As the orange sunlight of dawn trickled slowly through the foliage, Liv sat cross-legged in the grass just outside a razor’s edge that marked the bounds of the village. The wild shrubs had proven to be one of the more interesting discoveries she’d made in a while, excluding the mushrooms. Her territory now completely engulfed the tiny village of plant people, leaving her with a cylinder of her dungeon over which she seemed to have no influence whatsoever. It was as if the village both was and was not a part of her.
She got a hefty amount of SP from it, but she couldn’t so much as step foot inside. It was clearly out of bounds, yet unlike everything else, it wasn’t obscured by the thick fog of the outer reaches. She’d taken a liking to her shrubs, and so had felt predisposed to want to help these wild cousins as well. So she’d taken to observing them and trying to anticipate their needs.
That scrutiny had, in turn, brought her to a conclusion she didn’t like. Not because it was bad, but rather because it made her feel like an idiot. Liv had seen members of various primitive species under her banner display greater than average intelligence and comprehension. She had arrogantly assumed that her shrubs were so clever and crafty because they were her shrubs. But this village… They had routines, rituals, and even complex multi-person operations.
That level of coordination didn’t happen without communication. These tiny plants weren’t clever beasts, they were clearly sentient. Which meant that her shrubs had somehow been talking all along and she was simply too dense to understand it. Liv shook her head, brooding. Actually, it was worse than that, she might not understand someone speaking French, but she’d know they were speaking a language. She hadn’t even picked up on that much.
From one of the low woven huts stepped yet another recent revelation. The plant was slightly larger than most of the other shrubs, and its semi-humanoid body seemed to have been shaped out of some kind of squash plant. Looking towards the sun, its cloak of broad, prickly leaves shifted to reveal two arms of tangled stems and vines which it stretched overhead. The bottom of its green bell-shaped gourd opened two dark eye sockets and a gaping mouth as it yawned.
The idea that there could be more than one type of shrub-person had never really crossed her mind. Even if it had, she wouldn’t have expected to find them living together. Most creatures viewed other life forms sharing their ecological niche as competitors. Yet again, a simple discovery had filled her with so very many questions. The big guy seemed to be a central figure, maybe even the leader of this village. Was the squash the leader because it was a squash? Or was that coincidence? Was it leader because it was larger? Or did being the leader somehow make it grow? Maybe they were a like a hive with specialized castes…
The other shrubs were waking up now, stumbling tiredly to the center of the village. Each of the little plants paused before Gourdo and shimmied a bit. Liv watched closely to see if these were some kind of repeating signs or motions, but no such luck. Every single one was different, with some barely moving and others gesticulating wildly. The spectral woman growled in frustration before one of the little shrubs snapped her back into the present moment.
Among the gathering of shrubs that now stood behind Gourdo, facing the sun almost reverently, was BUSHWHACKER!? Liv’s jaw dropped. It wasn’t outrageous that some of her shrubs would want to socialize with these newcomers, nor was she in any way bothered by it. Her shock was entirely to do with the fact that it was Bushwhacker in particular who was doing this. Her firstborn foliage was a possessive, territorial little shit. That tiny guy guarded his favorite morning sunning spot against the other shrubs with a passion that bordered on zealotry. If he was here this early, it likely meant he’d stayed the night in the village and willingly given up his treasured spot.
Pressing her face and hands against the boundary like a child against a candy store window, Liv tried to see whatever was going on more closely. Bushwhacker stood shoulder to shoulder with another shrub, both twisting and shimmying emphatically before Gourdo. The squash nodded sagely, then began to rustle his big leafy cloak in response.
“Hold up…” Liv whispered in a smushed voice against the invisible wall. Each shrub was capable of making a single note, like a little battle cry, but were otherwise incapable of speech. So she assumed they were using sign language or something, but what if that was incorrect? What if their language was spoken, but not with their mouths? From this distance, it was hard to make out the sounds their movements made, but she concentrated as hard as she could on the soft noises.
At a signal from Gourdo, Bushwhacker, and the other shrub turned towards the others and lifted their arms, linking hands. Together they began to lean and sway and rustle to the others present. Out of it all, Liv caught just a single potential ‘word’. An elongated creaking that overlayed a gentle rustle, which peaked upwards into a louder sound like a tree in a gale, and then back down again before the creaking ended. She heard Bushwhacker make the sound several times. Gourdo too, at least once. She had no possible way to know what it meant, but it was a potential start!
As the speech seemed to conclude, with multiple shrubs nodding and bobbing, Gourdo lifted a splayed hand to signal the group, before turning back towards the sun. Together, the village faced the dawn in a worshipful bliss. Deciding there was little more to be learned at the present moment, Liv stood and drifted westward.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
As the trees grew more sparse, she came upon her claimed edge of the pond-dappled wetlands. The ethereal projection wrinkled her nose at the sight. Far from the peaceful beauty of her thriving swamp, this region looked like a war zone. The western front was lined with haphazard barricades of wood, stone, and bone. The whole area stank like an open grave, as the rotting bodies of infected creatures and speared slugs emitted a miasma so thick she could practically taste it.
