"It's a dong blossom," the Oracle supplies helpfully, as if you can't identify the lurid flower with its moist, pink petals and satisfyingly thick stem in your hand.

All of the other maidens are queuing up now, clustered in anxious droves around the entrance to the shrine. Suddenly, the prospect of waiting, anxiously, for your turn at the hazy, smoke-filled plinth bearing the Vase of Destiny seems a little better than having finally received your lot. A dong blossom. Really? Janinia had gotten a Brood Rose, and you can hear her, if you concentrate, tittering about what sort of marvels her children will grow up to be. Hecilla drew a Gilded Lily, of course, and her money woes are already over- seems she's stubbed her toe on some ancient treasure just as she left the temple.

But you. Well... Maybe it won't be so bad, although one's never quite sure of how the flower drawn takes effect. Maybe you'll just have a normal life, and find some dashing young gentleman when you're good and ready, and he'll have a fantastic, juicy, mouthwatering...

You swallow.

The Oracle is looking a bit impatient now, her wizened hand beginning to tap out an impatient beat on the cracked stone of the plinth, and you can see those milk-white eyes flicking toward the door in the ancient, mystical sign of hurry up and get on with it already, you.

So out the temple you go, trotting glumly out the back gate as the line of your fellow maidens stretches on across the broken ground and up the seventy-eight steps. Some direction, any direction, seems better, and your feet slip on the dewy grass as you stride angrily away.

The stupid flower sways flaccidly in your grip, as tears begin to sting your eyes. Maybe a stupid No-snowdrop, even, just for the good weather, or a Funflower, but...

"Excuse me!"

The young man's voice is bright and cheery from atop his mount, a pleasant contrast to the snorting of his horse and the rattle of his armor as he draws to a halt.

"What's a lass like you doing out he-"

The knight stops, eyes wide and cheeks beginning to flush. Someone's gone and slipped their hand up under his coat of mail, and-

Shit, that's you. That's not you; you'd never want to ask him demurely to slide off his mount and take a new one, or see what lurks beneath his armor, what you might draw to rest against your tongue in a swollen dribble of delicious, salty-

"Miss? Are you straight from the ceremony at the-"

The knight's voice is a little perplexed as you draw him by the hand, his horse cantering dumbly toward the little copse of shady trees. This won't be so bad- hells, if he's up for it, it's only a matter of moments until you'll get him fired up enough to run his fingers through your hair and - you shiver in a most un-maidenly anticipation - maybe down in the dirt with you. All capped off by a rich, creamy -

"... ceremony?" he finishes, but you can tell from the way he grins when he slides from his horse that he's warming up to the idea. And why the hells not? You've got a godsdamn talent now, and a passion, and a delicious fucking treat lined up right here.

That's right, bitches, you think, casting a smug glance back at the pastel lines of your former ilk. They can keep their lilies and roses and shit. Because you?

You drew the mother-fuckin' dong blossom.

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