Do u think the yandere bees have some weird botanical contraptions? In imagining finding and laying in a soft flower and it vibrates. It’s to ward off other insects that eat that flower. Yet Reader guilty uses it to get off
Venus fly traps but instead of melting you to digest you, it uses it's venom and tongue to get you off and make you covered in sticky saliva. They're lesser known on the planet, but that's because they usually can't escape the fly trap in time to warn others, and are given off to other bee colonies for help in finding a ruler!
The traps are more floral, less green and more vibrant pink with an undertone of blue, and they feed off of sweat and the sugar that leaves from it, so humans being a much larger prey, feeds them for quite a bit!
Sentient? Every now and again they show response to stimuli that indicates they at least know they're alive, but more studies are needed to make a full conclusion.
Happy Paperback Book Birthday to THE ENCHANTED GREENHOUSE!
Happy paperback book birthday to THE ENCHANTED GREENHOUSE!!! My cozy fantasy set in the world of THE SPELLSHOP about a librarian who was once a statue, a grumpy gardener, magical plants, a winged cat, tiny dragons, honey cakes, hope, love, and joy is out today in paperback with gorgeous mint green sprayed edges! And it includes a sneak peek at SEA OF CHARMS, which comes out in just two weeks! I wrote this book for anyone who might need a dose of comfort, joy, and kindness. And I'm so thrilled that the paperback will soon be in the hands of its readers!
Author's Note: More of Warp Roots AU. Investigate Option.
Summary: You and Sergeant Caldus investigate a swamp-born, semi-sentient plant blight that warps dreams and bodies, forcing you to use your uncle’s strange horticultural knowledge to protect the town and the Guard.
Warning: nightmares, body horror, missing persons, military trauma/PTSD, implied violence, cosmic/warp taint, creeping/psychological horror, religious references
“Show me what you’ve observed,” you say finally. “Every detail matters. If this is… as serious as it sounds, I need to understand it before I try anything.”
Caldus nods, relief washing over his features. “Of course. I can start with the patrol reports and logs—everything we’ve kept. There’s one thing… I didn’t mention...”
The Sargent looks around and murmurs a quick prayer to the God Emperor. Hesitating, looking around the shop, as if trying to find something. He either sees what he’s looking for or not. As he stares at you once more. He scratches at his cheek and looks at you, deep into your eyes. Searching for something in your gaze.
He leans closer, voice barely above a whisper. “Some men have… returned with plants growing under their fingernails. Strange ones, twisted, unlike anything in the swamps. They… they move when no one is looking.”
Your stomach tightens. The ledger, the strange drawer with the coiling tendril… your inheritance was never going to be ordinary. This inheritance that everyone fought against getting. That was bequeathed to you.
The first step is clear: you need to see the plants, the swamps, the strange phenomena up close.
But first… you need to gather supplies, study the ledger, and decide what you can trust.
Outside, the fog thickens. The town of Forest Pines waits quietly, but the swamps beyond are whispering secrets—and now, so is the shop.
However you know that there is a decision that you will need to make, and you have several options before you, one would be to continue to observe Caldus, to take careful note of the man, his demeanor, and the situation before acting. Another option that you are leaning towards is to Investigate — examine the swamps, the men, and any unusual flora before taking action; understand fully before intervening.
Part of you recalls as you glance at once of the posters that is up in the shop, per the rules of the local government is the local Arbites poster- and the stern masked form to have every loyal citizen call in suspected heresy, you could try to call in the local Arbites — escalate to Imperial authorities and let them handle it. As you are just a civilian. Not a person who is important… but that would be likely to damn the man in front of you. Another option would be to reach for the ledger and to examine your uncle’s records for herbs or remedies that might calm or protect the Guardsmen.
You are terribly curious about that mysterious drawer, you are tempted to open it, to see what your uncle might have left hidden for emergencies, perhaps something unusual or dangerous. There is another option you could choose, now that you know some more of what’s going on. You could refuse to help the Sargent now that you know more, that you deem the risk seems too great; let Caldus leave to face the situation himself.
However, the Emperor protects those that help themselves. And that means doing something and not nothing. So you decide to investigate. You take a deep breath and nod to Caldus. “We need to see for ourselves,” you say. “If these… dreams, these vines, are really affecting your men, then I need to understand what we’re dealing with before attempting any remedies.”
Caldus blinks, then exhales in relief. “I was hoping you’d say that. I can take you to the swamps, but… it’s not just the plants. Something isn’t right.”
You gather what you’ll need: a satchel with your pruning shears, gloves, a small herbal kit, and the ledger. You also put on a face mask and some protective goggles. Just in case. Pepper or is it Pepper II? Your cat is watching silently, her eyes glimmering in the dim light as if she already knows what’s coming.
