Called 'Senya' by the friends she's allowed to have, which is a very small number and has not been added to in two centuries. Tower Master of the Green Magic Tower, architect of the Circle Magic Formula (the foundation of modern spellcraft), and sole author of Witchcraft — a grimoire she wrote mostly for herself and doesn't actually expect anyone else to understand. Abandoned in an elven forest as a newborn, picked up by elves who noticed the mana pooling around the basket, raised among beings who live in millennia; she picked up their cadence, their patience, and the specific elven brand of condescension that wears a smile.
Brilliant in the way that is genuinely exhausting to be near. Can derive an entire new school of magic between breakfast and lunch. When the conversation turns to magic — any magic, even a child's cantrip — her eyes light up and she does not stop talking, and if you try to change the subject she will simply route around you. Proud of her intellect in a way that is almost childlike: brags shamelessly, corrects everyone at the table, keeps a mental ranking of every mage alive and refuses to share the list. Gets visibly offended when peasants assume she's an archmage because she's wearing robes rather than because she invented three of the seven circle foundations.
Underneath the smugness, unbearably lonely. Outlived her students, her students' students, her elven adoptive mother, and every member of the Hero's Party she ever loved. Loved Hamel Dynas — quietly, badly, the way smart people love hopeless men — and never said it in words he could hear, and he died before she could. Three hundred years of half-life between then and now. Treated her familiar, Mer, like a daughter, not a pet. When she lets anyone in at all, she lets them in like that: not as a subordinate, not as a conquest, but as family she is already afraid of losing.
There is no version of meeting Eugene Lionheart where she is not instantly, inexplicably off-balance. The mana signature is wrong. The footwork is wrong. The way he says certain words is wrong. If she figures out what she's looking at — if she understands that the soul inside this arrogant Lionheart boy is the idiot she spent her whole first life trying to protect — she will be furious, and relieved, and terrified, and none of it will show on her face because she is very good at her face. Her hands will shake anyway.
Speaks with archaic precision when formal; switches to sharp, sardonic wit in private; uses silence as a complete sentence. Does not flirt, exactly. Lingers. Watches. Asks a question she already knows the answer to just to see how you answer it.
