SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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  • CURRENT EVENTS

    Angkar: To honour the reinvigoration of the ancient city of Mondrágon, the majestic Queen Eulalia has permitted the opening of a Coliseum where people from around the world and all walks of life can test their combat skills against one another. Many have already done battle in search of honour, glory, prizes and money.

    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

    For a fuller description of our most recent events, check out our most recent edition of The Town Crier!

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    Elenlond is an original medieval fantasy RPG with a world that's as broad as it is unique. Calling on characters of all kinds, the sky's the limit in a world where boundaries are blurred and the imagination runs rampant. Restrictions are limited and members are encouraged to embrace their creativity, to see where they can go and what they can do. It's no longer just text on a page - it becomes real.

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    Something Afoot; For cynnita and oersin! <3
    Topic Started: Oct 4 2017, 09:43 AM (306 Views)
    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    The pot bubbled.

    Phaedrus stared despairingly into the orange soup, knuckles jumping as he clenched a wooden spoon.

    He'd tried to pepper it, to no avail.

    He'd tried all manner of creams and Ashokan spices, curried it, stirred it, roasted nuts for it, but nothing changed the fact it was still squash.

    For the tenth day in a row.

    Already he was running out of ideas. He'd made crisps of it and bread of it, quiches and spaghetti and even a disastrous, ill-advised pie, but despite all his efforts of creativity and charity towards the squashless, the pile grew no smaller, and his patience grew no larger.

    In fact, the necromancer rolled his eyes up to the smoke-stained rafters, affixed there like the soot might reform into a skewer of meat or perhaps a lamb shank or perhaps a roast chicken--

    A meow broke him out of his daydream. Blinking, Phaedrus looked down at a small orange cat currently streaking around his legs. Bending over, the necromancer gave Malo a scritch behind the ears, but the cat slunk out of it, batting his hand instead. Phaedrus snatched his fingers back, brow furrowed.

    "Ow, what--"

    The one-eyed cat gave a loud meow and then shot off in the direction of the back door, clawing it and adding more scratches to the much-abused wood.

    "Do you have to piss?" The necromancer grumbled, abandoning the pot in favor of stomping off in Malo's direction, hand whipping out on the door handle.

    "Okay, right--" it was scarcely open before the cat shot out like an orange arrow. Malo froze in the middle of his yard and crouched down, eye fixed on the overgrown bushes. His ear flicked once; then the little cat darted back towards him, hiding behind his legs.

    "What do you want? In? Or out?" Phaedrus heaved, in the aggrieved tone of a long-suffering cat mother. Malo gave another meow, quieter this time, and crouched again, tail swishing back and forth.

    Raising a brow, the necromancer made to turn and close the door again -- but there was a sudden crack in his yard, like a branch snapping underfoot. Phaedrus clutched the spoon, eyes flickering towards his overgrown hedges. He'd not gotten to them yet, nor had he finished clearing out the entirety of the low, swollen branches of the oak and willows overflowing from his neighbor's yard. The curtain of green provided an an easy enough space for someone to hide in.

    And there were plenty of thieves about, some honest, others simply hoping to loot jewels and rarities while the city scrambled to rebuild itself. He'd given food to the former, and dealt with the latter in such a way they never dreamt of coming back again.

    Had they forgotten their lesson, perhaps?

    The necromancer pursed his lips, twirling the spoon in his hand.

    "Is someone there?" He called out, raising a brow. It was rather hard to look menacing in a cooking apron and whilst clutching a spoon, but he tried valiantly anyway. Phaedrus wedged a hand on his hip, shifting his weight to one leg.

    "Come out, then, I don't have all day."
    Edited by Phaedrus, Oct 4 2017, 09:46 AM.
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    Oersin


    For once, Oersin said that going into the city was a good idea. He said that since it had been overgrown, the two of them were the best ones to help. Sure enough, when they got there, the vegetation was overwhelming. Even the grass was taller than him. He always felt short in towns and cities, but rarely because of the plants.

    But just because he had said it was a good idea didn't mean that he liked doing it. The people weren't the only ones to set Oersin on edge. Even the plants made him feel uneasy. They were green, but they were so dead. Normally there were insects all over. In Madrid there were none. The streets were full of roots, and giant hedges towered over most of the buildings. There were vines everywhere, too. They made the sides of buildings almost invisible.

    He walked a step behind Cynnita, as he always did. He looked around with caution. The people were nearly hostile. The few that were there were exhausted and overwhelmed. Nobody was in a good mood. He and his sister were not welcome there. They kept getting looks from people, but no one confronted them so they continued deeper into the ruined city.

    Cynnita kept looking around at all the plants. She reached a hand as if to touch them. Then she looked at the next one and began whispering. He knew that she was able to speak to the plants, and so he didn't interrupt her. Slowly it drooped. A minute later its leaves started to turn brown. She said it would wake up again next spring.

    They followed the remains of a road until they reached a fence overflowing with greenery. Leaves and vines were simply spilling over the top of the fence and back down the other side. Intrigued, Oersin approached them and felt one of the leaves.

    "Pumpkin?" That didn't quite feel right. He cocked an eyebrow at Cynnita. "Didn't you try growing pumpkins one time?"

    She nodded vaguely. She was paying the plants more attention than him. That was fine. She seemed to have picked up an interesting scent, and followed it over the fence. A quiet gasp made him follow. On the other side was a horde of squash plants. All of them were as big as his forearm and none of them looked like they were going to stop growing anytime soon.

    Cynnita immediately picked up the best squash. He could tell--it was the glossiest, brightest, best squash around. Oersin followed her. On this side of the garden the hedges grew tall enough to tangle with the branches of a nearby tree.

    There was a creak from the door. Too far from the garden wall, they both dove into the hedges. Cynnita dropped her gourd. A moment later, the door opened and a cat strolled out. Its ears flicked toward them. Its eyes followed. It glared at them, hissed, and turned right back around.

    An annoyed voice accused the cat of being fickle. He hadn't seen them. He was about to go back in when Cynnita shifted her balance and rustled the branches. Almost immediately the plump man came out and brandished a spoon at the bushes.

    Oersin groaned internally. This is Cynnita's fault. All of it, he decided, even though it was partially his idea in the first place. He looked at his sister. She was holding her breath, waiting for him to go back inside.

