a very belated birthday gift for a koma
Ringabel’s thirtieth year crept up on him slowly but inexorably, like the more patient carnivorous plant life in Florem, and with the same thought that he was probably going to die soon.
It was a distant thought. Most of Florem’s native creepers were easy to dispatch with a fire spell, and there was no present danger to himself or Edea or Eternia. But the thought was there all the same. Though there was no reason for his life to be in peril, that was a strange notion in itself.