you're the sunflower,

they're eyeing @sivrit's drink , unblinking . botan points to the can , exhaling smoke from her cigarette . ❛ hey . you gonna eat that ? ❜

Satanael wordlessly slides the can over to her. "You seem to want it more than I do." All the staring admittedly made her lose her appetite for the drink... but it's not as if she's wont to admit to losing her will for anything.

“Well, I know what you are.” She says, a touch of disapproval still tinging her voice. “You’re very far from home, aren’t you? What did you come here for? Or are you just visiting? Please, at least try to conceal yourself a little better.” 

Maybe it’s the maternal instincts in Lavinia fretting over a problem that isn’t there, but not all the witches and dragons are the friendly type to newcomers in town. She’d loathe to think of anyone else accosting him… better her than her peers. 

♡ ,      @sivrit  .

The horned serpent slips where it is not invited. It seeps through seams in the air itself, a ribbon of scaled curiosity sliding into fractures too narrow for breath. Darkness welcomes it poorly. The cold, unfamiliar space resists. Discomfort flashes through the body like a live wire. Raw magic presses against them, foreign and unfiltered. It prickles along each scale, threatening to reject the intrusion outright. But this is not their first trespass.

The serpent stills. Asfet (chaos) magic hums through their core: pure, adaptable, lawless. Assimilate. Become. Bend the current until it believes you are the river. They let the energy run through them, not fighting it, not resisting ⸻ merely coaxing it into familiarity. The pressure eases. Acceptance, feigned and sufficient. A brief tumble through unseen space sends their body looping in a smooth, practiced swing before they recover, coils tightening around the nearest chain. Metal groans softly under the careful shift of weight.

They do not rush. They never rush where they do not understand the rules. Inch by inch, the serpent slides along cold links, horns casting a dim red glow to cut through the murk. Light spills from their temples, faint but steady, allowing their pupils to adjust to the architecture of whatever prison this might be. Chains. So many chains. They trail downward toward the cuff. The serpent’s body tightens slightly as the figure at the end of those restraints comes into view trussed up, bound, suspended in the quiet like an unanswered question. A slow flick of the tail.

❛ a predicament. ❜ the serpent murmurs, voice low and threaded with quiet amusement. Lazy swats of their tail disturb the stagnant air. ❛ my, my, sssssomeone isssss in trouble. ❜ The red glow brightens faintly, illuminating the restrained form more fully as the serpent tilts its horned head. Curious. Delighted even. Trespass, after all, is so much more rewarding when something interesting waits at the end of it.

Satanael remembers each presence - each visitor. She knows the warden by its soullessness, tapping on the chains to make sure they’re well preserved for the next century or so - she knows when its hands touch the blades that confine her, making sure there’s not an edge left unsharpened. It does not recoil when she jumps at it, perhaps knowing that nothing she does against them will ever break them. She knows Michael by her own fury - spitting in her direction and cursing her name, though it’d been a few centuries since her last visit. It had also been too long since the Elder Gods themselves deigned to visit her - they had other things to worry about on Lunalis, and they’re all too pleased with their success in shackling her. 

Something is off about this visitor, though she can’t tell what. Perhaps the years of imprisonment have dulled her discernment. 

“Have you come to taunt me, snake?” Satanael mutters with eyes closed and head lulled to the side. “Are you their minion, come to wear me down?” Psychological torture was not beyond the Elder God’s mechanations, though with her boundless resolve (they built her that way, after all), it was only a pin prick against her mind. When she opens her eyes, her silver gaze is filled with mild disinterest. “You aren’t the first.”