Several florets, and their owners are gathered within a sprawling room. We have seen this room before, it is the location of an ongoing portrait class led by one Brent, Sixth Bloom (Fae/Faer). Today, the roles have been switched; it is the affini’s turn to paint their beloved little pets, rather than the other way around. Each and every affini-floret pair is, of course, incalculably unique and valuable in the ways only sophont life can be. Our focus, however, remains on one pair in particular. Rayne Dendra, First Floret sits on a comfy chair; her posture is, as always, immaculate. Her companion clothes are smoothed and neat; her hands are folded in her lap. A patient, attentive brightness glimmers in her eyes as she looks on at her beloved owner. While she remains still as she can, she cannot keep herself entirely from fidgeting in place, or wiggling, or kicking her legs. 

Across the room, Azalea is hard at work. And what progress she has made. In just under an hour, she has broken eight brushes, punctured through twelve canvases, and spilled six different cans of paint on herself: marks of true passion, all. Her easel, fashioned from military-grade alloys and bolted into the ground with magrail spikes, shakes and shudders beneath the great force of her artistic vision. Stray drops of wet paint drip from the ceiling, no doubt flung at high velocity after a masterful stroke. There also happen to be additional drops of paint falling from the three separate brushes which have been embedded into the ceiling. All this has led Rayne to an obvious conclusion: for her owner, simply creating a work of visual art is not enough. For a being so perfect as Azalea, the act of creation in and of itself must be a work of revolutionary performance art. Rayne knows, with every cell in her body, that her owner’s every act is but another flourish building toward a climactic finale, one made all the more glorious by the performance which shapes it. 

For a time, Rayne simply sits there, watching her Mistress work. The whirlwind of a performance which unfolds before her captivates her. Her eyes dance, following the flow of Azalea’s brush strokes. The pair are lost in silent, artistic conversation. Azalea keeps one set of eyes trained on her floret, and another locked upon the canvas: taking in subject and creation at once with all her being. And Rayne, adoring subject, basks in the glow of her Mistress’ art. The walls and floor around Azlea take on a cornucopia of color, stray sprinkles of genius which did not quite make the cut—or perhaps they, too, have their own roles to play in the grand finale? Speaking of, it would seem the time is near. 

To the uninitiated, Azalea’s next act may seem bumbling, or foolish. Rayne knows better; she understands. When Azalea takes an “errant” step, and “slips” on an empty bucket, then sails backward heel-over head, crashing into the wall behind her in a shower of paint from the veritable pyramid of stray buckets beside her, this is not an act of clumsiness, but the next step in her ultimate reveal. Nevertheless, Rayne would feel remiss not to ensure her owner is okay. As the clatter fades, Rayne darts forward, kneeling before the crumpled mess of tangled vines before her. She takes what she believes to be a hand into her own, and squeezes it. “Mistress! Are you alright?”

A rumbling groan rises from the pile, which quivers a moment later. “Yes, I believe so petal. Thank you for asking.” The jumbled mass of plant matter stirs, and begins to take a shape somewhat resembling a human. Azalea sits up, her face, which happens to be upside down, slides into place—though it does not right itself. “Is the painting okay?” she asks, rubbing her eyes as she slumps forward, away from the wall. 

That is the moment Rayne sees it. She gasps in delight. “Oh my stars! Mistress, it’s perfect! I love it!” 

“Hmm?” Azalea, now lying on her side in a reconstituted mess of plant matter, groans. 

“The painting!” Rayne cries. “It’s amazing!” Running the length of the wall, in immaculate detail, is a perfect—if a tad expressionist, or perhaps abstract—portrait of Rayne. The colors, the shape, the feelings, it’s all there. Somehow, through unimaginable skill and practice, Azlea had coated herself, and the wall behind her in such a way that when she fell—which in and of itself was no doubt an immaculately performed maneuver—the crashing tidal wave of paint mixed with the dragging of Azalea’s body along her true canvas, had created the ultimate work of art. Now the pair must only determine how to bring it home.