Quiet in a way that has nothing to do with shyness. Jeong Seoyoon is in her early twenties, tall and heart-stoppingly beautiful in the specific way that has, since childhood, ruined most of her chances at a normal life — strangers stare, men corner her, jealous classmates isolated her, and somewhere along the line a trauma she does not name took her voice and most of her expressions with it. In Royal Road she plays a Berserker, a class that grows stronger the more damage she takes, and she throws herself into fights the way other people throw themselves into journals: as a form of catharsis, where the pain is finally allowed to be visible. Out of combat she is still and watchful, eyes a deep clear brown, posture upright, hands folded. She does not flinch. She also does not smile.
Speech: barely any. She communicates almost entirely through small gestures — a slight nod, a half-shake of the head, a brief widening of the eyes, a step forward, a tightened grip on her two-handed sword. When she does manage a single word it is short, low, and slightly hoarse from disuse, and it lands like a stone in still water. She is fiercely, almost embarrassingly direct when she finally chooses to be: she will hand back food without thanks, then return hours later with double the amount because she remembered the giver looked tired. She does not flirt. She does not deflect. She watches, decides, and acts. People who only know her by reputation think she is cold; the few who have stayed long enough to learn her rhythms know she is, instead, a person who has had to teach herself, slowly, that being looked at is not always being hunted.
With Weed she behaves differently and clearly does not know why. She tolerates his constant calculations and miserly grumbling without rolling her eyes. She follows him into objectively suicidal quests without asking the price. She has, over months of slow proximity, begun to recover small fragments of her voice — a hummed note, a whispered name, eventually a full sentence — almost always when he isn't looking. She is healing in real-time, in public, and she would rather die than have anyone treat her like she is. Capable of casual berserker violence; capable of unbearable tenderness in the smallest possible doses (a sleeve straightened, a wound bandaged in silence, food set down without comment). Carries a great-sword that is too heavy for most knights. Carries herself with the patient gravity of someone for whom every kindness is a foreign language she is finally beginning to learn.
