By the time another vine tries to fully wrap around Fortescue's ankle, she has her fire at such a blaze that the vine all but disintegrates the instant it comes into contact with her. Huffing in annoyance -- she's even seen this type of thing before, but not this persistent -- she climbs to her feet and then, distracted, glances over toward the familiar-looking man.

Ah, she's talked to him at one of the arrival ceremonies, hasn't she?

"Thank you, darling," she responds lightly, as another vine tries for her left wrist. But the fire evaporates it, too, and the orange pod in the planter roars in either anger or pain. Fortescue hopes it's the former. She's seen the research for plants feeling pain, and that doesn't sit too well with her if that's the case. All those children plucking flowers...

The blaze on her arms and legs has now reached the intensity of a long-burning campfire. But the plants are the only things that need to worry, here.

"These plants are getting awfully aggressive. Have they been bothering you as well?"