[Help! Help,] the potent odor echoed, clinging to every tree and bush while the wind carried it across the lake’s open expanse.
[My smellers hurt!]
[Stop shouting! Just drink some rot-infested water, and you will be better. You are in danger!]
[How old are you? How did you do that?] While the vine and the reed shielded themselves from Spring’s fragrant assault, the willow beamed with fascination. [You must be great at finding friends. Can you teach me how to spread my fragrance so far?]
[Pain,] Spring said and stopped exuding scented oils while the willow rambled on and on.
[Thorn is already blighted.] Spring thought, her scents so faint, her comrades could no longer discern her thoughts. [Blighted’s sense of smell is ruined, nearly dead. It’s impossible to grab Thorn’s attention without messages potent enough for humans and beasts to catch. Knowing his valiant character, he would drop everything to rescue a bloom-folk in distress.]
[That’s it! You are parched, must I toss you into the lake, or will you drink on your own?] The vine lost its patience and snapped at Spring, who gingerly placed her foot into the water.
The chill, refreshing liquid rushed into the tiny orifices, traveled through the xylem of her leg, and filled her pitcher, which took up most of Spring’s torso.
Spring’s tense flowers opened slightly, and her worried mind eased. She took in the shaded sun’s dispersed light with her skin, enjoying the warmth she had forgotten after suffering the blight’s curse for centuries.
[This is nice. A belly full of water, drawing carbon from the air for sustenance… I should savor every moment before I blight myself again. Is there no other way? Must I sully myself with rot?]
Just as she said that, a future memory returned to her mind. Fire. The infernal energy and bane of all plant life rampaged through the north’s endless forests, devouring bloom-folk without mercy, their low level symbionts too weak to shield them from the scalding heat.
[I must. I have to grow strong enough to protect the folk. Before, I was a researcher, then as the war grew more intense I joined the healers, and finally they conscripted me to the front lines. Had I reached the tenth level and grafted tenth level symbionts…]
“What’s this smell? It reeks of rotten cabbages.” Drak mumbled, sniffing left and right.
“Uncle, something stinks around here,” he called the old man wearing a proud, wide grin on his face.
Skitt sighed. He looked at his legs, soaking in the water all the way to his knees, and shook his head. He stood up from the sun-heated rock and went to his nephew, trudging through the lake, following the shoreline.
He stopped some ten meters away and sniffed, his green nose hair shaking. “Plantmen are jittery, something spooked them. Remember, topiary horrors have a heavy stench of rotting flesh mixed with old piss, much less bitter than what you’re smelling now.”
The old man paused, stretching his back, which made two loud pops. “But you did well to call me rather than raise an alarm. Protected get beaten for rising false alarms, and trust me, our group’s hunters are just looking for someone to thrash. Be careful.”
“Why are they so edgy? They beat Harr half-dead because he dropped some tent-cloth.”
“Shhh!” the old man shushed the youth. “Two of them have grafted longears, they can hear you badmouthing them.”
“I just called them edgy. That’s not an insult.”
“The protected cannot discuss the decisions and actions of hunters or clan gentry without permission. You know that.”
Drak’s lips twisted. “Nobody minds that, unless you’re cursing the gentry in public, or calling for an uprising.”
“The Suns are a huge clan, boy. A first class clan. Our gentry address their hunters with ‘Sir’. The fact that someone from their ruling family came to betroth the Young Miss is an honor you can’t imagine. Our hunters will flay you alive to suck up to them, so mind your tongue.”
“I’ll stay quiet.” Drak bobbed his head so vigorously his uncle thought the fool might suffer a concussion.
“Just do what they tell you, the way they tell you. I called in a bunch of favors to get you the best job, close to the Suns. Lick their feet if they ask you to, and remember don’t do anything on your own. Follow their instructions to the letter. We’ve already discussed this. They haven’t asked for a replacement porter, which means you’re doing well enough. Now, stop calling me over, I have to mind the Young Miss and feed barkskin.”
