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| how sleepy and sneezy! |
A field of thick, luscious green grass and orchestral lily. thick,
twisted leaf-fibers make a low thrumming sound as the wind blows
through them. pigeons hop about, eating grass-seed and the bugs that crawl on the victims of dupeblossom.
The perfume of this flower puts you in a highly suggestible state. Black-Ops Gardeners planted them overnight with surgical trowels and now their nude, guileless victims sit among the flowers. even if they were revived, without their sword-sticks they have no fighting identity.
The tunnels of the Black-Ops Gardeners run under the field; close enough to surface in places for you to punch through the ground and break your ankle. 1:6 chance that a Black-Ops Gardener remains; splintered mole nose wet and red, eye sewn shut, fingernails thick and caked with soil, cheek-pouches full of seeds that will grow in seconds if planted and irrigated by their saliva.
Ursine Nursery: wandering through the meadow, a little tipsy from the dupeblossom and increasingly agitated. keeps mistakenly swallowing and vomiting blossom victims, mistaking them for dead or dying. Followed by 1 Ursine Hybrid who is desperate for siblings.
Ursine Hybrids: patchy-furred, unsteady on their feet. personalities of the humans they once
were, half submerged in bestial instinct. this one is intolerably touchy, offer challenges constantly, and possesses some half-remembered fighting skill.
Fool-Shepard Trolls: a job for tall, gangly goys. Follow in the wake of Black-Ops Gardeners, loping through the dupeblossom field with trains of oblivious, flowerdrunk victims in their wake. Sell most into slavery, strangle and eat a few now and then.
Fool-Shepards carry incense that begs and pleads with you not to burn it. when burned, it leaves a trail of thick oily smoke that forces all who smell it to follow the source of the incense as surely as if they were chained. the trolls wear huge carved nose-masks over their noses to prevent them from smelling it and the dupeblossom
Star-Cross: cross-shaped handheld constellation with 6 stars. insert a star into the natal chart two or more targets and have them roll; high roll falls in hot lust with the next target in sequence but finds them emotionally hateful and repulsive, the second target, falls in deep, tragic love with the next target in sequence, while finding them sexually vile and disgusting. if there is no next target in the sequence, loop back to the first target.
All parties are aware this is the fault of the star, which orbits their head closely. none can do anything about it. stars round the heads of two dying soldiers, entangled in an embrace, stick-blades in their guts. the third, who holds the constellation, has been dupeblossomed and is watching idly.
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| darling dont you go and cut ur hair type shit |
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