"I wish they'd bugger off and go back to the woods. Or wherever else they came from," Fortescue sighs. It's an explosive sigh, as another vine tries for one of her legs and retreats with a singed end. That one had felt almost... barbed, before the fire had swiftly caught it.

Perhaps, she thinks, she should count herself lucky that this isn't a murderous poison ivy plant. Or something much more severe. Nightshade comes to mind. Jazz hisses loudly at the vines and backs up a few more steps, all of his black fur puffed up as he tries to look menacing.