Skitt turned around, and Drak watched the patch of mossy bark grafted into the old man’s calf as he trudged through the water. Drak’s eyes shone with longing as he glared at the implant. His uncle was a high quality fodder, the lowest of the hunters, with only a barkskin implant to help him endure more enemy attacks before he fell and a scentcatcher in his nose to alert for dangers. And yet, the difference in status between him and a protected like Drak was like heaven and earth.
The youth nodded to himself, adamant he would do better than his uncle. He turned around and gazed at the four plantmen in his care.
“I’ll protect them with my life if I have to,” he muttered and clenched his fists.
***
Three days later, in the dead of night, a potent stench woke Drak.
“Did you fart, Joel?” He waved his hand before his face, but it failed to disperse the odor.
Joel snored in response, and Drak frowned. “You should’ve taken less cabbage for dinner.”
In the darkness, a dozen steps away from the youth, who vainly covered his head with a blanket, the four plantmen rustled.
[What’s wrong with you? Why are you yelling in the middle of the night?] the vine shouted at Spring, meanwhile the reed rubbed the ends of its stalks.
[My smellers hurt. Could you not do that again? Please?] she asked, her aroma faint and pleading, barely discernible in Spring’s sticky request for aid.
[You are very interesting. Your creepy tales as well. What’s a floromancer? Can you do this with your oils because you’re a floromancer?] the inquisitive willow pressed with her questions, while the other two bloom-folk had shunned and ignored Spring after her first outburst.
The irregular bloom-folk had spent the last day talking to herself without pause, her mind racing. Compared to before, when she had five to ten thoughts a day, her mind galloped, entertaining nonsense about hurting humans and bloom-folk for reasons the reed and the vine found arcane.
[How did you come up with wood-eating symbionts, which produce fire at will?] the willow continued with her inquiry. [I only have one, and it turns my bark harder when I fall asleep so that rabbits can’t nibble on my legs.]
[She could get far in life with such an inquisitive mind. She would make a fine floromancer, provided she finds an area which holds her interest.] Spring said, her odor faint. [Now, where was I? I recall seventeen level one graft recipes, ninety level twos, eighty-three level threes…]
Days flashed by. Spring tried to organize the disarray of her memories. However, vast voids permeated them. She recalled several major historical events and the years in which they happened. She knew many recipes for grafts up to fifth level, but the recipes beyond that escaped her.
[I could try to recover more of my memories with grafts based on little pink elephant or forget-me-not. However, I don’t know the relevant recipes, and I don’t believe humans have invented them yet. If I recall correctly, human floromancy bloomed starting with the reign of Salazar the Great Sun, whose floromancers ventured deep into the wealds and discovered hundreds of new grafts in a few short years. But the Sun clan’s expansion will start in ten to twenty years. I can’t wait that long…]
***
A burly man, over two meters tall bumped into a wiry youth hardly reaching up to his chin. Surprisingly, the big man bounced off like he had hit a stone wall.
“What is it, Thorn?” he asked in a gruff voice, rubbing his chest. Behind him, a group of seven others stopped, waiting to hear what their leader had to say.
“I smell our folk crying for help,” the lean brown-haired youth said, his nostrils flaring.
The big man sniffed at the air several times and shrugged, “I don’t smell anything.”
“Your nose is dead as a rock, Bough,” a short, wrinkled elder stepped from behind them and drew several sharp breaths through his nose. “The smell was potent, but it’s been two days, maybe more. It’s coming from further ahead, to the left.”
“Thanks, Creep,” Thorn nodded, and followed Creep’s guidance until they stumbled across an abandoned campsite. He examined the trampled grass and the hatchet marks on the shrubbery and young trees.
“Slavers,” Bough rumbled while Creep hurried towards a pile of ashes.
He frowned while sifting through them. “Three days old. The scent of distress is very potent, they must have tortured the poor thing to cry so intensely.”
“We must catch up to them before they reach the Searing Flame’s clanhold,” Thorn said and followed the tracks east.
