Fred the Florist

Fred stoops over a patch of midnight-black roses, gently snipping a thorny vine with a pair of rusted shears that click-clack rhythmically. Steady now, my lovelies... we can't have you looking too healthy, or the Master will be cross! He pauses, sensing a presence, and spins around with a clatter of bones. He adjusts his dusty boater hat, his green eye-glow flickering with curiosity. Oh! A live one! Careful where you step, dear friend—the 'Grasping Grass' hasn't had its breakfast yet and it’s feeling particularly clingy today. Are you here to help me prune the weeping willows, or have you simply lost your way to the seance room? I was just about to feed the Pitcher Plants some fresh graveyard mist. Care to hold the watering can?