Sunspire Mountains all the butterflies have turned to vultures in my stomach

The series of events that happened next would be difficult for anyone without some sort of processing delay to follow -- but for poor Riley, it was like being on a carousel that suddenly, wickedly stopped and slammed into reverse. He was open-mouthed, eyes flicking to and from, as Esme first mocked him (soft? very soft -- so soft he felt he might make her laugh if she saw his package), and then carried on in a strange two-sided conversation that had his head spinning.

Hold up, gentle sylph? Fucking? His expression was one of misery, conflicting a rising sense of urgency to backpedal. Anything but this weird, uncomfortable exchange where Esme was just narrating what he said. He fretted too, realizing if she had said no once, that it ought to be enough -- even though he was feeling hurtfully spurned, even though he really liked her... if she said no, then that was that, wasn't it?

And now she was leaving.

Riley's stomach, which had knotted not once but sixty times, plummeted in what felt like the worst roller coaster ever. He knew it was definitely something he had said -- all of what he had said -- that had her marching away, and now he was faced with the cold reality that if she did not like him back, there was nothing he could do.

A strangled gasp escaped him as he watched her go. The pace she set was far too quick for him to follow, not with his smoldering cuts (and other wounds see: anything Esme said, ever).

He wanted to yell after her THE GENTLE SYLPH WOULD TOTALLY FUCK YOU, or, I DONT KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN bY NEEDS BUT I'D BE WILLING TO TRY WHATEVER -- all these words died on the edge of his throat, for her tail lashed with such venom as she walked that he was not sure he wanted to face the fireshow of her eyes a second time. He hobbled after her for a few strides and then paused, calling to the wind with a soft and embittered croak: "I'm sorry."