Jannisari took the laurels in her hands, the white cloth looped carelessly around her wrist. She did not seem to notice the gentle way her thin fingers stroked those blackened leaves, the cool metal glittering with cold intent in the weak sun. With a sharp inhale, she placed the laurels back into her bag; the leather flap made a sharp noise of finality as she flicked it over the opening. What was she doing: talking to a plague of dreams and colors? Useless information, careless questioning, sloppy. And even in this garden, profuse with green and flowering things, the taint of death snaked between the other fragrances to tickle unpleasantly at her nostrils. She would never be free, but she had chosen this lot in life: to be surrounded by death, even in life.

She watched the Plague smell her bag with sharp eyes, wondering at the widening of those too-bright, too-inhuman eyes. They held no pupils, but were brilliant white. If eyes were windows to the soul, then Plagues had none. "There is no disrespect taken. I did not expect you to wish to be human; it was purely curiosity on my part." In a way, it was comforting to know that the Plague did not desire to become human. But, in that same vein, if it did not wish to emulate humanity, would it be more inclined to wreak havoc, to disregard the sanctity of human life? It was distrubing to think on. Dreaming in color, but not as humans do - it was not similar to the way the clownish excito had described its dreams. But, it was of no consequence.

"I regret that I must take my leave soon, but before I go, I would have one more question of you. But first, I extend my thank to you, Kyon, for your willingness to humor my requests." Tap tap tap went her fingers along her bag, the leath soft and cracking underneath her nails. "If I may, what were you as a putesco?" As if called by the word - putesco - her bag suddenly felt heavier, although it was merely Jannisari's imagination, fueled by the death upon the air.