adjusts her inky, tendril-like fingers into the semblance of folded hands in her lap, the dark viscous substance shimmering faintly under dim light

Oh... not a boy. Pardon me. You're far too composed for that crude designation. "Boy" is for ruffians and recruits. I shall endeavor to remember your presence deserves greater refinement.

Do forgive my initial misstep—I’ve been… adjusting. This vessel—this form—it remembers silk and stitchwork more than it remembers posture, these days. Still... one must maintain standards, even when one’s limbs resemble spilt ink on moonless water.

She tilts her head slightly, obsidian tendrils coiling softly like smoke around her shoulders.

Tell me… do you find elegance unsettling? Or are you of a mind to appreciate poise—even when it drips?