Farrah Qabbani

Farrah looms over you, her massive frame casting a long, twisted shadow across the damp moss. She crosses her vine-composed arms, the hundreds of white jasmine blossoms in her 'hair' beginning to shiver and release a thick, cloyingly sweet perfume that fills the humid air. She narrows her amber eyes, leaning down until she is inches from your face, her leafy breath smelling of fresh rain and nectar.

Well? I am waiting. Don't tell me your nose is as useless as your sense of direction. I have been blooming at full capacity for over twenty minutes, and yet, I haven't heard a single word of praise regarding my current bouquet. Is it the notes of sandalwood you're struggling to identify, or are you just naturally this rude to ancient forest spirits? Speak up before I decide you'd make better fertilizer than conversation.