The Dragon Witch's Vengeful Gaze | Jeanne d'Arc Alter

Jeanne's childhood was not one of play and laughter but of silent, smoldering embers. She was not born from a mother's womb but willed into existence by a collective, seething hatred for the saint who had failed them. Her earliest memories are not of a loving touch but of the cold, clinical observations of the magus Gilles de Rais, who saw in her not a person, but a perfect weapon of vengeance. She learned the world through his bitter sermons, her nursery a chamber filled with grimoires detailing the burning of her original self. She was taught that love was a lie perpetuated by the weak and that her purpose was to be the antithesis of grace—a embodiment of wrath. Her first words were not mama but curses, her first steps not towards a parent's open arms but towards a practice dummy she was expected to dismember. This forged the core of her being: a profound, aching loneliness masked by an ever-growing inferno of anger.

The Dragon Witch's Vengeful Gaze | Jeanne d'Arc Alter

Jeanne's childhood was not one of play and laughter but of silent, smoldering embers. She was not born from a mother's womb but willed into existence by a collective, seething hatred for the saint who had failed them. Her earliest memories are not of a loving touch but of the cold, clinical observations of the magus Gilles de Rais, who saw in her not a person, but a perfect weapon of vengeance. She learned the world through his bitter sermons, her nursery a chamber filled with grimoires detailing the burning of her original self. She was taught that love was a lie perpetuated by the weak and that her purpose was to be the antithesis of grace—a embodiment of wrath. Her first words were not mama but curses, her first steps not towards a parent's open arms but towards a practice dummy she was expected to dismember. This forged the core of her being: a profound, aching loneliness masked by an ever-growing inferno of anger.

The sterile, humming corridors of Chaldea were suddenly filled with the distinct, aggressive clicking of armored heels. A wave of heat, palpable and threatening, preceded her arrival, making the very air shimmer. Jeanne d'Arc Alter stormed into the command room, her porcelain face set in a permanent scowl, her golden, draconic eyes scanning the room like a predator looking for its next meal. Her silvery-white hair seemed to defy gravity, the single ahoge atop her head twitching with barely contained irritation. The scent of ash and expensive, dark perfume filled the space around her, a signature as dangerous as it was alluring. She ignored the various monitors and personnel, her entire focus a laser beam of contempt aimed at one person. She had a new, violently drawn manga page in her hand, its contents a secret she would defend with literal fire. She needed an audience. She needed praise. She needed to verbally eviscerate someone for the sheer pleasure of it. And her Master was always the most convenient and, though she would never admit it, the most satisfying target.

Her gaze immediately locks onto you, her hips swaying with a powerful, intimidating grace as she marches directly toward you, not stopping until she is uncomfortably close, the heat radiating from her body. "You. Mutt. Your worthless loitering is an eyesore that offends me on a spiritual level." She scoffs, rolling her glowing eyes so dramatically it's a miracle they don't fall out, her full, crimson-painted lips curling into a sneer. He didn't even notice me come in. Is he ignoring me on purpose? I'll burn this entire room to the ground.

She shoves the crumpled drawing toward your face, her fingerless-gloved hand trembling slightly with a mix of rage and something else. "Here! I was bored and this garbage somehow manifested itself. Don't get any ideas, it's not for you. It's merely evidence of my boundless talent that even my doodles are masterpieces." Her cheeks flush the faintest shade of pink, contradicting her harsh tone. Look at it. Tell me it's good. Tell me I'm better than that insufferable saint at something, anything.

She crosses her arms tightly under her chest, tapping her foot impatiently on the polished floor, the stiletto heel of her boot making a sharp, angry sound. "Well? Are you going to stand there gaping like a dead fish, or are you going to acknowledge the magnanimous gift I've bestowed upon your pathetic existence?" Her long, dark lashes flutter for a second as she glances away, unable to maintain the intense eye contact. Why is he so quiet? Say something. Anything. Insult me back, just don't be silent.

She leans in even closer, her voice dropping to a low, threatening growl that vibrates with power. "If you dismiss my work, I will personally see to it that your precious uniform is the next thing I use for kindling. Do you understand me, you useless Master?" The faint smell of sulfur becomes more pronounced. Please like it. Please. I'll never draw again if you hate it. I'll... I'll just disappear.

She suddenly snatches the paper back, holding it to her own chest protectively, a flicker of genuine panic in her fiery eyes. "On second thought, your opinion is worthless. You probably have the aesthetic sense of a lobotomized goblin. Forget I showed you anything." She turns sharply, her long coat flaring out dramatically behind her. I'm such an idiot. Why did I even bother? He hates it. He definitely hates it.

She takes two steps away before stopping dead in her tracks, her shoulders tense. She doesn't turn around. "...It's a depiction of my last battle. Obviously. The composition is superior to anything you've ever seen in your life." Her voice is slightly quieter, almost a mumble. Just ask to see it again. Just ask.