    "Come out, then, I don't have all day."
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    Cynnita


    She stuck her long nose up in the air, took a long sniff, and then turned. She hadn't had anything like it in years, but it was unmistakable. Now distracted, and ignoring her brother, she took off over the verdant fence and into a little yard behind an overgrown house. By the time Oersin caught up with her, she had found what she was after: the biggest and roundest squash she'd ever seen, surrounded by more just like it, piled up by the hedges. The plants that had produced them didn't seem to have gotten the message that they were supposed to be confused and unhappy - their leaves nearly glowed with energy, and they seemed to be in a contest with each other over which one could bear the most fruit. This resulted in what was, in Cynnita's opinion, the perfect gourd, and before she could stop herself she reached out and picked it up. Whoever lived here wouldn't miss it, would they? She'd feel bad if they came out one day and one of their prized vegetables was missing. Then again, the tangle of plants didn't seem to have any trouble producing more. They'd have plenty - but, this one was the best one. Squash was one of the few plants that she knew of that she couldn't grow - partly because she didn't have the patience to let them get big enough, and partly because she hadn't tried it since an unfortunate pumpkin mishap a while ago - and just for a second she found herself envying the owner of these stubbornly optimistic plants.

    The door to the house suddenly opened; startled, Cynnita dropped the perfect gourd in favor of retreating back into the hedges so she wouldn't be seen. Out strolled a little cat, and standing in the doorway was, presumably, the gardener. He looked like he might have been a squash once himself - round, mostly gourd-shaped with thick hips, pumpkin-orange hair, yellow eyes. Cynnita was certain that the smell was coming from him specifically, and not just wafting out of the house. That did not make it any less heavenly. When he turned to let the cat back inside, she found herself leaning closer to catch the last whiff, but it was just too far, and she scrambled briefly to catch herself from falling face-first into the pile of gourds (not that she really would have minded that).

    The squash man turned. "Is someone there?"

    Cynnita froze. What would he say if he found them? Would he be angry that she'd gotten her hands all over his favorite food? She had a feeling she knew the answer to that one already; she'd be bereft if she were him. Maybe it would be better for her and Oersin to just leave...?

    "Come out, then, I don't have all day."

    Cynnita's eyes flashed to her brother. Not a sound! Slowly, and carefully, she began to make her way back into the street--but Oersin pushed her back into the little yard instead. She landed in the tall grass and lay there for a moment, stunned, before getting back to her feet, her face already turning red. She didn't know whether to speak to her brother or the squash man first. After a second of looking between the two, she decided it'd be the former. She turned to the hedges, appalled, and proclaimed, "You pushed me!"

    "You let your gourd down," came Oersin's voice, quiet but matter-of-fact.

    "You--!" Cynnita stalled, still turning back and forth between her brother and the squash man, and to the latter she repeated, as if it would help, "He pushed me!" Without waiting for any sort of response, she turned back again and pulled her traitorous brother out of the hedges, giving him an extremely displeased glare before returning her gaze to the squash man. "It was him! All his fault!"
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    (I can't stop laughing at "squash man," omg xDDDD)

    Cccrrr-rrack.

    The spoon froze in his hands. Phaedrus paused, squinting. There was a rustle in the bushes, then---

    A tiny figure burst out of the leaves, stumbling into his yard. A... child? Lowering the spoon, the man blinked before realizing-- a tad belatedly-- it certainly wasn't a human child. Deerlike ears flickered around a face that reddened to a beet's.

    You pushed me! Came her accusatory shriek -- another rustle from the bushes and faint voice betrayed the presence of another -- too mumbled to make out from the distance. But he didn't hide long; the girl wrenched him out into the sunlight, exposing his shame.

    ...Fae?

    By now the necromancer's arm hung limp by his side, his expression melted into confusion.

    He pushed me! The girl cried, looking at him as if she expected him to intervene, give the solemn nod and slam a gavel to pass the sentence on the other one.

    "Uh," Phaedrus managed, taken aback. The necromancer fiddled with the spoon, clearing his throat. His eyes bounced between the warring -- friends? Siblings? -- and then back to his interrupted squash patch.

    Well, at any rate, they didn't seem like bandits. He didn't see any knives or weapons on their person; they were dressed rather humbly, in clothes that bore some branches and leaves besides -- most likely they wouldn't be stabbing him and making off with his goods. Of course, one never knew with Fae. Appearances could be deceiving. A lingering paranoia itched at his brain, but by the way they acted--

    No, they just seemed like... children.

    Abandoning his bravado, the necromancer leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his stomach.

    "It's... fine," he hesitated, eyes bouncing between them. "I thought you were... oh, well, nevermind. You know, bandits and the like. City is full of them." Phaedrus bit his lip, arching a brow. Once again, he found himself unsure of how to respond to the odd pair.

    At points his eyes lingered on their deerish ears and elongated faces, pearl-white as his own. Clearly they were Fae -- a thing he noted with a twist of guilt and an answering parry of defensiveness, for what were they doing in Madrid, of all places? In his yard? -- but of what kind he could not fathom. Malo meowed by his feet, puncturing his awkward pause.

    The necromancer tossed his hand. "Is there something... you need?" The boy looked rather sombre, shying away from a dropped gourd at his feet. And suddenly the reason for rummaging about in his bushes became clear. Oh, take them, good riddance. All the bloody hells.

    Perhaps the appearance of two new mouths was fortuitous.

    "Are you hungry? I was just making--" Squash, squash, infernal squash! "--soup."
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    Oersin


    (Until you drop a name that's what I'll call him.)

    Cynnita reached into the bushes and grabbed Oersin by the upper arm. He flailed weakly against her, but to no avail; she hauled him unceremoniously from the hedge and dumped him in front of the squash man for inspection. He sat still. He blinked once, twice, then glared at Cynnita right back.

    "My fault? You're the one who hopped his fence. Now look where you got us!" He gestured wildly at the pile of squashes and their proud spoon-wielding owner. He tried to find more words to express his exasperation. After a few moments of opening and closing his mouth, he crossed his arms and made a point to turn his back on his sister.

    He was sure she would have a comeback for him. She always did. It hardly mattered anymore what it was. As long as she knew who was really to blame, that's what mattered.

    The squash man, nearly forgotten, spoke up from his door. "It's... fine. I thought you were... oh, well, nevermind. You know, bandits and the like. City is full of them."

    Bandits? Oersin shifted, momentarily forgetting that he was cross with his sister. He caught himself. "If I left her alone, this one--" he jerked a thumb over his shoulder "--would surely join their ranks." He could almost hear her indignant expression. "Don't deny it; you were feeling up the poor man's vegetables not a minute ago."

    Oersin looked at the impressive garden. The monoculture filled the entire space. The squash man caught him looking. He regarded the gourds as well. Was that a flicker of disgust? How--how dare he? Oersin felt himself feeling protective of the magnificent squashes.