Drowsy-looking shrubs manned the line, swaying sleepily beside dwindling supplies of wooden spears. Liv put her hands on her hips, surveying the scene and mulling over the problem. The parasitic infection was growing worse, if they didn’t manage to quarantine it soon this was going to become unsustainable. She huffed in annoyance. She’d never been big on wargames or RTS, and now she was really wishing she had been.
Her biggest hindrance was the fact that her plants were sluggish and tired if they had to move around in the dark for too long. Try as she might, she couldn’t really think of a way to overcome this biological restriction. So all that was left was technological compensation. Unfortunately, that was hard to accomplish without either an efficient means of communication, or serious technical expertise, and she had neither. Trying to do R&D through pictures and pantomime just wasn’t cutting it.
The shrubs seemed to have a kind of Neolithic hunter-gatherer level of technology. Big stout spears for stabbing and lighter, shorter ones for throwing. She’d tried to coach her denizens through making bows, but every attempt had ended in pitiful failure. So far she had managed to relay exactly one technological advancement, based on what she remembered of those spear-wielding cavemen in her history classes.
The atlatl was simple to make, easy to use, and remarkably effective. The shrubs were already great spear throwers, and the little tools took that to the next level. She’d done the math when Scout had tested the first prototype, and for a human-sized being to make an equivalent throw they would have to lob a spear over 700 feet! It was impressive, but no matter how many of the slugs they impaled, it just didn’t seem to make much of a dent. It felt more like combating a virus than an opposing army.
Coming from the west, members of the village alongside many of her own denizens were emerging from the taller grasses. Some hopped over the barricades to collect the salvageable spears, while others relieved the exhausted sentries, which Liv knew would fall back to a safe distance before going dormant to soak up the sunlight.
“This is a bandaid, at best,” Liv murmured to herself. “We need a better weapon…”
—
Weavebriar stumbled along through the muck, pulled along by a hand in the grasp of the eager Bushwhacker.
“They’re just over here!” she rustled, yanking the builder past a thin line of mangroves until they reached a pond. Weavebriar, who had never been this far west before, looked curiously at the towering stone statue with the jasper crest atop its head and staggered as he nearly tripped over the root of a hardy grass variety he was unfamiliar with.
“Here!” Bushwhacker exclaimed excitedly. Weavebriar looked up from his roots to see a cluster of carnivorous fly traps. One of them was so large that he was sure it could snap him up if he was foolish enough to climb near one of those mouths.
“So? Can you do it?”
“I told you, I’ve never tried. This would have been master Sunblossom’s job…” Weavebriar repeated nervously.
“You’re a powerful spellcaster! I saw all those vines and thorns you grew,” Bushwhacker insisted.
“That’s a very low-level spe-“ his explanation was cut short as the warrior ran her hands over his foliage and stilled his rustling.
“Hey. I believe in you. In us. If our groves work together, I’m sure the core will bless our efforts.”
Weavebriar was still uncertain. He didn’t know this ‘Manglegrove’ spirit that Bushwhacker and her kin were so devoted to, but if it had brought them together and saved his grove then he had to believe it was benevolent.
“Get the others,” he said with more conviction. “We’ll need at least a dozen Leshies and someone to hunt as many bugs as possible. Preferably big ones, like beetles.”
“Will roaches work?” Bushwhacker rustled curiously.
“If you know where to find them, those would be perfect!” Weavebriar was growing more hopeful by the second.
“Allow me to introduce you to The Roach Coach!”
“… The what?”
—
Deep in the heart of The Manglegrove, a shrill whistle warbled. Saboteur perked up, turning toward the sound. Someone had found it! Trundling as fast as his roots could carry him, he closed in on the signal and skidded to a halt. There, half hidden by the shadows and fallen leaves on the western shore, lay the treasure he hoped would solve the mysteries of the core’s machinations.
Half a dozen of the industrious little Leshies stood in a loose circle at the roots of a large tree, beaming with pride and excitement. Between them all lay the giant’s bow, which Saboteur himself had disabled by partially sawing the bowstring with a strand of razor grass.
—
As the orange rays of the setting sun made the distant mangroves in the east seem to burn, a hulking nutria wriggled back out of its burrow. The writhing mass of slugs plunged the last of the rodent’s young into its gullet, the furry pelt rippled and stretched. With a moist squelch, the oversized rat burst, spilling a mass of black slugs over the ground which began to slime blindly outward in every direction. One of them paused after only a few inches, bulging upward in a profane parody of fecundity. From the back of the slug emerged four black tentacles that reached upward toward the waning moon. With the knobkneed awkwardness of a newborn kid, the thing shakily rose onto two stubby, cloven-hooved feet. Gelatinous flesh parted, giving way to a single bulging eye and a misshapen mouth, allowing a strangled, gurgling cry to emerge.
The slithering mass ceased its mindless migration, frozen in place by the sound. Then, slowly, the slugs began to turn. As the wobbly, hooved abomination shambled off, the mucus-coated infestation inched along after it in disturbing unison.