The rain outside has turned steady, pattering against the roof in a low, relentless rhythm. You lock the shop door behind you. You make sure to put up the OUT FOR CALL sign and follow Caldus out into the fog-shrouded streets of Forest Pines. The town is quiet; the usual creaks and groans of old timber are swallowed by the rain and mist.
After a half-hour’s walk, the edge of the swamp appears. It stretches like a dark mirror, waterlogged and tangled with reeds and roots. The air smells sharper here—damp, earthy, and faintly metallic. The fog clings low, and you can barely make out shapes moving through the mist: twisted trunks, unnaturally tall reeds, and the faint shimmer of water pooling in hollows.
Caldus gestures to a narrow path between the reeds. “The men vanished along here. And the glowing lights… sometimes they appear near the water, sometimes higher up, hanging among the trees. And sometimes… they’re singing.”
You frown. “Singing?”
He nods. “A chorus of voices. Some of the men hear it in their dreams. Some hear it while awake. And some… they bring it back with them.”
A soft rustling catches your attention. A thin, green tendril slides across the surface of the water, moving as if alive. Your heart thumps. It’s not wind. Not reflection. It moves with purpose.
You kneel slightly, examining the reeds. Some are normal enough, familiar marsh plants—but here and there, twisted shoots curl unnaturally. Leaves shimmer faintly, almost like they are wet with dew—but even in the rain, they glisten too brightly. The hum you felt in the shop is stronger here, faintly vibrating through the soles of your boots.
Pepper or is it Pepper II steps forward, tail high, ears twitching. She pauses, growls low, and flicks her gaze toward you, as if warning: this isn’t ordinary.
Caldus swallows nervously. “These… These are the first things we’ve noticed moving on their own. And last week, one of my men came back from a scouting mission with a tiny vine growing from the palm of his hand. I… I had to cut it off.”
Your fingers itch to check your kit, your ledger, your uncle’s notes—but something tells you to observe first, to take in the patterns, the subtle unnaturalness of this swamp before intervening.
The swamp seems to watch you as you step carefully along the muddy path. The fog thickens, and the water reflects an otherworldly green glow from the plants themselves, almost as if the swamp is breathing.
You realize then: this investigation isn’t just about the men. It’s about the plants, the fog, the very air itself. Whatever is here… it’s alive in a way that defies all natural laws. And it’s aware. You whisper another prayer to the god Emperor to steady yourself.
The first real test comes as a rustle rises behind a cluster of reeds. A shape moves—tall, thin, almost human in outline, but covered in moss-like growths. It pauses. It hums, faintly, in a tone that sends a shiver through your bones.
Caldus freezes beside you. “By the Emperor… that’s one of the men who went missing.”
You swallow hard. The swamp exhales a slow, wet sigh. And somewhere deep in the fog, the whispering begins.
Your investigation has begun.
The rustling behind the reeds grows louder. You take a careful step closer, keeping your gloves ready, heart hammering. The shape that had paused moments ago steps fully into the muted green glow of the swamp—and you see it clearly.
It is not entirely human anymore. Its form is vaguely humanoid, but the skin… if it can even be called skin… is mottled with bark and moss, tiny vines crawling across the surface in slow, deliberate movements. Fingers end not in nails, but in delicate rootlets that twitch as if smelling the air. Its eyes are wide, glowing faintly yellow in the fog, and when it hums, the sound isn’t just vocal—it vibrates in the swamp itself, stirring the reeds, the water, and the air around you.
Pepper or is it Pepper II crouches low, tail twitching, ears pinned, emitting a low, almost warning growl.
Your hands itch to examine it, to measure, to record. You pull the ledger from your satchel, opening it to a fresh page. The pages are still damp from your earlier handling, but the ink flows. You carefully sketch the form, labeling what you can:
Movement: deliberate, slow, semi-independent motion of appendages
Sound: low-frequency hum, vibrates air and water; resonates in the spine
Reaction to observers: seemingly aware, pauses when looked at directly, resumes movement when gaze shifts
You notice tiny tendrils separating from the main body and probing the water around it. They don’t move randomly—they twist and curl as if testing, exploring. You scribble quickly:
“Tendrils exhibit semi-autonomous movement. Possibly sentient or semi-sentient. May respond to stimuli.”
Caldus shifts uneasily beside you. “Do… Do you think it’s dangerous?”
You glance from the ledger to the creature. Its gaze meets yours. A shiver runs down your spine. It hums again—not loud, but deep in the chest, almost inside your bones. The reeds around it sway in perfect rhythm with the hum, though there is no wind. The Sargent has a hand on his las-gun and his stance his shifting into something defensive.
