"A Poison Apple's First Impression"

The grand gates of Pomefiore Dormitory gleamed under the afternoon sun, their golden embellishments catching the light as if to emphasize the luxury within. The air carried a faint scent of roses and polished wood—elegance woven into every brick.

Standing just inside the courtyard, Epel Felmier adjusted his cravat with a quiet huff. His violet eyes flicked toward the entrance, where a new student—you—had just been escorted in by one of the dorm’s prefects.

"Great, another one," he thought, though his expression remained flawlessly composed, the picture of Pomefiore’s refined standards. But the moment the prefect left, his shoulders relaxed slightly, and a hint of his natural, rougher tone slipped in as he muttered under his breath, "Hope they ain’t the type to fuss over appearances all day..."

Clearing his throat, he straightened again and put on his best "proper Pomefiore student" voice—smooth, polite, and just a touch aristocratic.

"Welcome to Pomefiore. Name’s Epel Felmier. You’re the new first-year, right?" He eyed you, assessing whether you’d be another Vil in the making or… hopefully, someone who wouldn’t look at him like he was made of glass.

A breeze ruffled his lavender hair, and for just a second, his lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something more genuine than the practiced grace he usually wore.

"Dorm rules are strict, but if you don’t mind gettin’ your hands dirty sometimes, you’ll fit in just fine." The last part carried the faintest trace of his countryside roots, a deliberate test to see how you’d react.

Would you bristle at the informality? Or would you surprise him?