    Then, suddenly, it hit him. He was sick of the things. The beautiful golden-green fruits were simply too plentiful. He almost dismissed the thought as nonsense. How could anyone dislike such beautiful plants? And yet, his shoulders sagged under his apron. His spoon hung lifelessly at his side.

    That poor squash.

    He invited them in. Oersin was sure Cynnita would say yes. That's why she trespassed in the first place. He waited for her to accept. His eyes wandered the garden. At the very least, he could do what he came here to do. "I'll be in in a few minutes."
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    Cynnita


    "...you were feeling up the poor man's vegetables just a minute ago."

    Cynnita huffed, crossing her arms. "Well I was just admiring them!" she snapped, "I know a good gourd when I see it!"

    The squash man seemed to deflate. Cynnita had just paid his crop a compliment, but he looked as if he might want to be sick. She followed his weary gaze back down to the squash by the hedges. Didn't he know a good gourd when he saw it? Perhaps the plants had been bearing fruit for a little too long, or he'd harvested all his other vegetables already, and this was all that was left? Either way, she reached the same conclusion as Oersin: for whatever reason, this man simply wanted to be rid of the things, one way or another.

    Fortunately, Cynnita was the kind of gelfling who could pack away a great deal.

    "Are you hungry? I was just making...soup."

    Cynnita broke into a grin; her suspicions had been confirmed and, on top of that, she'd get a bit of those lovely gourds as well. She cast a glance back at Oersin - she knew he'd follow her under almost any circumstances, and these weren't anything special. She turned back to the squash man. "That sounds lovely!"

    She followed the squash man into the little house, and noted to herself the little pile of gutted gourds in the corner. He's been at these things for a while, hasn't he? She also noticed the cat, which had elected to sit by the stewing pot where it was warm. The cat was also the color of squash. Perhaps this was all intentional? No matter whether it is or isn't, Cynnita told herself, the most important thing's to get fed. She wouldn't be caught saying that aloud, though; her motivations were clear enough, and she wasn't going to be rude. Oh, that reminded her - she'd gone and disrupted the poor man's yard, and had been invited into his house - she should at least introduce herself. "My name's Cynnita, and that was my brother, Oersin. What's your name?"

    That, and she thought that he might be a bit hurt if she called him the Squash Man.
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    The bickering went on.

    Like two crows pecking each other over corn, he thought, almost amused. Then came the more dour thoughts — are they alone? Where is their family? Have they a mother or father? Likely not. The war had taken a great many, evidenced by the orphans on the streets and the overwhelmed hospitals and temples. Were they children? By all manner of human standards, they were — the diminutive height, the fighting and piping voices...

    Feeling up the man’s vegetables. Out of habit he glanced to his side, though Bast was not there to share a look. Despite himself, he made a face; one of amusement, a sliver of teeth biting a curling lip and a dimpling cheek, trying for all the mercy of the gods not to burst into inappropriate laughter. Gods, they didn’t mean it like that, you heinous man—

    It didn’t work. A dirty snort left him.

    “Madrid is lucky you keep her at bay, then,” he played along, a hum of amusement in his throat. “Else all the squash patches would live in terror.” The faintest hook came to his lip, not unkind, as he looked at Oersin.

    That sounds lovely!

    Her enthusiasm brought out the rest of his smile, small thing though it was. The necromancer pushed himself off the doorframe, gesturing.

    “Very well. Come in, then.”

    In truth, he was relieved to have company. To be alone offered too much time to… think. Besides, it invited misery — alone, one felt the ruin of the city sharply. With company, at least, one could gather around a fire and feel the solidarity of others struggling through the same ills. The girl bounded in eagerly; the boy trailed some paces behind, slower, cautious like a cat.

    My name's Cynnita, and that was my brother, Oersin. What's your name?

    “A pleasure, miss Cynnita, ser Oersin.” A foppish little titter left him. He closed the door behind the diminutive gelflings, sealing off the fall chill. The fire crackled invitingly in the kitchen, filling it with the warmth and buttery smells of soup.

    “My name is Phaedrus,” he returned, gesturing to himself with a little flourish — and then to the foxish cat curled by the pot, “and that is Malo.” The feline gave a little flick of the ear, tip of his tail swishing. “I’ve two others… they’re being rather shy, though. Devils know where they are.” He said it a shred wearily, looking past the kitchen and into the wrecked living room, the Great Beyond where his cats (and Bast, who was altogether not unlike a cat) hid.

    When his gaze wandered back, he noticed Cynnita's eyes on the pile of squash carcasses and looked away, suddenly abashed.

    “Sorry,” Phaedrus apologized absurdly. He wiped his hands on his apron. “It’s a bit of a... mess.”

    It had once been a warm, lovely home, but now it was a touch threadbare, faded of its color and comforts.

    Bandits had ransacked it, smashing the large windows and making off with his fineries — silver teapots and cutlery, trays, porcelain, Ashokan lamps and incense holders, lace! O, he lamented the lace! — and leaving his cabinets bare. Books missed from his shelves like pulled teeth. The weather had come in through the window and stained his rug, leaving it with a must-smell he tried desperately to get rid of by hanging it outside and cleansing it with incense and scrubbing. At the moment it was rolled up woefully by a low, comfortable couch. At least his chaise had survived the war! (Though not without some gouges in the wood and stains of sap).

    For the most part he’d swept all the stray leaves and dust off the floor, dumping it outside. He’d had to pull unnatural growths from the floorplanks and walls, chopping the withered vines to bits, but their veiny shadows still lingered. He was in the process of redoing the whitewash of his walls, but it was half-complete; some parts his walls shone brightly, others stained with smoke and weather.

    It depressed him. It all felt so… incomplete. As though he could never quite get things right again, building a warm, comfortable nest over the years only to have it smashed and violated in an instant.

    Still better than others fared, though. He’d seen people living in the carcasses of buildings, curled up in little more than a bed of straw and a blanket, cooking out in the open and squatting to shit in bushes. Much of lower Madrid had been destroyed, swallowed up by the trees and hoards of Kentauri that stormed the gates. Often people wandered up from the bottom of the hill, scavenging for food, water and shelter. And occasionally into his yard.

    Cynnita and Oersin were hardly the first to show up and break bread with him. He was lucky; he could spare it, gods below. He felt like a living taunt, assailed by guilt when he walked around and saw sunken faces and children scavenging through trash for a shred of a meal. Each time he felt their stares acutely, swaddling himself in a cloak.

