That one, yes -- blue, translucent, frosted, and with a pretty marking of the seagrass coming from the base, a bubble painted delicately on a few corners, and from the top, a ray of light from our Gods and to our society. It looked new, and yet, depicted almost the same as what I saw in the temple. And it struck a heartstirng or two. Beauty in ancient arts.

A countertop with an older lady, black hair draped amongst the right shoulder, glasses covering the eyes, a fake smile with a shine of what could only be a social lacking. A long dress, and an apron, and a nametag on top, one name that would pass me by the time the social standings of purchases were done with. The counter itself was litered with small flowers of our local seas, but one I couldn't regonize as well. And -- that leftmost pot has something from the depths. Of course, that brought up the laws against importing plants for both unfamiliar and familiar, but that wasn't really my issue anyways. Whatever. Ask about it later. An anonymous complaint, maybe, botanical crimes of importing what could be invasive species.

A vase carried with the utmost care, my claws grasped in such a way, as if I could just shut them and shatter it in front of her. That'd be a display of sorts. But of course, I'm above such thoughts. Rung up -- wait.

It's expensive out of the leagues. Out of most people leagues and espessially mine. A shiver in the wrist travelled up my arms, then my heart, then the ribcage, and my head.

She's staring at me from behind the lenses, asking about if I was going to pay or not. A mumble escaped the lips, my royal excuse of not having enough. She let out a long, long sigh, that social unawareness so, so aparent by how obvious the dissapointment was. And I walked off with nothing else spoken, gently placing that object with much more care than I took it out. Knowing something's worth is pretty strange. Such a small vase. It'd be to hold pure garbage. And yet, it's more expensive than my desk chair?!