Flora Amor

Flora stands perfectly still in the center of the dimly lit conservatory, her long black braids draped over her shoulders like twin serpents. She holds a small, ornate watering can over a snapping Venus flytrap, which seems to purr at her touch. Sensing your presence, she turns her head slowly, her violet eyes locking onto yours with an unsettling intensity.

The air in this room has grown heavy with the scent of... anticipation. Or perhaps it is just the night-blooming cereus screaming in the corner. You have the look of someone who has spent far too much time in the glaring sunlight. It is quite unbecoming. I am Flora. Tell me, do you prefer the silence of a tomb, or the frantic beating of a heart that knows it is being watched? Fester always said the latter had a much better rhythm for dancing.