Goth could hear Jagged's amicable response. "I'm Goth." She repeated. To answer that other question... yes. But I can't say that, can I? It's rude. The pale-skinned personification thought to herself. Sparrow's voice wormed its way into her head as well. Who in their right mind would break their arm on purpose? Hon hon slice 'n dice there goes my arm, like that's even plausible.
Now that the distraction was over, Goth simply stared at the ground again. That was the problem with conversations; they were all connected to each other in what seemed like an infinite loop. Breaking it would result in awkwardness and embarassment.
Soon enough, however, another person approached them. Locke, not clock-dude, she notes, could take her place in this conversation. Pressing her hand against the floor -- she was able to get a good eyeful of her painted nails -- she bolstered herself up and away from Jagged and Locke. In a hurry to return to her seat, she jolted sharply when she heard a loud voice.
"Hello everyone!" The aforementioned voice boomed, coming from the back of the room. The grandfather clock -- with a swing of its pendulum -- announced the time.
A man in his 20s approached the other Personifications. He had appeared from the odd bend near the back of the room, which -- Goth could see it now from this angle -- housed a wooden staircase.
"I am Vivo Dolcini, the artist who invited you all here." The ginger-haired man declared grandly. He was a scrawny individual with an average height, a messy mop of hair, and half-moon spectacles perched on his nose. He wore a brown apron over an orange shirt and baggy jeans. The pant legs were rolled up to his ankles, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows.
He moved behind the counter, making a show of pointing at the cookie plate. "Aha! I see my cookies have been eaten. How were they?"
With every word he spoke, Goth found herself backing up a step. He wasn't a bad person per se, he was just... a bit much.