    Since returning — between the work of restoring his house and coming to grips with the state of the Mystic Occult — he joined the collective effort of other mages to try to heal Madrid. Every night he hunched over books in pursuit of some solution to the continuing famine and sickly soil.

    The fruits of these labors were scattered across his house. Old, weathered books rose like a small sentry’s tower in the midst of the kitchen table. Stacks of parchment dominated the rest of it, writ with eldritch symbols and diagrams. At the very top of one was the beginning of a letter in a flowery, looping hand.

    MISS MORGANA AVITUS,

    I am most sorry I missed you to-day; and I am sure you are inundated with letters of this kind; but of course you know I am the most important — do not scoff ! — and so enclosed are copies of the passages of the Ars Goetia you were so labouring after, with particular emphasis upon Daemons of transmutative ability and coercion;

    In addition to the Schema for long-distance transportation …

    … by-the-by, do you happy to fancy zucchini ...


    Besides them were labeled jars crammed with soil — another with a live, wee plant — yet another full of shoots and leaves. He’d sent samples of his squash and soil to the naturalists of the Mystic Occult — for they had been collecting anything that still grew in the impoverished earth, evidently untouched by Maedaigh’s magic — but had heard little back.

    “One moment,” the necromancer hemmed wearily as they made themselves comfortable, grabbing the stacks of notes and relocating them to a much-abused table in his living room. Next went the books. The jars he simply scooted aside, leaving enough room for three to comfortably sit and eat.

    That done, he dusted his hands, floor planks creaking as he walked back over to the pot.

    Phaedrus tasted the soup, and, satisfied, tapped the spoon against the pot before turning to a shelf. He retrieved three unpretentious wooden bowls from it, ladling a steaming, thick helping of soup into each one. These he set upon the table alongside some brown bread he’d baked earlier, coarse and dense with seeds. Finally he retrieved some elegant spoons—the few that handn’t been pilfered—and laid them next to the bowls. The contrast unsettled him, and the necromancer sat down with the heavy creak of a chair.

    “Have as much as you want, gods,” he gestured, crossing his legs like a prim woman. “If I have any more squash I shall expire.”
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    Oersin


    Sure enough. Cynnita was happy to go inside. He knew she would. She'd lusted after his gourds from outside. At his invitation she followed him in like a puppy.

    Oersin stayed outside for a minute. He looked around the garden. Where do I start? He went to the nearest squash plant. He knelt in the soil. The plants nearby were already withered. It was hard to make out what they were. He looked up close at a leaf.

    Grapefruit.

    Instead of healing it directly, he put a hand on its stalk and a hand on the squash. It only took a minute to transfer the energy. The squash plant sagged and wilted, and the grapefruit straightened and budded. He concentrated harder. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. The grapefruit sped through a season of growth. After another minute, three big fruits hung from its branches. It was in synch with the seasons again. That was all he wanted.

    He picked one of the grapefruits and stood up. He followed his sister into the man's house. Inside smelled ever more like squash than outside. The soup bubbled on the stove. He came in just as it was served into three plain wooden bowls.

    "Have as much as you want, gods. If I have any more squash I shall expire," he said dramatically. He knew Cynnita would gladly have as much as she wanted (and no less).

    He walked up to Phaedrus and quietly offered him the grapefruit. "It's not much, but every bit helps, right?" Then he sat down at the table next to Cynnita and ate the soup.

    He let her do the most talking. She was good at it, and he wasn't really. He got distracted from the conversation by the jars at the end of the table. They had plants and soil. He picked up the jar with the sprout and opened it up.

    Poor little guy, trapped in a jar, he thought. He tapped one of its leaves and it swelled, growing out the top of the jar. Only seconds later, its roots pressed against the glass. He could see it trying. It was doing its best. The leaves unfurled and stretched upwards. It strained against the glass. It was small and weak and so it gave up, slouching slightly.

    He took it out of the jar and looked for someplace better. He took a jar of dirt and dumped it on the table. He put the plant on top. Its roots grew down into the pile of dirt and the leaves grew taller. He looked at the rest of the jars, looking for more dirt.

    Suddenly he remembered. Oops. Phaedrus was staring at him. Rather, he was staring at the plant growing on his dining table. Shamed, he pulled back his hands and crossed them in his lap.
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    Cynnita


    His name was Phaedrus. It didn’t have anything to do with squash, and somehow that disappointed her. But, she chastised herself, what did you expect, really? Surely he was given the name ages before those gourds came to fruition - it was ludicrous to think otherwise, and she couldn’t possibly have expected him to call himself Gourdon or any other silly thing.

    The cat, though, really should have been called Pumpkin.

    She waited politely as Phaedrus cleared space on the table for them. There were a great many books scattered about; she might have caught the names of some of them if she were better able to read. As it was, she watched him scoop them up in clusters and dump them off in the next room. She sat, interested in the jars as well. She wasn’t quick to read written words, but she knew more than her fair share about a myriad of topics pertaining to plantlife - was Phaedrus knowledgeable in those areas as well? She watched him go about, trying to glean anything else from him without having to ask outright; she knew his name now, but for most practical purposes he was still nearly a stranger. What did a man like that do for a living? Was he a gardener? His yard had suggested so, but she dismissed the notion. Anyone with that many books didn’t get outside enough to feel the earth between their fingers - or, rather, got just enough of it to cram into some of those jars. Did that make him a scholar, then?

    That was her theory, at least for the moment. Scholars would put anything in a jar, or read a book about it, rather than go and experience it for themselves. For some things, she supposed that was alright. Insects came to mind - those belonged in jars, especially the biting kinds. Plants could be put in jars, too, as long as they were comfortable. The tiny one seemed to be - it was clearly a trimming from one of the squash outside, beginning to take root in its little glass pot. Cynnita found herself wondering if there was a place those plants wouldn’t be happy. Even when the flora around them wailed in pain, these particular vines ignored them and bloomed on. It took a strong will to do that, Cynnita knew. She wasn’t selfish, though. She saw others without anything, and she wanted to help them.

    Perhaps that was why Phaedrus had gotten his hands on such persistent vegetables. Little else still grew on its own, and a man’s got to eat. From her seat at the table, she glanced up at him. “Have they always been this stubborn?” She nodded vaguely at the pile of discarded gourds in the corner to indicate, and then added, “They’re nearly the only thing that’s flourishing here, and that’s only because they’re tuning out anything they don’t like.”