[Help! Help,] the potent odor echoed, clinging to every tree and bush while the wind carried it across the lake’s open expanse.
[My smellers hurt!]
[Stop shouting! Just drink some rot-infested water, and you will be better. You are in danger!]
[How old are you? How did you do that?] While the vine and the reed shielded themselves from Spring’s fragrant assault, the willow beamed with fascination. [You must be great at finding friends. Can you teach me how to spread my fragrance so far?]
[Pain,] Spring said and stopped exuding scented oils while the willow rambled on and on.
[Thorn is already blighted.] Spring thought, her scents so faint, her comrades could no longer discern her thoughts. [Blighted’s sense of smell is ruined, nearly dead. It’s impossible to grab Thorn’s attention without messages potent enough for humans and beasts to catch. Knowing his valiant character, he would drop everything to rescue a bloom-folk in distress.]
[That’s it! You are parched, must I toss you into the lake, or will you drink on your own?] The vine lost its patience and snapped at Spring, who gingerly placed her foot into the water.
The chill, refreshing liquid rushed into the tiny orifices, traveled through the xylem of her leg, and filled her pitcher, which took up most of Spring’s torso.
Spring’s tense flowers opened slightly, and her worried mind eased. She took in the shaded sun’s dispersed light with her skin, enjoying the warmth she had forgotten after suffering the blight’s curse for centuries.
[This is nice. A belly full of water, drawing carbon from the air for sustenance… I should savor every moment before I blight myself again. Is there no other way? Must I sully myself with rot?]
Just as she said that, a future memory returned to her mind. Fire. The infernal energy and bane of all plant life rampaged through the north’s endless forests, devouring bloom-folk without mercy, their low level symbionts too weak to shield them from the scalding heat.
[I must. I have to grow strong enough to protect the folk. Before, I was a researcher, then as the war grew more intense I joined the healers, and finally they conscripted me to the front lines. Had I reached the tenth level and grafted tenth level symbionts…]
“What’s this smell? It reeks of rotten cabbages.” Drak mumbled, sniffing left and right.
“Uncle, something stinks around here,” he called the old man wearing a proud, wide grin on his face.
Skitt sighed. He looked at his legs, soaking in the water all the way to his knees, and shook his head. He stood up from the sun-heated rock and went to his nephew, trudging through the lake, following the shoreline.
He stopped some ten meters away and sniffed, his green nose hair shaking. “Plantmen are jittery, something spooked them. Remember, topiary horrors have a heavy stench of rotting flesh mixed with old piss, much less bitter than what you’re smelling now.”
The old man paused, stretching his back, which made two loud pops. “But you did well to call me rather than raise an alarm. Protected get beaten for rising false alarms, and trust me, our group’s hunters are just looking for someone to thrash. Be careful.”
“Why are they so edgy? They beat Harr half-dead because he dropped some tent-cloth.”
“Shhh!” the old man shushed the youth. “Two of them have grafted longears, they can hear you badmouthing them.”
“I just called them edgy. That’s not an insult.”
“The protected cannot discuss the decisions and actions of hunters or clan gentry without permission. You know that.”
Drak’s lips twisted. “Nobody minds that, unless you’re cursing the gentry in public, or calling for an uprising.”
“The Suns are a huge clan, boy. A first class clan. Our gentry address their hunters with ‘Sir’. The fact that someone from their ruling family came to betroth the Young Miss is an honor you can’t imagine. Our hunters will flay you alive to suck up to them, so mind your tongue.”
“I’ll stay quiet.” Drak bobbed his head so vigorously his uncle thought the fool might suffer a concussion.
“Just do what they tell you, the way they tell you. I called in a bunch of favors to get you the best job, close to the Suns. Lick their feet if they ask you to, and remember don’t do anything on your own. Follow their instructions to the letter. We’ve already discussed this. They haven’t asked for a replacement porter, which means you’re doing well enough. Now, stop calling me over, I have to mind the Young Miss and feed barkskin.”
