Oh... in the flora and the fauna, the earth and the dirt and the stones and the grass... There is a pitiful creak of apathy. Of apology. For what is about to happen.
It all releases with a hairpin trigger. Everything that is, was, had been, or will be, would take a turn for the worse. Paint a ruddy red over the skies of light-filled blues. Clouds looked as though they could fall from the atmosphere and crack the asphalt below. Ah, but alas, such slothful concepts made real couldn't even be bothered to do so. So in the air would they hang lazily...
To move is to proceed, and all that proceeds will inevitably end.
What a wretched fate that would be.
So Mario would move. Spring forth to life with all the promised desolation of action. Vines of living thorn and green, they would not find their mark so easily. He was no supersonic hedgehog or ultra-malleable puffball, but the plumber was anything but a layabout. Acrobatic athleticism flung a red and blue streak to and fro with dexterity to spare!
Those springlock joints would send their wielder forward posthaste, an initial decision electing to merely outrun his tendriled pursuers. It's ground and dirt that spits from heel-dragging boots, an instant ripcord of a turn flinging the escapee instead into a dead sprint alongside the walled-off flower garden, taking a roundabout way back where he came. For you see, that decadent statue of this realm's grand protector? It was now being used as a grandstanding jungle gym.
The etched curves of a long-falling gown would be used as walls to kick between, the cylindrical arms of a fingerless cookie making for baroque handlebars fit for a flip-crazed gymnast. Spin, gain momentum, then release, stone columns of perfect hair being smudged with boot stains as they're climbed like flagpoles. Portions are even chipped, disrupted, and snapped free from the whole piece, sending them plummeting into the wicked weave of vines, doing anything and everything to catch their quarry.
He dives from the statue, clearing any initial barriers of overgrown foliage. He flings himself in a head-first dive for a tree— one that use the limbs of its branches to pull itself apart at the bark, creating a double-lipped maw of saccharine abyss. Please, come closer, plumber! Your face will find itself embedded in its bark, wood forever warped with the abhorant face of terror, misery, and picturesque stagnation~.
The path is abandoned instantly, instead groundpounding to cut off all forward momentum and fall into a patch of darling roses. Their thorns elongate to slice their very own petals, ripping a messy red swath to be opened on the dotted line, all for macabre mouths to scream and howl... Discordant. Mind-splitting. This was getting exhausting...
Legs and arms propel him forward over a thick swamp of jam, the very grass seems to recoil at his hurried flurry of steps. Where was he even running to? The exit had long since been out of sight. The second he arrived, he was already trapped.
Finally, and with finality, a statue garden would be reached. Sweat poured off the brow, yet the hero looked no closer to stopping. He could stop when he's dead. And mouth wouldn't bother moving, it was merely eyes that took in his surroundings with a fine-toothed comb.
Statues with ghastly figures, a foul-tempered cookie that had herded him so deeply into her domain, the act she was putting on from the beginning hardly felt necessary. Her true colors congealed into something more sickly. More bestial.
You say beautiful, but beauty was in the eye of the beholder. And what Mario beheld was no sort or form of the word he knew. Who cared what it looked like? It was controlling, monstrous. Heinous, and deaf to any form of reason. It mimicked that of resplendence and beauty, with poison still residing on bloated lips.
No... he was leaving. And that was that.
No reaction. No response. The time for talking was over. If you meant him harm, he would protect himself. A heavy iron hammer was brandished from the back, and he would attack without fear. Powerful legs could close the gap easily, and a lightning-fast swipe of the mallet would look to knock that kooky cookie right out of the sky.