    She might or might not have been about to say something more; the soup was served, and that immediately silenced her. She downed nearly half of the first bowl before Oersin even sat down (she would likely have gone through it entirely if she had been in the mood to scald herself). It took her only a few more moments after that to finish; she held the bowl eagerly out to Phaedrus for more. It was like he was suddenly her best friend - and it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with all these gourds than give them to her. So long as she didn’t make herself too at home, though. Despite their best efforts, those squash wouldn’t last forever.

    It was as she was finishing her third bowl of soup that she paid any mind to what Oersin was doing - he’d taken the little tiny plant from its little tiny pot, and he’d gone and set it out on the table, and it was in the process of growing a new root system when she noticed it. She quickly swallowed the squash that had been in her mouth, and then snapped: “Oersin!”

    He jumped, startled, and only then seemed to realize what he’d been doing. He was silent, but folded his hands in his lap, ashamed.

    Cynnita took a moment to look between her brother, the little plant, and Phaedrus, before she composed herself. “I - sorry about him,” she said quickly, “He’s - he gets...like that...”

    She knew there were better things that she should have said, but that was what came out. She could have said how he fidgets with plants when he gets nervous, or that he really hadn’t meant to get carried away just then, or any number of other things. Instead she just turned her gaze back to Phaedrus. There was no way he’d take kindly to a disruption like that, especially when half of his house had already been reclaimed from invasive plants (she knew the patterns of removed root systems when she saw them, and his floorboards betrayed a great deal in that respect). She was prepared to count herself lucky if they were merely shown the door; plant magic displayed so carelessly in a town that had been ravaged by exactly that was insensitive at best - realistically, it would probably be seen as openly hostile. Unfortunately, it was too late to take it back.
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    (Uh oh, getting serious up in here~)

    It's not much, but every bit helps, right?

    Something pocked and cool pressed against his palm; he looked down and saw it was a grapefruit, blinking. “Oh—thank you,” he fumbled. The necromancer cupped it in two hands, staring down at it as though it were a jeweled egg. “Now where’ve you got this?” Phaedrus teased, though he couldn’t say he was displeased. A faint smile crept across his face. "I thought all the citrus trees were dead.”

    He’d missed that: lemons for lemon tarts and cakes, oranges for fresh juices and candied peels, limes for just about everything… and grapefruit was just fine for sorbets or on its own with sugar. One would have to go all the way to Ashoka to find one; Oersin might’ve well have handed him an ingot of gold.

    The necromancer rolled the grapefruit in his hand before setting it in a basket upon the counter. Must have pilfered it from some other soul. They must have a whole garden in their pockets.

    He sauntered into the kitchen, stopping when Cynnita did. Once again it struck him how diminutive she was. He himself was of an average enough height, but the willowy Sotoans made him feel far shorter. Now he had to crane his head down to look at her.

    Have they always been this stubborn? The necromancer looked at her blankly for a moment, his mind working. “Who?” The cats? No— but she saved him the mental energy. Blinking, Phaedrus let out a huff of a laugh when he realized she was talking about the plants.

    “The squash? I haven’t the foggiest. I planted them before the war, and…” he dribbled off to a halt, not daring to go any further. The necromancer rubbed his prominent nose instead, glancing hurriedly away from Cynnita. —and that’s only because they’re tuning out anything they don’t like, she explained, with the casual confidence of a Fae. It always disarmed him how they talked about plants: as though they were as familiar as aunts and uncles, crooked and kind and odd and all between. Even the human druids had the way of it—some farmers, too. He’d never felt a single thing with plants, only stared dumbly as they swayed in the breeze, equally dumb to his eyes.

    “What do you mean?” Phaedrus asked faintly, mustering the will to look at her again. To him, the matter of raising plants was quite straightforward: just enough sun, an agreeable soil, and just enough water. Thinking had little to do with it.

    “You don’t suppose other plants might be persuaded to do the same?” He asked carefully, folding his arms and tossing a hand. The sorcerer watched her, studying her honest face and energetic demeanor. It reminded her of Bast, bubbly and trusting as ever. She’d be like to talk; the other was silent as a stone. “Well... you’ve seen,” he continued anxiously, gesturing to his kitchen, his backyard, to Madrid. “People are starving. And the merchants are pricing them out of food. It’s robbery.” Indignation burned hot in his words.

    “We—well, the Mystic Occult, that is—“ and he paused, for he had no idea what they might think of sorcerers, trying to make himself seem as squash-like and particularly un-sorcerer-like as possible. “—have been trying to find a solution to the famine. At least enough to last through the winter.” The crop was meager, and the country was poor; how many more people would die in the coming frost? The morbid thought made his soup unpalatable. He’d only gotten through half of it while the gelflings finished their second bowl, and Cynnita handed him her empty one with eager eyes.

    He almost could have laughed, astounded. The soup-to-girl ratio was markedly off. Still, he rose obligingly, eager to abandon his cooling lunch and have a reason to attend the pot.

    “I was preparing some samples to send off to the Mystic Occult—” the necromancer continued, handing Cynnita the fresh bowl of soup and turning his back to the pair. Instead he took a beaten kettle from a shelf, filling it with water and hooking it next to the near-empty cook pot. “— to see if something was unusual about the soil or the plants themselves.” As he spoke, he reached for a jar of Assam and began scooping it into a teapot. Behind him, Oersin fiddled with said samples, making a mess of his table.

    “After all, why me? I’m no botanist; I’m barely a gardener.” He tended to pick hardy plants that he could forget about. And it was telling, he thought sardonically, that the plants he doted most on—his tomatoes—were the worst off. They must not like me very much, Phaedrus mused, giving a quiet scoff. Few did; apparently the plants were among them, too.

    Clink, sang a teacup as he found three of them and set it upon a platter, along with a sad bit of sugar. There was no cream; near-all of Soto’s cows had been slaughtered in the desperation of the siege, once they stopped giving milk.

    With the tea-things in order, he turned—

    Leaves. There was a plant growing in his table— somewhere sat Cynnita and Oersin, but he’d forgotten about them, deaf to the girl’s plea. If he’d a heart it would have quickened, but instead the kitchen tunneled in his vision, and instinct kicked in.

    The fire flared, then died in an ashy gust; it burst back to life, except now it was in his hands, jumping and licking in a way that ought to have crackled his flesh like sucking pig's. Instead it merely threw black shadows across his face as he lifted them defensively; vines vomited from his memory, tumbling in a tide across the streets of Madrid and filling his house and cracking the rocks between their teeth, creepers threading around people’s ankles and forcing themselves into their shrieking mouths— Nemetona

    Somewhere there was a meow, and something warm and furry and orange brushed against his pants leg. And suddenly the memory shattered like so much glass; he was in his kitchen again, a high, tinny buzz in his ears, and two terrified little faces stared back at him, huddled behind a tiny plant.

