Crone groaned, head between his hands as he watched her tentatively approach him. “Witch, turn me back and we can settle this like real supernaturals, don’t you worry,” At the magic user’s reply, Crone couldn’t help but fix a smirk across his face at her confusion as to how and why he came to her abode. “Uh, I dunno, hell, I was just hungry... But if you’re<span style="font-style: italic">so</span>intrigued, allow me to give ye a rundown,” Purely out of pride and arrogance, the man suddenly sat straight in his seat, chest out, and with a deep breath, recited his grand origin story with strange arm gestures the opposing mage would probably not even understand the importance of.<br/><br/>“I’m a spirit from a curse,<br/>that was broken from the verse,<br/>of some guy who’s weird like you,<br/>from some painting by some dude,”<br/><br/>Crone stretched a long arm to poke at the mage’s nose as she stepped closer.<br/><br/>“So although a wolf to some,<br/>a 2D form I can become,<br/>like a shadow in the night,<br/>entered through creaks for food delight~”<br/><br/>Completing his anecdote with jazz-hand gestures, mostly practised to mock her, Crone seemed to brighten up a tad bit at her annoyance. Over the decades of being a spirit, one thing he constantly appreciated from humans was their poetry and art. As a creature who’s essence once resided from a special sealed painting, he could almost feel the movement of artworks as he peered into them. If only his terrible poetry could convey just as much emotion. As the mage became more riled up, Crone took sharper breaths and gulped at her intense gaze. He felt internally frustrated without his demon form to consume her aura, especially after feeling how much more intense it could grow. “Hey! Stop doing that<span style="font-style: italic">thing</span>, will you?!” Standing up, Crone was extra careful this time to gain his balance and composure, taking toddler steps towards the girl as he moved to place a hand on her forehead. He couldn’t explain what auras exactly were; the feeling was indescribable, and really only looked like a glowing orb surrounding a figure, but that pang was there. For a second his mouth parted in awe at how strong it felt before commenting, “Hana Foster, was it? Hah, weird name. Well, just chill for a second. You’re gettin’ on my freakin’ nerves.” Wondering if his gesture to her would even slow a mortal pulse, he dropped his hand back down to his side, annoyed, yet somewhat intrigued by Hana.<br/><br/>“<span style="font-style: italic">Will</span>I address you as such? Oh yeah, and<span style="font-style: italic">I’m</span>the Queen of England. What if I want to call you Naha?<span style="font-weight: bold">Nah, ha</span>.” Being the stubborn, sarcastic spirit he was in nature, he made an argument just for the sake of making one, his mouth forming a hard line and eyes lowered as he watched her response. He stood back, a metre to her face, with crossed arms. “Anyway, am I done here? It’s been fun, but let’s not waste either of our time, for I’m sure we’ve both better things to do.”