[ The ease with which the answer seems to be accepted bothers him enough to mutter. ]

It isn't magic. And rank... rank, rank, rank, your rank should mean you'd well learn to rid yourself of whims. Like a sick man does of leprosy. Or, well. Tries.

[ One of the plant's tentacles squirms in the braid, almost ripping free. A metal piece bats it down. Oh, what bother. ]

Come to catch the greenery at its finest hour, General?