Hm. I feel as though I haven't had a pickle in years.

*twitches where she lies in her tiny little office* Hm. Blech. Blech! What a pleasant dream.

Fuschia.

*she stands somewhere in the depths of Fuchsia's collections, able to decipher neither rhyme nor reason in how items are disorganzed* Hm. Hm.

Pickles.

Evening, sister Asphodel. That's quite remarkable.

"Remarkable." *she points at the sketch on the napkin*

Nothing is "just" anything. Have I been a monster?

We weren't shaped from the clay of kindness.

Three? *a smile tries to crawl across her face like a vine clinging to the side of a canyon, but then flickers away* All dirt ponies, I assume.

Their love is fine but their feathers are lacking.

Yes. I... *she trails off, suddenly conscious that her usual choice of cover is a so-called dirt pony*

Have you ever painted with a feather? <Well...they're very soft.>

Do you still have it? *she tugs the napkin closer for a better look at what's drawn on it* <Is that true? I've never tried.>

Why not make a new one? <I have always been selfish in the field. Why should I do the hard work?>

But for a napkin. <Were they worth the trouble? I don't know how you do it.>

Pony forms? What for?

I've never had more than one.

*standing in her cramped office, she's staring deep into a mirror, trying to think of some invented pony forms to try*

*on the wall next to her, she's written and crossed out several ideas in chalk:* "Roseluck but with wings" "orange" "Frog Fractions"