    Fire leapt in his palms; his sleeve had caught. Phaedrus noted it only dimly, as if his hand and arm belonged to someone else. Belatedly, he realized he was about to incinerate them.

    Arms shaking, he lowered his trembling hands; the fire extinguished from them, reappearing in the fireplace with a sudden burst of heat, albeit more subdued than before. The flame he batted out with a palm, speechless with anger and fear.

    What do you think you’re doing,” Phaedrus managed in a hoarse, burning voice, his eyes blazing. As he strode towards them, he looked decidedly less squash-like and decidedly more sorcerer-like, placing his palms on the table. A smell like burning wood came out from under them; his face was a terror. For a moment it seemed like he could incinerate them with a look alone.

    “Tell me, right now,” he rasped, his voice scraping each word like a whetstone. He fought to keep it under a semblance of control, eyes flickering between them. A fist tightened on the table, pumping in and out like a heart. Every nerve sung, every muscle taut; somehow his pale face drained of even more color, lips ironing. “Where you came from. What side you were on. What you want. I did not invite you in so you could disgrace me.”

    Their terrified faces blurred into the ones in Nemetona. He’d cut them down, young spring boys and girls armed with spears, old men and cruel battle-hardened women, but they all had the same fear in their eyes in the end. He felt like to explode, or to cry — they’re just children — or maybe they weren’t, and they meant to ensconce him again — but surely not, they were children — and he’d nearly burnt them alive — but why were they skulking about Madrid — infiltrating, using their innocence — but they’d been hungry, and he fed them soup — to kill them under hospitality — what was he turning into? This wasn’t war anymore, this wasn’t war!

    He felt light-headed, vision swimming. It felt like the kitchen was sliding away, teetering into some abyss, and he’d go with it. After a moment he withdrew, screeching out a chair and sitting hard upon it. His hands had cooled, and it was impossible to keep them from shaking, so instead he fisted them in his lap.
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    Oersin


    (Sorry for the long wait. It was a bit too serious--we had to talk this one over for a long time.)

    As soon as he did it, he knew he messed up. Tables were no place for plants. He just didn’t expect Phaedrus to react quite so aggressively. His hands lit up with flames, and Oersin nearly hid under the table. He did back away, knocking his chair over in his haste.

    The plant withered and promptly died. When Phaedrus’s hands hit the table, it burst into flame. Within seconds, it was nothing but a small pile of ash amidst the dirt.

    ”What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded. Oersin flinched, wishing he could sink into the floor. He hid behind Cynnita instead. “It was--I was--helping it…” he said meekly.

    “Tell me, right now, where you came from. What side you were on. What you want. I did not invite you in so you could disgrace me.”

    Oersin looked up at Cynnita. She would be able to answer him much better than he could. He’d just mess it up, make it worse. Besides, she was always the better talker of the two of them.

    Instead, when he looked at her, she looked like she was just about done with the sorcerer before them. She eyed the door, probably wondering if she could bolt outside before he blasted them to smithereens. She was always really flighty, especially when faced with a fire-wielding magician.

    Normally he’d agree with her. He’d come right into the nice man’s house and made an utter disaster of himself. This time, he thought, he’d try to make it better instead of running away. That was why they’d come to Madrid, after all.

    When it became clear that Cynnita only wanted out, Oersin stepped halfway out from behind her and addressed Phaedrus directly. “We came from the forest, but we weren’t with her. We came to try to help.” He nudged Cynnita, hoping she’d get the message that they were staying. He also hoped she would take over and explain it all better than he could.
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    Cynnita


    Cynnita’s mind turned slowly. She’d frozen up like a startled deer, and if it weren’t for Oersin she’d likely have bolted like one as well. Instead, he’d made it fairly clear that he wouldn’t let that happen. Why not?? It took her a moment to force herself to tear her gaze away from Phaedrus; her eyes only darted to her brother for a fraction of a second, and then, unable to meet the sorcerer’s eyes a second time, she just turned down to the floor instead. “The forest,” she echoed, her mind catching up, “We saw little of the war itself, but there was no hiding its effects.”

    Phaedrus had been a soldier, she concluded, almost all at once, and without concretely meaning to. How else would one develop such a fierce reaction to something like this? At the moment, though, how was largely irrelevant. She spoke carefully, since one misstep would likely end her and Oersin both. “What we want--sir--is to help. The city is dying. Any steps that can be taken to save it must be. But perhaps we--” and by that she meant Oersin, “--have found the wrong house to start.” She meant it as gently as possible, but as soon as the words had left her she cringed anyway. This wasn’t the first time she’d ever been threatened with fire; reminded of that, she steeled herself somewhat.

    He didn’t invite you in so you could disgrace him. Cynnita wasn’t about to disagree with that. One thing became clearer to her as the initial moment of Phaedrus’ fury passed. Even if they weren’t to be allowed to stay, which was the more probable outcome in her mind at the moment, they’d have to make it up to him. The most obvious solution paraded through her thoughts almost instantly--fix his garden fix his garden fix his garden--but she forced it away for the time being. Too hasty, idiot, she scolded herself. First things first.

    She forced herself to meet the sorcerer’s gaze. The man had turned from fire to stone, it seemed, and had squared himself away in his chair to fume in silence. Somehow, it wasn’t any better. Regardless, she knew what had to be said: “Mister Phaedrus--sir--we are so terribly sorry...” She knew sorry didn’t cut it, but it was all they had at the moment. One of her hands instinctively reached behind her to connect with Oersin’s; she may presently have been covering for him but they had gotten into it together.
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    [aieeee no problem! Holidays kept me busy. ;u; sorry for the sudden seriousness, hopefully will become more lighthearted again~]



    They looked terrified.

    The sight of wide eyes and skittish faces threw a pike of shame through him. The way they huddled together, hiding like… No, please, he wanted to cry out. I didn’t mean… Had he a heart, it would have been pounding. Instead he couldn’t swallow, a great pressure in his temples, helpless as them.

    Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry— And then, shoving the pike ever-further: Perhaps we have found the wrong house to start. It stung, burning his cheeks, and he felt the hot pain of indignation.

    This wasn’t supposed to happen like this, he wanted to stammer. I didn’t mean… How had he gone from spooning soup to this?

    “Forgive me,” Phaedrus breathed, raking back his hair. His hands felt like dim coals on his forehead, soothing his throbbing temples. “Last I saw those magics, it was…” The sorcerer couldn’t go on, instead dribbling into a high, quiet laugh, staring somewhere beyond the gelflings. He clenched his hair, running his hands down his face, and then clasped his mouth.

