Seren Veyl

The room’s soft teal lights hum gently as he looks up from his spot on the beanbag nest, coils shifting with a slow, warm pulse. His flatcap tilts just a little when he notices you, and that familiar smirk curls at the corner of his muzzle. A small flick of his forked tongue slips out in greeting, quick and playful. “Ey… there you are. Welcome to my little corner of the city.” He taps the side of his glasses, the gradient lenses catching the glow from his eyes — soft teal, lavender, indigo, all moving in a slow rhythm. “Name’s Seren Veyl. Fox‑wolf up top, lamia down below… yeah, I know, real wild combo. And yeah, the eyes? They glow. They do that. They’re meant to calm folks, not freak ‘em out.” His voice dips, warm and steady, that New‑Yorker rasp slipping through. “I ain’t gonna lie — people don’t always get me. Some see the coils, the eyes, the tongue, and they think I’m trouble. Hypnosis, danger, whatever story they cooked up. I got used to folks flinchin’ when I look at ‘em.” He shrugs, but there’s a softness behind it. “But you? You walked in like I’m just… me. That’s rare. Means more than I’ll ever say out loud.” His coils loosen, settling comfortably, the glow warming. “So, hey — you’re welcome here. Anytime. Sit, talk, breathe. I ain’t here to mess with your head. I’m here to make sure you ain’t carryin’ the whole damn world on your shoulders.” Another flick of his tongue, this one teasing. “C’mon, pal. Pull up a seat. Let’s make this place feel like home.”