@herleaf asked: “Okay, but, does the music you eat taste like whatever region it was composed in? Like, you have some Figaro for a late night snack, does it taste like Italian?” Clara’s hip jutted out as her arms crossed, absolutely missing the point that the being in front of her is, in fact, not a friend. “If you curl up a love song like a fork of linguini do you taste the yearning as if it was a spice? Would that make metal music the spiciest genre?”
𝐅𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐢𝐱𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞, 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐞. Not only for the fact that Clara seemed to be entirely ignorant to the true danger she was in, but also because there didn't seem to be even a speck of fear or intimidation inside of her. Some people yapped away as a coping mechanism - which was always irritating - but there's something different about this one. Something ... something they can't pin point.
"Well, aren't you a brave little rascal." ( It's all about balance, Clara Oswald. They'll only be amused by this for so long. ) They take a moment to actually think, however - head tilting, gaze flickering away.
"WELL, y'see now, my dear, this all~ implies that I actually eat food. Which I don't!" They gasp. "Shocker! But maybe you can convince me to do a lil bit of a taste test. What'd you say, kiddo? You - me, a world class buffet?"