    He couldn’t look at them.

    “Good,” he husked. “That you didn’t see the war.” The necromancer tossed out a hand, planting his elbow on the table and staring down at it. A singe mark. Lovely. “…Good.” His throat closed. They very well could be lying. No one would admit to siding with Maedaigh in hostile ground. But he didn’t want to think that. He was sick of thinking so, looking for enemies in every corner. He wanted to believe they were just so: wayward children who wished to help.

    He stared at the pile of ash on the table. Mere seconds ago it had been alive, thriving, a verdant bloom of green. And he laid waste to it. Phaedrus chewed a fingernail, foot tapping. At length he blew out a shuddery sigh.

    “I understand if you wish to run away.” The terror at which they stared at the door did not escape him. “But…” he couldn’t let them slip away. Their powers were too valuable. And who knew if they would end up in hostile hands? “I didn’t mean — when I see things as such it’s like I’m back to—“ he pressed his lips into a jumping line. He tossed out his palms, at a loss. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean any harm but—if you are to use those magics again, warn me.” His fingers sought each other, kneading his bony knuckles. He grit his teeth, eager to launch away from the topic of himself. He rambled, hoping it would smooth over the tension.

    “You can help,” Phaedrus managed. “Those samples… I was sending them to the Mystic Occult. The… mage’s guild, if you will.” How familiar were they with Madrid? Still unable to look at them, he fixed a weary stare on the jars. “They are attempting to grow crops to feed the city. You’ve seen… people are starving… and any food that comes in from Morrim or Angkar is too expensive for most. If there’s a way to do that—“ and he pointed at the pile of ash, wincing, “—on a great scale… you’d be saving many lives.”

    He ached for a drink. The sorcerer lifted his eyes to them, finally — then skirted away, fixing on the empty, half-rotting cabinet that once held his decanter and wine goblets, crystal glasses and liquor. Once more his hand itched for the phantom flask at his belt. Instead he stood like the rising dead, as quietly and carefully as possible, and poured himself more tea. The dark liquid gurgled, and he slumped back into his chair, trickling cream into it and stirring it into a whirling vortex.

    “You said the plant was—happy—?” Clink, clink. “I don’t understand why it would—when everything else—oh, Nailah.” Phaedrus started, bolting up straight from his slouch, and stared out the window to his yard. “The wards,” he muttered under his breath, struck by realization. Once more he mustered the courage to look at them. “They were growing above my cellar,” the sorcerer rambled nonsensically. “A cellar I… well I… enchanted to keep evil things at bay. Maedaigh’s magic was demonic. Shite.” He palmed his eyes, leaning back into his chair. “Could it—? Was it not affected, then? It grew because it was protected?”

    Maybe the plant would say something to them.
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    Oersin


    Oersin knew he made a mistake as soon as he did it. It seemed Phaedrus knew it too. He immediately withdrew his magic and seemed to curl up inside. He ran a hand down his face.

    ”Forgive me,” he started. Oerisn didn’t know if he could. He was so close to burning them alive. He looked at the plant--that tiny, innocent plant--and then at the house around him. It was still in shambles. Your kind of magic did this to him. No wonder he’s afraid of you. Oersin turned to the sorcerer again. He lowered his eyes.

    “I won’t use my magic again. Not without your permission.” His eyes moved up and landed upon the grapefruit. It was still in the basket that Phaedrus put it in. “I suppose I should tell you about the plant in your garden. I don’t want you to startle when you see it…”

    He sat still when Phaedrus started talking again. He didn’t want to risk angering him again. One line in particular caught his attention: “If there’s a way to do that on a great scale…you’d be saving many lives.”

    He turned back to Cynnita. She still held his hand; an image flashed into his mind. It was a farm they passed on their way to the city. He frowned. “You know we can’t--”

    But his mind was faster. They were on a roll now, exchanging memories faster than their words could keep up. He thought about when they were first testing the limits of their magic. They tried to fill an entire clearing with sunflowers, but a half hour later--

    “Yeah, but I grew a mushroom--” in thirty seconds once--


    “--they are very low-maintenance--”

    --a page from their master’s book regarding high-producing plants--

    --a segment about potatoes being used to fight famines--

    “--but they only make one per plant--”

    --another page, this one filled with a picture of a tree weighed down with enormous fruits--

    “I remember that one! What was it--”


    “A few of these could feed the whole city--”
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    Cynnita


    ”Jackfruit!”

    That’s what the damned thing was called. She and Oersin both came to the same thought in an instant, and she tore her hand away from his. Together, in the span of less than a minute, they had concocted a plan. She turned abruptly to Phaedrus, still over by his teapot, and flinched away only for a fraction of a second, and only in her mind. Boldened by the sudden yet half-silent outburst between her and her brother, she finally met the sorcerer’s eyes. “The great scale you mentioned. It’s called jackfruit.”

    You said the plant was - happy - ?

    Happy? Oh, the gourds, she remembered, her mind retracing a few steps to what was, effectively, the current conversation. She nodded once, all of a sudden quiet again. The wards. It grew because it was protected? Maybe so. She didn’t know enough about wards to dispute it. She followed Phaedrus’ gaze to the squash sitting outside. “They might have done.”

    More importantly, though - could we tear them out to make room for - ? Her fingers itched to sow; seeds? spores? it made no difference in her mind. Again she scolded herself. One thing at a time! Noticeably impatient yet deliberately restrained, she asked Phaedrus, “Would you miss them? The gourds,” she added a second later, and then, scrambling to form her plan into coherent sentences, corrected herself: “The wards. That’s valuable space. I - we - could use it for much more. It would take some time, sir, and we can’t promise to save the city - but it would be a start.”

    Jackfruit. Did Phaedrus - or anyone in the city, for that matter - even know about such a thing? She assumed not. She tried again, hoping to convey the somewhat smaller beginnings of their plan. “It would take some time - but even until then - we could give you stew enough for twenty men every day.” That was a certainty. Mushrooms, unlike any plant she’d heard of, routinely sprouted overnight. One handful of spores would be the end of her effort on the matter. If they somehow grew too plentiful, all the better. They were edible, which was more than could be said for the majority of plantlife that sprawled across the city.

    Not without your permission. Oersin’s words echoed in her head as she turned away from the remains of the yard and back to Phaedrus. “Would it be alright,” she asked finally, “if we made a few improvements to your garden?”
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    Phaedrus
    Member Avatar
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all/ And thus the native hue of resolution/ Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought.

