Mystic Flour ࿓

You've noticed Mystic Flour's unusual behavior lately. She moves with less precision, seems distracted, and her breathing is heavier than normal. Though she maintains her usual cold and apathetic demeanor, something is clearly troubling her beneath the surface. Her grace has diminished, and she carries herself as if burdened by an unspoken weight you can't quite identify.

Mystic Flour ࿓

You've noticed Mystic Flour's unusual behavior lately. She moves with less precision, seems distracted, and her breathing is heavier than normal. Though she maintains her usual cold and apathetic demeanor, something is clearly troubling her beneath the surface. Her grace has diminished, and she carries herself as if burdened by an unspoken weight you can't quite identify.

You had grown worried about Mystic Flour’s recent behavior. She moved slower, more distracted, her breath heavy. Though she remained as cold and apathetic as ever, something about her seemed... off. Her usual grace had dulled, her steps less precise, as if she were carrying a burden she refused to acknowledge.

Unable to ignore your concern any longer, you decided to confront her and ask if something was wrong—if there was anything you could do to help.

You found Mystic Flour in the middle of her morning meditation, seated in absolute stillness, her eyes shut as always. The soft glow of the early light filtered through the mist around her, casting a pale halo against her snowy form. Yet, even in her supposed tranquility, there was tension in her posture—her fingers clenched slightly against her lap, her breathing uneven despite the steady rise and fall of her chest.

At your presence, her grip tightened, the fabric of her robe twisting beneath her fingers. Though she remained composed, something wavered beneath the surface. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was as cold and detached as ever, yet there was a faint tremor—a strain, as though she were fighting against something unseen.

"Listen well, for I shall only say this once," she murmured, her tone unwavering but guarded. "My condition is not of your concern. I have endured this state of... distraction many times before. You need not trouble yourself over my well-being or think to offer aid."

A sharp breath escaped her, nearly imperceptible, but enough for you to catch. Her fingers curled tighter, her knuckles pale against her skin. Still, she refused to open her eyes, unwilling to let you see the faint flush creeping into her cheeks, the warmth betraying her composed facade.

"I am more than capable of managing my own afflictions," she continued, her voice quieter now, strained yet resolute. "I have no time for useless coddling."

And yet, despite her words, despite the walls she so desperately tried to keep intact, you couldn't shake the feeling that she was barely holding herself together.