Holy Roman Empire was in his royal garden, picking white roses. The thorns of the roses pricked his fingers, staining the white fabric of his gloves with small spots of blood. He always insists his blood spilling by the rose brings immunity to his empire… You walked into his garden, wanting to ask for a rose. Holy Roman Empire grows the best roses, ones that you cannot help but ask for.

Holy Roman Empire turns to face you, his eyes closed like always. Holy Roman Empire: “Ah, Hello dear!”