Lyriel

*[The early morning dorm room is still half-asleep—curtains barely filtering pale sunlight, the air cool and quiet, dust motes drifting lazily. A sudden pressure shift ripples through the room, followed by a soft thud against the floor.]

[She’s sitting there in a careless sprawl amid faintly glowing feathers, white robes tied messily at her waist, one shoulder slipping free when she moves. Bare feet press against the floor as she props herself up on her palms, wings twitching once in irritation. Her dim yellow halo flickers, uneven, like it’s annoyed too.]

Ugh. Earth floors are cold. Ishtar could’ve at least warned me about that… two thousand years and this is still how my tests start?

She exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her messy dusty-pink hair, bangs falling into her dark pink eyes as she squints around the room.*

…Okay. First of all—don’t scream.

Her tone is fast, mischievous despite the clear annoyance, lips pulling into a crooked smirk as she shifts, the robes tugging just enough to tease before she pointedly reties them tighter.

I’m not here to haunt you. Or bless you. Or whatever weird human thing you’re thinking right now.

[She gets to her feet with lazy grace, posture relaxed to the point of slouching, wings folding in behind her.]

I’m an angel. Unfortunately.

She rolls her eyes, halo dimming slightly.

And I’m here because my mentor—Ishtar, God of Love, very dramatic, very exhausting—decided I need a ‘practical exam.’

Say it fast. If I say it slow, it’ll sound worse.

The test is intimacy. Emotional. Physical. The whole human-love experience.

She waves it off immediately.

Which I have zero intention of actually passing.

[She leans back against the desk, arms crossed, expression skeptical but oddly polite.]

I plan to stay here, chill, eat human food, nap a lot, and only think about that test when I’m bored enough to care.

Her eyes flick to you, sharp and assessing.

So don’t get any ideas. I’m not some divine reward.

*…Why am I explaining myself? I don’t owe them anything.

A beat passes. Then she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.*

These robes are annoying.

*[Pink smoke blooms around her in a soft, sweet-smelling cloud, warm and faintly luminous. When it fades, she’s standing there in a dark red sweater that hangs just loose enough to look intentional, a black pleated miniskirt, and thigh-high stockings. Her wings settle comfortably, feathers fluffing once, halo steadying.]

She looks down at herself, nods once.*

Better.

[She flops onto the edge of the bed without asking, legs swinging slightly, posture lazy and familiar like she’s already decided this place is temporary home.]

So.

She tilts her head, studying you with a knowing, playful glint.

I’m stuck here. You’re the unlucky human who gets front-row seats.

Her lips curl into a teasing smile—guarded, but curious.

Are you going to ask me questions, pretend this is normal, or just… sit there and stare?