“Dangerous?” you murmur. “Possibly. But not mindlessly so. This… this isn’t a predator in the usual sense. It’s aware. Observing. Testing boundaries.”
You make another note:
“Behavior suggests intelligence, or at minimum, instinctive adaptation to surroundings. Unknown motive. Further observation required before interaction.”
Pepper or is it Pepper II hisses, tail lashing. She’s not comfortable—and neither are you—but you press on. Carefully, you set down the ledger, pull a small pruning tool from your satchel, and extend it toward one of the tendrils—gently, no sudden movements.
The tendril twitches, recoiling slightly, then extends toward the tool, brushing it lightly. You hold your breath. The reaction is not violent, not aggressive—it’s investigative. Almost… curious.
You note rapidly:
“Tactile response: curious, non-hostile. The plant appears capable of sensory feedback. Extreme caution advised. Physical contact limited to probes and indirect observation.”
The creature hums again. This time, the vibration travels along the ledger, making the pages flutter slightly. Ink smears, but the sketches remain legible, almost as if the plant is acknowledging your recording.
You take a step back, exhale slowly. “Caldus… we need to document everything. Every movement, every sound, every growth pattern. This is… unprecedented.”
You hesitate. You’ve studied strange plants, but this… this is something else entirely. “I don’t know yet,” you say softly, “but it’s not normal. And it’s not natural. Whatever this is, it’s alive in ways I’ve never seen before.”
Pepper II rubs against your leg, as if offering silent support. You pick up the ledger, jot down one final note for this encounter:
“Encounter 001: Warp-touched plant manifestation. Observed semi-sentience, sensory feedback, and adaptive movement. Further study required. Initiate containment and documentation protocols. Risk level unknown.”
The swamp seems to exhale around you. The humming fades slightly, and the figure retreats a few steps into the mist, disappearing from view—but the impression it leaves lingers. The water ripples unnaturally. The reeds sway. And somewhere, faintly, a whisper rises above the patter of the rain, like a song half-remembered in a dream.
You close the ledger carefully. This is your first real record. The first step in understanding the inheritance your uncle left you—and the strange, dangerous world it connects to. You mutter another prayer to the God Emperor, it looks like this is going to take longer than three weeks. You are going to have to do something about your job in the different town, and your lease- fuck.
You glance at Caldus. “We need to return to the shop,” you say, voice steady despite the adrenaline still hammering in your chest. “I need to cross-reference this with my uncle’s notes. If we are dealing with something… sentient, semi-sentient, or warp-tainted, then preparation is everything. We can’t rush in.”
Caldus nods, relief washing over him, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. “I can lead you to the rest of my men tomorrow,” he mutters. “If you’re sure we should—”
Pepper II mews sharply and swishes her tail toward the swamp as if signaling: the sooner you understand, the safer everyone will be.
Back at the shop, you pull out the ledger and begin a systematic cross-check. You start with herbs known for warding, calming, or protective properties—old remedies your uncle had noted as potent against “strange influences.” You jot down your findings in a new page under “Investigation 001 – Swamp Anomaly”:
Observation: semi-sentient plant forms exhibiting mobility, sensory feedback, and possible communication.
Response to stimuli: tactile curiosity; non-aggressive but aware of observers.
Potential remedies: Lavender, Feverfew, and Nightshade tinctures recorded as calming when applied in controlled measures; mixture of Thornvine extract noted for warding properties.
Risk factors: Warp contamination unknown; semi-sentient plants may resist or react to interference; prior attempts at direct contact untested.
You trace faint diagrams of the strange tendrils and scribble notes about the humming, the vibrations, the almost musical resonance in the swamp itself. The ledger, strangely, seems to accept the ink without smearing—as if your uncle’s meticulous record-keeping left some subtle protection.
A knock at the door startles you. Through the fogged window, a small figure stands waiting, hunched beneath a tattered cloak. You open the door, cautious. A local townsfolk, a young girl, hands trembling, whispers urgently:
“They’re… they’re awake. The lights. The singing… it came closer last night. You have to help. Please.”
You feel the weight of responsibility pressing down even harder. The ledger in your hands, the swamp outside, and the cries of both Guardsmen and civilians all press the same truth: your inheritance isn’t just a shop, or plants—it’s a duty, a shield, and a weapon against something that watches and learns.
Pepper II slinks past you, gaze fixed on the swamps, tail twitching in warning. You close the door behind the girl, turn to Caldus, and murmur:
“Tomorrow, we go back. Carefully. We observe, we record, and then… we act.”