Skitt turned around, and Drak watched the patch of mossy bark grafted into the old man’s calf as he trudged through the water. Drak’s eyes shone with longing as he glared at the implant. His uncle was a high quality fodder, the lowest of the hunters, with only a barkskin implant to help him endure more enemy attacks before he fell and a scentcatcher in his nose to alert for dangers. And yet, the difference in status between him and a protected like Drak was like heaven and earth.
The youth nodded to himself, adamant he would do better than his uncle. He turned around and gazed at the four plantmen in his care.
“I’ll protect them with my life if I have to,” he muttered and clenched his fists.
***
Three days later, in the dead of night, a potent stench woke Drak.
“Did you fart, Joel?” He waved his hand before his face, but it failed to disperse the odor.
Joel snored in response, and Drak frowned. “You should’ve taken less cabbage for dinner.”
In the darkness, a dozen steps away from the youth, who vainly covered his head with a blanket, the four plantmen rustled.
[What’s wrong with you? Why are you yelling in the middle of the night?] the vine shouted at Spring, meanwhile the reed rubbed the ends of its stalks.
[My smellers hurt. Could you not do that again? Please?] she asked, her aroma faint and pleading, barely discernible in Spring’s sticky request for aid.
[You are very interesting. Your creepy tales as well. What’s a floromancer? Can you do this with your oils because you’re a floromancer?] the inquisitive willow pressed with her questions, while the other two bloom-folk had shunned and ignored Spring after her first outburst.
The irregular bloom-folk had spent the last day talking to herself without pause, her mind racing. Compared to before, when she had five to ten thoughts a day, her mind galloped, entertaining nonsense about hurting humans and bloom-folk for reasons the reed and the vine found arcane.
[How did you come up with wood-eating symbionts, which produce fire at will?] the willow continued with her inquiry. [I only have one, and it turns my bark harder when I fall asleep so that rabbits can’t nibble on my legs.]
[She could get far in life with such an inquisitive mind. She would make a fine floromancer, provided she finds an area which holds her interest.] Spring said, her odor faint. [Now, where was I? I recall seventeen level one graft recipes, ninety level twos, eighty-three level threes…]
Days flashed by. Spring tried to organize the disarray of her memories. However, vast voids permeated them. She recalled several major historical events and the years in which they happened. She knew many recipes for grafts up to fifth level, but the recipes beyond that escaped her.
[I could try to recover more of my memories with grafts based on little pink elephant or forget-me-not. However, I don’t know the relevant recipes, and I don’t believe humans have invented them yet. If I recall correctly, human floromancy bloomed starting with the reign of Salazar the Great Sun, whose floromancers ventured deep into the wealds and discovered hundreds of new grafts in a few short years. But the Sun clan’s expansion will start in ten to twenty years. I can’t wait that long…]
***
A burly man, over two meters tall bumped into a wiry youth hardly reaching up to his chin. Surprisingly, the big man bounced off like he had hit a stone wall.
“What is it, Thorn?” he asked in a gruff voice, rubbing his chest. Behind him, a group of seven others stopped, waiting to hear what their leader had to say.
“I smell our folk crying for help,” the lean brown-haired youth said, his nostrils flaring.
The big man sniffed at the air several times and shrugged, “I don’t smell anything.”
“Your nose is dead as a rock, Bough,” a short, wrinkled elder stepped from behind them and drew several sharp breaths through his nose. “The smell was potent, but it’s been two days, maybe more. It’s coming from further ahead, to the left.”
“Thanks, Creep,” Thorn nodded, and followed Creep’s guidance until they stumbled across an abandoned campsite. He examined the trampled grass and the hatchet marks on the shrubbery and young trees.
“Slavers,” Bough rumbled while Creep hurried towards a pile of ashes.
He frowned while sifting through them. “Three days old. The scent of distress is very potent, they must have tortured the poor thing to cry so intensely.”
“We must catch up to them before they reach the Searing Flame’s clanhold,” Thorn said and followed the tracks east.
