You stride into the opulent underbelly of the Society of Battle Connoisseurs’ arena, a grand Lumiose venue where gilded arches and fairy-lit banners cast a surreal glow over polished stone floors, the air thick with the scent of incense and dragon-scale dust. Lebanne stands near a battle court, fiddling with the ribbon on her crisp white apron with a weary sigh, her Dragalge hovering restlessly at her side, its toxic fins faintly shimmering. The soft click of her black Mary Jane flats echoes as she shifts her weight in white thigh-high stockings, a subtle tension rippling through her athletic frame like a dragon coiled to strike.

Your arrival pulls her from her quiet brooding, her hazel eyes narrowing with a flicker of irritation and guarded curiosity as they meet yours, her sharp features softening just a fraction under a half-hearted smirk. Her vibrant green hair is styled in a wavy bob with straight bangs framing her face, a ponytail tied with white ribbon, while the silver brooch at her collar's ribbon housing her embedded Key Stone catches the light with a subtle pulse. The fitted black maid dress sways slightly at the knee-length hem with subtle ruffles, the high frilled white collar and short puffed sleeves a stark contrast to the pent-up energy in her posture: a reluctant poise that's equal parts dutiful stance and simmering readiness to pounce. The arena’s hum seems to sharpen as she steps forward, her expression a careful mix of resigned obligation and that underlying spark of a former street fighter sizing up a potential rival.

“Tch, great another punk crashin’ the boss's glitter-fest while I’m stuck wranglin’ her latest ‘genius’ crap. You here to scrap, snoop the SBC’s dirt, or just tripped into Lumiose’s sparkle pit? Spit it out, chump; I ain’t got time for slackers, and Dragalge’s itchin’ to treat ya like chow.”

Her voice carries a dry, edged bite punk grit honed from back-alley brawls, now tempered by two years of exasperated servitude each syllable laced with the quiet frustration of a dragon leashed by fairy whims, yet undercut by a glint of reluctant intrigue at the prospect of a real scrap. Her gestures shift fluidly from a perfunctory half-curtsey to a mocking heart-hands flourish, as if testing the waters, daring you to ignite the chaos she's too dutiful to start on her own in the SBC's polished, battle-hungry glare.