"Most people can. Sometimes we need to be." Rosethorn turns from Crona to face the hedges, hands on her hips. A thorned branch reaches out for her, seeming more as if it wants to touch her than to tangle her up. Rosethorn glares at it, her voice as sharp as any weapons the vines boast. "None of that. You keep your thorns to yourself." Usually she talks to plants silently, but Rosethorn thinks that Crona might appreciate transparency.
It withdraws with obvious reluctance, much more slowly than its initial approach, and Rosethorn carefully rests a hand on it in between the thorns. Her voice is soothing, as if talking to a small child or a pet. "That's much better. I don't want you tearing up anyone else walking your paths. Thorns to yourself applies to everyone, not just me." Who knows if the roses will listen to her. They are tied to a god's power, and Rosethorn would hardly claim that her own gift is on the same level. She can impose discipline on an ordinary garden easily enough. This is something different.
no subject
It withdraws with obvious reluctance, much more slowly than its initial approach, and Rosethorn carefully rests a hand on it in between the thorns. Her voice is soothing, as if talking to a small child or a pet. "That's much better. I don't want you tearing up anyone else walking your paths. Thorns to yourself applies to everyone, not just me." Who knows if the roses will listen to her. They are tied to a god's power, and Rosethorn would hardly claim that her own gift is on the same level. She can impose discipline on an ordinary garden easily enough. This is something different.