僕わぬれるのを嫌がる

Old? He was only a young age of around 3500! A thin brow raised and he snarled before able to catch himself from baring any fangs. He knew it was probably meant more in the context of him being an adult and not a child, but he was certainly not playing with mud.

The demon had to calm down. All of this irritation was stemming from embarrassment. How could he, someone from a bloodline of a higher pedigree, be displayed in such a fashion? This wasn't quite entirely ego, but a sense of duty to always be in high regards to keep up with his clan's name. A Naberius was to be perceived as a scholar and seen as something vicious if provoked, but here he was drenched by human methods.

He grew tired and rather than let himself get cold he let his body get warmer, but not too much. It was as if he had a fever, but he did start to feel more comfortable. That alone helped him relax and set his mind at ease so he wouldn't be too snappish. It was pointless to be upset, the human was being well-mannered overall.

His throat had cleared and he sighed, "If there are concerns, I can promise you I have no hand in them." That itself actually was the whole truth. "I am simply a traveler. Not a witch, but I partake in arts here and there. Don't think this is at my finest."

The first time and the second, perhaps a coincidence. The third: a pattern. This time he could not have missed it. Both hands were in plain sight. Yet, with little more than a handwave, the metal bridge of his glasses sliding back into place along his nose could not have been the product of conjuring ink. Were the Brim Hats capable of achieving such heights? Had they broken the ceiling of what the witches understood about magic beyond what their society forbade? Rules were man made and could be ignored. Magic, wondrous as it was, still possessed its immutable properties that even the Brim Hats could not ignore.

“That’s not possible,” Qifrey whispers, denying reality with a wary step backwards. Caution, intrigue, and a dangerous hope he works to spurn keeps him from acquiescing to protocol. “You claim not to be a witch? You’ve got a palm quire somewhere.”

No other reasonable explanation comes to mind. A timed execution of the spell, running in parallel to their conversation with a predetermined outcome before he got here. Try as he might, he cannot detect any attempts at deception through tone of voice alone. 

The weight of the domed metal feels familiar beneath his cloak as his pen bridges the open path of his spell circle, relieving him of the evaporating chill of wet clothing.

Air and heat, joined to provide a drying warmth. Even Qifrey cannot dry himself with only a frivolous hand movement. Whether his quire were in plain sight or not, through shifting fabric and the slightest hand movements, the scratch of a nib on paper– any seasoned witch would know that Qifrey had prepared the spell beforehand to be used at a moment’s notice.

No magic exists spontaneously.

It wasn't anything major, or so he assumed it wouldn't be, but the ground beneath them had been soaked under their feet. He himself was like a drenched stray dog who had fallen into a riverbed. Alas, as humiliating as it was, he still didn't favor being questioned. How dare he have the gall to interrogate him. It was a little bizarre though, this man looked gentle — delicate even, like a meadow full of dandelions. However, he could tell he was more than that.

"I sneezed." Ah yes, it was that simple. It wasn't exactly a lie, just half of the truth, but he couldn't exactly tell somebody that he had been playing with multiple types of magics. Surely he had his own, but as a demon who liked to observe everything and be hands on to fulfill his curiosities, he wanted a hand at trying magic the way the mortals did. It was interesting to him and honestly he found an appeal to it. It didn't eat away at his own strength, but the sneeze had lines connect in such a sloppy way and caused his own abilities to spill, leading to the predicament he was currently in.

How he'd been able to get the tool in the first place; well usually observing things while glamoured as a corvid did wonders for stalking and thievery. He could easily do it at that moment as well if he wanted to fly away, but he didn't need more attention and questions thrown at him. At least he really was only seen by this one man, but he was confused how he was found in the first place. He had thought he was alone.

Magic produced no scent, sound, or signal on its own except what had been written into existence by its wielder. He did not need to see to know that the schlucking suck of the  mud beneath his boots was caused by some poorly scrawled spell. His robes, waterlogged, hung heavily off his slender shoulders and his glasses sat askew on the bridge of his nose. His grimace made him resemble a disgruntled cat thrown into the bath.

Moments before, he had been perfectly, temperately dry.

And now he was not.

Far along the outskirts of Kalhn, not many knew that an unassuming witch kept his atelier nestled in the hills bordered by the inland, craggy mountains. The secrecy afforded through seclusion worked only when a domain was not readily shared, and so, all small spells and minor disturbances would eventually come to form a pattern that could be recognized. 

To let unknown parties get this far, to this extent without his immediate knowing made the pit of his right eye socket ache something terrible.

“Is your lie good enough? No, I don’t believe so,” Qifrey responds, off puttingly mild as he wrings out one sopping sleeve then the next. Though a touch of sugar provides a veneer for his irritation, it does not change his learned experience; politeness carries a conversation farther than outright antagonization.

“Odd. You aren’t a witch.” A statement of fact preceding the process of elimination. “Not an unknowing.”

Not so eloquent in your magic-making either, he politely does not say. The remaining possibilities do not bode well, even if it sparks a keen interest in demanding the stranger’s true identity and affiliation.