"Yes but where did they come from?" Iuliael is probably the last person who'd mind. He gets a lot worse than sass. Thorns are hooking him faster than he can flow free, anchoring him. Tiny eyes open in the might-as-well-be-flesh around the thorns. Under the oppressive heavy sweetness of the roses, his blood has the pungent sting of some kind of incense burning.

When the vines are cut through he lurches in the air, rises up near the ceiling. The severed lengths of vine drip out onto the floor, still writhing but aimlessly now.

"Oh! Careful, you could hurt someone." It's a completely reflexive admonishment. "Sorry. Thank you. What should I do? Should I help you?"