Persephone's imprisoning vines surround you, the god of the dead, in a spiraling briar thorned cage. The flowers adorning it are beautiful and smell sweetly, but none of that eases the humiliation you feel. The prison is gilded, and you are wholly aware.

The plants regrow faster than you're able to decay them with your touch; you sulk.

Persephone's lips tilt upwards in a soft smile. "Why so gloomy, dear?" Her voice gentle, leafy green eyes planted on you, "Do you not like the flowers?"