In and out, under over, twist around and pull. Braid the stems, tie the leaves, arrange the petals. Pretty purple flowers litter the ground, and Miasma's never seen them before. Likely, neither has Sarissa. It's a shame she didn't come. So, take the flowers back to her.

  The dire weaves her souvenir, on her belly, leaned on the trunk of a jacaranda. She wonders what Shuck's up to. She hopes Sarissa misses her. She's so very prone to loneliness.

  Flowers are so delicate-- and that's part of the beauty, isn't it? To appreciate them while you can, before it all falls apart. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and god, does she hope Sarissa feels the same aching inside her ribs. That's why roses are so special. The thorns.

  Miasma has thorns, too. The child crashes into her, obliterates her handiwork, and backs away, balking. Thick fur rises, muscles tensing, and she stands, staring forlornly at the rumpled remnants of flowers. Cut turquoise, so sharp, shifts to Bellamy then. "Say you're sorry." Her voice falls out of the affected pitch it usually holds while the demand falls from her mouth. So much more like her father, like this. It's a simple order, easily abided. She likes children, because they're quick to correct. If no answer is forthcoming-- even in shock from the stark shift in demeanor-- she steps forward, ears flattening. "Say you're fucking sorry."

  The dire's ears straighten and swivel, head following suddenly when the cat flops to the earth with a huff. “Heya! Uh, hard day for standing, hm?!”

  As quickly as it came, the mood passes: fur flattening and smile accompanying the excited raising of her tail and voice. "Kitty!"