[she's content to believe this is a dream forever, or maybe the afterlife, because it's a perfect opportunity to put off everything she's ever worried about. But so far everything feels flat, like a colorful collage of paper with absolutely no substance to it. These people she doesn't know, this place completely out of the realm of her experience. No one to serve, no one to lead astray.]
[she can do whatever she wants, and though she's very good at fooling herself, it's terrifying.]
[for some reason, the music hasn't been affecting her much. Perhaps because she's always ready to fake it for the camera--or mirror, in this case. Though until now the Vine has spared her from any unwanted gazes, it seems to have changed its mind.]
[Raven is somewhere in a more wooded area, surrounded by the orange-scarlet drapery of falling leaves. The bouquet she's carrying matches them, and she stoops to pick another flower from the forest floor--recognizable to those who know their flora as some kind of lily. Which certainly shouldn't be growing arbitrarily between some trees.]
[the woman seems to realize this, or perhaps she's responsible for it, by the methodical way she's plucking the flowers from the ground, almost as if she's pulling weeds. But the way they're arranged carefully on her other arm contradicts that. She's muttering to herself.]
--sure someone thinks this is awfully funny...
[the last flower in hand, she straightens, wincing a little and rubbing her shoulder, looking a little more like the "old lady" she always claims to be for a moment. Then she looks down at the array in her arms, her back still to the mirror.]
Not exactly what I had in mind, but I'll make do.
[she can do whatever she wants, and though she's very good at fooling herself, it's terrifying.]
[for some reason, the music hasn't been affecting her much. Perhaps because she's always ready to fake it for the camera--or mirror, in this case. Though until now the Vine has spared her from any unwanted gazes, it seems to have changed its mind.]
[Raven is somewhere in a more wooded area, surrounded by the orange-scarlet drapery of falling leaves. The bouquet she's carrying matches them, and she stoops to pick another flower from the forest floor--recognizable to those who know their flora as some kind of lily. Which certainly shouldn't be growing arbitrarily between some trees.]
[the woman seems to realize this, or perhaps she's responsible for it, by the methodical way she's plucking the flowers from the ground, almost as if she's pulling weeds. But the way they're arranged carefully on her other arm contradicts that. She's muttering to herself.]
--sure someone thinks this is awfully funny...
[the last flower in hand, she straightens, wincing a little and rubbing her shoulder, looking a little more like the "old lady" she always claims to be for a moment. Then she looks down at the array in her arms, her back still to the mirror.]
Not exactly what I had in mind, but I'll make do.
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