“Who the hell do I think I am? Better. Because unlike you, little wolf, I don’t need wrap someone’s life on my little finger to feel validated.”

Blunt, unapologetic, and all the same unforgiving, ingrained into the words directed at her lay a hatred for the entire system. A pathetic bundle of useless values, Hans pitied her that Viktoriya self-worth came at the price of others. How exhaustive it must have been to try to paint herself the unwavering portrait her whole life. Power a quintessential ingredient in the population’s potions there was no thing more coveted than the one word at the icy fortress. Like the Russian cold that cut straight into skin, Durmstrang only prided themselves on the blantantest of strengths, which the zipping hummingbird had picked up on as he manoeuvred through the crowds. Yet what the Institute failed to reinforce was winning a fistfight between two soldiers would never win a war.

“Finite Incantatem,” he said frigidly, mirth lost in a voice once wreathed in it, wand waved in a pointed shield and hands rigid with displeasure in the movement. Hans found that he did not care for her enough to subject her to the torture of The Red Shoes. In his rose-toned, faithful, or perhaps just always puppeteering eyes everyone was a friend until proven otherwise. There was always fruit bore in approaching a new face, whether one juicy or rotten, but never a sin in planting a seed. The tree grows, healthy and fertilised under the beaming rays of the sun, but its yields of mere circumstance.

And as circumstance would tell, Viktoriya was not a nemesis, but simply pointless waste of time; though with potential, the disappointment had not merely been a show.

Tone without a shred of warmth and painfully dismissive, he flicked his wand back into his pocket as the presence of Viktoria was swiftly forgotten. Undeserving of his attention as much as she thought him of hers, there were far too many fish in this ever-frozen wasteland of a sea to dawdle on the wellbeing of one beginning to stem a contempt towards him. After all he had always prided himself on his adaptability, for no greater gift had been granted in an Institute as his, where its nature and inhabitants proved that the only constant was change. Yet one thing Hans Jenssen could never have been was cold, for he would ever be the dance partner to first extend a hand, under the influence of charms work or not. After all, the sun was not an entity capable of coldness, forever the blazing fireball lighting the sky every day, without dip or change.

“—run along—”

But sunshine never graces those who sit under the shade.

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A scowl creased her perfectly smooth forehead, as the heiress was once again met with more defiance than anyone she had faced before. It wasn't the prideful, self-loving defiance she was familiar with, but a stubborn, irritating one, that seemed to exist for the sole purpose of getting on her last nerve. She regarded him with a disdainful eye, not comprehending why he kept flashing her that smile. "You do realize you simply look ridiculous, grinning like that ?" She spat, reaffirming her hold on the blade. Her remark must have stirred something within him, for he now looked like a statue, emotionless face - who resembled more a gargoyle, should her opinion be asked. Not that she won't give it either way. He seemed to find himself merciful in his surrender, a grand gesture he was offering as a gift to her grateful being. Like hell. Eyes narrowing further, now reduced into two slits, she kicked the base of the tree (dangerously close to the boy's leg) and used the push allowed by the strength of her hit to stand up again. The dagger was snatched back from his throat to her boot, not without leaving a satisfying mark on the boy's tender skin. Tender, she scoffed internally. Her own was bruised and dry, rough from the countless hits she had took, scarred by the slashes of steel - a warrior's skin, not this princess-like creamy smoothness, lavender scented and only marked by kisses. "Rules are meant to be broken, sweetheart," she scoffed, glaring at him with amusement. "No wonder you look so naïve. Do you always play by the book ?" She didn't know where that one was raised, but in Russia cheating and scheming are the only way to the top. Then again, perhaps he was satisfied with his condition. She was not. His words might have hurt her, should they've not been uttered with such harmful intention. Instead, only a sharp, clear laugh met his hateful sentence. "Oh, please. Like I need any validation,," she paused, stepping closer and trailing her gaze down, "especially from someone like you." She watched the determination in making her an ally slowly disappear from his eyes, a sight she was pleased to witness. Perhaps then, finally, she might be left alone to practice - something this Hans had until then been interrupting. Good riddance. This interaction had been nothing but dull, and the young heiress had far better things to do than to oblige the boy's delusions. Picking up her wand again, she turned her back at him and resumed tormenting trees.

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