He reaches out to grab them. That's when they move, and only then. They stand, a swift and immediate motion that allows them to step back and away from him, their smile as curled and permanent as a mask, as if fused to their features.

They let the latest of their floral growths fall limply between their fingers, fluttering to the ground to join the rest.

"Will you?"

They seem terribly amused at the threat. A threat, yes, because that must be the only language that creatures like them will understand. Violence, and the way they must be controlled, restrained, kept from doing terrible things.

There's a glint in their eyes, something akin to a challenge. They have no weapons - no Real Knife glinting in their hands. But they do not need weapons to find. One doesn't need a knife to wound.

Asriel taught them that lesson better than anything, and over their grave no less.