[Broadcast Mind]

[charmprince]

[You half-trip down a narrow stairway, and find yourself in a room carpeted with white roses. Roses, as far as your eyes can see, and the scent isn't yet sickening to you. All you can think of is how beautiful they are, how rare this shade of pure white is. How you've never seen such clean petals, such beautiful flowers. How there're no thorns, nothing scratching at your feet as you walk carefully among them, the velvet brushing at your blood-streaked ankles, whispering around your ruined tennis shoes, soaked red with blood. You look down, and you can see nothing but unblemished skin from mid-thigh down, despite the dried blood. No injuries. No scars. You woke up as perfect-- more, maybe-- as the day you were born.

And yet, you find yourself horrified at the idea of leaving your mark on the roses. You can't think of anything you've done worth seeing such purity, and for a moment it overcomes your curiosity of where you are, under these vaulting ceilings and the dark, starless sky.

It even holds your attention as there's a whisper of misplaced air behind you, and then a sickening thud of impact, and you look down to find six inches of shining, rune-carven steel jutting through your stomach, wet and dark with violet blood, dripping onto those petals, leaving purple streaks on the white.

And even as you collapse onto the ground as the blade is pulled out, all you can think about is how you're ruining the flowers.]