<strong>Pestilence</strong><br/><strong>Under the Holy Bubble of Holiness (I can do it too, Deva)</strong><br/><strong>Deva</strong><br/><br/>Deva's grip was as light and scattered as her speech patterns. As she went about on an external-internal monologue, Pestilence let out a smile. She reminded her of Death, the giddy little school girl. "Perfume? Oh... it's foreign... my sister brought it back from one of her trips... I don't know what's in it or where it's from but... it does have a little nice scent to it, doesn't it?" She gave a laugh and a bow. "I'm Pastel. Pastel Lance. It's nice to... if you'll excuse my pun, run into a pretty girl like you. I... didn't interrupt anything, did I? I wouldn't like that." She fiddled nervously with her fingers before smiling again. "Did you see the play!? Wasn't it just divine?"