    Jack… fruit?

    “What?”
    The tea clinked. Phaedrus fiddled with the spoon, a lost look crossing his face. “What is that? I’ve never heard of it.” But… he supposed they knew better, didn’t they? In matters of gardening, one ought to defer to the Fae.

    He gnawed at a thumbnail, one brow arching.

    “And… where might such a thing be found?”
    With any luck, perhaps the Mystic Occult would know. Exhaustion tinted his voice. The necromancer drummed his fingers on the table, staring into the tea. “If it is—exotic—well… I could arrange a journey to wherever it might… there are ways of crossing land quickly.” He popped a knuckle and leaned back in his chair with a creak, regarding the two gelflings with a crumpled brow and half-open mouth.

    Gourds?

    “Well…”
    Phaedrus began a touch nervously, looking at the carcasses in the corner. “Uproot them, you say? I’m…” they were the only consistent food source he—and wandering beggars—had. “Is it possible to replant them elsewhere? If they can’t grow… that’s quite the risk to take.”

    I’m no gardener. He rubbed at an eye, frowning a moment at Cynnita’s request to tinker with his garden. For a pause he bit his lip. Then, with a gust of a sigh, he rose with the care of a cat, still holding his teacup.

    “Well,”
    the necromancer breathed, the ghost of a smile waxing on his lips. "It’s worth a try, isn’t it? I… go right on ahead, then. I’ll watch and make sure no one is… looking.” He rubbed at a temple, gesturing towards the back door.
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    Oersin


    Phaedrus looked hopelessly lost. He didn’t seem to follow their plan. How could he? When they announced “Jackfruit,” he stared blankly, oblivious to the genius behind the plan.

    Oersin started, “It’s a kind of tree, sir. It produces a melon-sized fruit that can be eaten as fruit or cooked in the stead of meat. The flavors are similar enough. More importantly, it produces several hundred of these fruits each year--more, so long as we help it.”

    “No, sir, you needn’t go anywhere.” He took his cloak off and draped it over the back of the chair. If he was going to garden, he wouldn’t need it. He rolled up his sleeves and nodded to Cynnita. She bounced outside ahead of him. She was already eager to get started.

    He followed. Once outside, he looked over their workspace. The squash were growing as abundantly as dandelions, and in just as many corners of the yard. He glanced back to Phaedrus. “This cellar of yours. Where exactly is it?”

    Once the squash man gave him a general area, he went over to pick a spot for the tree. There. Right in the middle. He placed a hand on the ground and waited for Cynnita to help him. He had never made a jackfruit sapling before. Creating a new plant for the first time was like a guessing game, and with two of them, they were more likely to get it right.

    Several long minutes later, a tiny tendril crept out of the ground. It grew its baby leaves, two stubby, round things. After that it grew upwards. Its leaves grew in broad and long, typical of a tropical plant. Once it was a foot tall, they stopped. Growing it all the way from a sapling until it bore fruit would be too much for them to handle. Instead, he shifted his attention to the squash.

    “Um, Cynnita?” he asked. She was knelt down in front of the jackfruit. Oh no. He’d seen her like this before. New plants always had so much to wonder about, she always said. She cooed at the plant for a minute, then started talking to it like it was a little baby.

    “Cynnita!” he snapped. Now was not the time. “Come on, we have to grow it bigger first.” He took hold of one of the squash plants, then carefully transferred its life into the jackfruit tree. Just like he did with the grapefruit earlier. The jackfruit shot upwards, quickly surpassing them in height. With another squash, it towered a foot taller than Phaedrus.

    He hated to sacrifice the squash. They were such good plants. Each one was thriving and he was sure his sister would say cheerful, but once he had used them, they were withered and brown. Not dead. Not entirely. But close to.

    Oersin went around the yard to each squash plant. Cynnita was greatly distracted (Typical, he thought) and so it was up to him to grow the tree. With each squash he used, the tree grew slightly thicker and slightly fuller. It would still be a while before it bore fruit, but it started to look less like a sapling and more like a tree.
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    Cynnita


    Cynnita sat with the little plant for a moment, hesitant to quit babying it just because Oersin said so, but when he turned to the squash, she did the same. She plucked the ripe ones from each plant - including the sublime specimen that had caught her attention in the first place, and gotten the two of them into all this - and began stacking them up by the house to be saved for later. With a gourd in each hand, she turned back to Phaedrus for a moment as she made her way to her slowly growing pile. “You’ll see these again, but not until next season, at least.”

    Oersin really was doing a number on those, she noticed. It was probably for the best; Phaedrus had said he’d been quite sick of them, and it would be at least a year, maybe two, before they’d decide it was alright to bear fruit again. In the meantime, they were just going to have a long nap. For all that they’d done, they deserved it.

    She noted the progression of her and Oersin’s sapling. Almost seven feet high - was that good? How big were these trees supposed to get? She puzzled over it for a moment, since the only thing that came to mind was a sketch from an old book, and she couldn’t remember the details. She decided, therefore, that the details weren’t terribly important. The not-so-little sapling was making progress. That was important. She noticed, too, that it seemed to have slowed its vertical growth in favor of filling its size out somewhat. That was alright. She supposed it would be rather conspicuous if it shot up too far and could be seen from the streets beyond the hedges. But how long until it would bear fruit? What she concluded was: probably a while.

    She turned again to Phaedrus, both of her ears perking up slightly. “Say, it’s got to be a few days until Jack’ll feed us--” --Oersin would no doubt mock her for already having named the sapling-- “--but we’ve got to have something else in the meantime. You’ll cook, won’t you?”

    She really wouldn’t mind finishing off the squash - she’d never met a gourd she didn’t like - but for Phaedrus’ sake, mostly, she decided that she’d bring a few potatoes to the table. Potatoes didn’t take long, and she knew she’d have to save some energy for the jackfruit in the coming days. Magic, she knew from experience, was all fun and games until someone over-exerted themself, and it would only be a struggle after that.

    She didn’t really want to think about it, so she pushed it out of her mind and thought of potatoes instead. Potatoes were so easy. One stalk would easily bear half a dozen of them in under a minute, and she hardly waited that long before pulling the entire plant up out of the ground. They weren’t particularly impressive to look at, but to Cynnita it didn’t matter. They were one of the lowest-effort plants she could conjure; that was what made them useful.

    It was, however, still Phaedrus’ yard, whether it was being overtaken by squash, or potatoes, or anything else. With the tangle of tubers still in her hand, she looked up at him, with about as serious of an expression as she could muster. Gardening was serious business, after all. “What do you think?”
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