They had come to this meadow above Bronze Lake for a picknick. When Janremi suddenly plucked one of the beautiful flowers around them and placed it in her hair, Y’dyalani smiled and gave him a long kiss. “Thank you. It is a wonderful flower.” They sat there for a while longer, thinking back of their time together.
Prompt: Discussions about Morbols and @janremi‘s misfortune with said plants.
Description: Are all Morbols brainless fiends who only wish for their next meal to come as soon as possible? [Aka, no better way to start a blog.]
It was a gloomy day in Larkscall, one like many others, but somehow it felt different when compared to the usual days that went by in the forest: something was missing, and had been missing for a long time…
The general opinion on Morbols was that they were some of the worst fiends to ever exist, brainless slimy plants whose only objective in life was that of feeding on unknowing young adventurers and unlucky travellers who had the great misfortune of getting lost in the lightless forest of the Sylphs or the intricate swamps of Mor Dhona- the worst nightmare of many, of everyone who had been hit at least once by their signature move Bad Breath.
Never had a name so perfectly described the horror of an attack, for that toxic exhalation made you wish you didn’t have a nose, as you feel your eyes well up with tears as your lungs desperately try to cough out what amount of gas you inevitably ended up breathing in and while you’re busy not trying to suffocate and you’re blinded by your own tears, you feel your strength fading, the grip you have on your weapon, whatever it might be, starts to loosen up and you feel nauseous, sick all of a sudden.
Who in their right mind would ever dare step close to a monster like that without a real, proper and sensible reason to? Only a few fiends shared their territory with Morbols and it’s usually monsters of considerable size, but even in that case, they never get too close to those hellish swamp plants either way. But how did Morbols live such a situation? On a first inspection, it would appear that they cherished the abundance of territory and the lack of real predators (if one didn’t count all those hunters who still go about slaying the maleodorant plants for their tentacles), as it allowed them to conduct a relatively calm life. However, it didn’t look like all of those monsters relished in the reign of terror that they unconsciously (?) ruled over, some of them even seemed to resent such a situation, as if the fact that people hated them made these fiends “feel” sincerely bad.
It is an undoubtedly odd behaviour, especially if found in monsters so commonly seen as brainless predators whose biggest desire was that of swallowing any moving creature that looked tasty enough. Yet, one Morbol in particular had caught some experts’ attention by acting way differently from the common, straying away from usual hunting paths to get closer to the tracks usually used by adventurers to cross Larkscall, clearly risking an attack from any hunter that wish to sell Morbol tentacles.
What could ever push a monster to act like that?
—
Morbol number 227 was deep in thought (as much as a fiend can be) as he “gazed” over the still empty road, with no sign of any adventurer, no sign of HIS adventurer. That one man who had stolen his green heart on that faithful day: he was just crossing the usual square field when his attention was caught by a running Elezen, one that barely stopped to look around as he dashed through the forest. Such a fleeting glance had been enough to move something in the Morbol’s heart, something that made him wish to see the Elezen more, so much that he actively sought for him whenever he “saw” someone enter his part of the forest and sometimes he even managed to see him, but as soon as he dared get closer, his pointy-eared love would run away, at times even yelling.
The Morbol often wondered if their difference were too great for their story to begin, but he often told himself that no difference was too great for his love. Love that grew stronger each time the Elezen ran by (he heard a couple of Sylphs call him ‘Janremi, the running one’) and, useless to say, he did run a lot.
As if the Twelve themselves had blessed that yet-to-bloom relationship, one day the Morbol found something on the road. A picture of his beloved, just laying there, in the middle of the path: had someone lost it? Or had it been put there on purpose for him to find? Whatever was the reason behind the appearance of that photo, the Morbol didn’t care: he now had the chance to see Janremi’s face every day, as a reminder of what he could have if he managed to finally catch his Elezen.
He’d spend hours caressing that photo, to the point of ruining it: ah, how he wished to caress that skin, to feel it!
But it was just a dream. An impossible love… Or was it?
—
Somewhere in Idyllshire, Janremi Estriaux woke up with a start from his unplanned midday nap, feeling sweat trickling down his temples: what an horrific nightmare! He dreamt of a Morbol being affectionate with him, caressing his face with those slimy tentacles… A real horror.
However he had to calm down: something like that could never happen! Morbols were brainless fiends, weren’t they? Of course they were.
… Yet, he felt like he should start paying extra attention around them from that moment on, just to be absolutely sure nothing would happen.
