my, my, how does it meow?

Minoth's not an animal person. Never has been, never will be. (This is more to say, he's not a pet person, but in general he prefers things with stained-glass wings to those with pink paw pads.) He's hardly a people person, after all - his recent developments in that department have been surprising to all parties, bar none who know the playwright personally.

Personally...say, intimately?

Well, Flora's a friend, anyway. Maybe, for Minoth, that constitutes intimacy. And how does he know her? What does he know of her?

Clever, bright and curious, often funny; wholly pleasant to chat with, and even sometimes to vent to. Not too swiftly shaken, though her determination is a measured quantity. Minoth won't deny finding her easy on the eyes, either.

(It's the first time he's ever thought of it, about her, in quite that way, but it's so much more and thus much less than a euphemism, that. She's a soothing sight for every sore eyeball and forehead, her very presence a balm. Really, truly, she is.)

She even smells nice! Of all people, Minoth can say without overmuch apprehension that Flora's a comfortable designee as his favorite.

Flora bewitched into the body of a cat, though? This is altogether a different challenge.

Because cats, like dogs and then again moreso, can smell fear. You can't be uncertain, hesitant, around a cat. You can't be guarded around a cat unless you really mean it, because kitty'll beat you at your own game so easily, like pushing a glass off the end of the table, like twitching your tail and not even having to think.

Flora can smell Minoth's fear at any time, he knows that. But because she's (usually) human herself, she gives away just as much as she's willing to let slip, which usually isn't all that much.