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Mrs. Potts
… and if the beast isn’t loved in return by the time the last rose petal falls, he’ll be doomed.
This beast you keep mentioning…
yes?
I’m just trying to picture it
I don’t even know where to begin.
I’m envisioning two dozen tentacles, each eight feet long and lined with suction cups spewing with mucus. His skull is fixed at a ghastly, unnatural angle with sharp, serrated fangs that glisten in the moonlight.