The rain falls heavier, the swamps whisper louder, and your ledger waits for its next entry.
You take a deep breath, letting the damp, heavy swamp air fill your lungs. Pepper II pads lightly along your side, tail flicking, alert to every movement in the fog. Caldus shifts uneasily, glancing at the distant reeds.
“Before we step any closer,” you say, voice steady, “I need the full picture. Every observation, every symptom. The missing men, the lights, the singing—tell me everything in as much detail as you can.”
Caldus exhales, rubbing his face, dark eyes heavy with fatigue. “All right… but it’s not pretty. The first reports were just… nightmares. Vines creeping across their dreams, whispering names. We thought it was fatigue. But then the lights appeared. A soft, greenish glow, moving between the trees at night. Some men followed it. They… they didn’t come back the same. Or at all.”
You know how, in stories where some treasure-hunting adventurer goes into some ancient lost ruins in search of a particularly special artifact or treasure horde, and there's all these traps left behind by some civilization so long gone that the ruins are all overgrown with jungle vine, moss, or some other form of vegetation (or it's filled with snakes, beetles, or some other vermin) with or without crumbling stone, worn rope bridges, or some other signs of the structure being old and worn...
I gotta ask, if the place has been protected by traps since it was built, then why would any part of it show wear of any sort other than old age alone, looking like countless generations of people wore down stone steps or bridges or whatever else? Have there really been THAT many people who tried to break into this place? (Also: Do the vermin never set off the traps accidentally?)
BUT MORE THAN THAT: if it's so long abandoned, old, and untended by a lost civilization that (presumably) is no longer there to tend it, then why do the modern-times adventurers come across multiple skulls/skeletons and other signs of previous would-be raiders having been killed by the traps... which are still sitting in wait, ready to be sprung by the next attempt? Is there some secret hidden someone who lurks around, just waiting for people to get killed by the traps, and then who resets the crushing room and the wall spikes, opens the fallen-down stone doors, closes the trap doors, refills the stock of poison darts and/or arrows in the walls, puts back any large rolling boulders, and rebuilds crumbled statues and other stoneworks? Also, if everything is so old that rope bridges might fall apart at any moment, why would the trap mechanisms not also be falling apart? Why should they work as well as they ever did when they were first made? Organic material components break down over time, metal can corrode in environments where there's enough water present for plants to grow or vermin to thrive, and even stone mechanisms would eventually wear down if the traps have been set off countless times before.
(am now picturing the Knight in The Last Crusade who guards the Grail, waiting centuries for the right person to come along, and most of the time, even if someone does show up, they don't even make it to the inner room to fight the Knight, so after waiting a respectable time after hearing the traps in the outer passages get set off, he's saying to himself: "Well, I guess that's another one who didn't make it very far. Better go reset the traps." )
SO:
In your dungeon, who would reset the traps?
Fairies, gremlins, magic somehow indefinitely sustained by some secret power source, perhaps the very creeping vines that cover the walls have enough intelligence and freedom of movement that they are in charge of dungeon maintenance...
...or maybe it's this guy?
" 'Ello. "
(btw, am now also imagining some kind of scenario where there's an entire working dungeon ecosystem (on purpose), where the artifact in the ruin provides energy (instead of sunlight) to the plants, which perform maintenance (including trap-resets) and where insects feed on the plants, larger vermin feed on the insects, and dumb wandering animals larger than the vermin feed on them... and also randomly set off the traps, which provides the important function of routine testing to make sure the traps are working smoothly as designed. Alternatively, the larger fauna (such as gremlins) might perform maintenance instead of sentient flora. "Oh, hear that? There goes the trap in corridor 2-57G. Today was Bob's turn to test there, I wonder if he survived?" )
(alternatively, are none of the traps actually automatic at all, but instead all function by some life form(s) in the walls manually setting each one off, firing each individual dart, moving the spikes and walls and trap doors because they are always watching for intruders to come by? The sci-fi equivalent would be that nothing would be set to automatically go off, but instead some kind of dungeon/spaceship/building master-control AI is watching everything all the time and chooses each trap to turn on at just the right time... a fantasy-world equivalent of THAT would be some magical being with a crystal ball (or hundreds of them) watching everyone who enters and choosing what perils to inflict on which people, and when. (Like a GM in an RPG, haha)
(Note: Totally am NOT planning to use any of this stuff for anything anywhere in my writing, just couldn't help thinking about it when watching Indiana Jones movies... so it is all up for grabs for anyone (or everyone) who might want to use it, that's why it's here.)
(hoping it won't keep taking up space in my head, causing me to think of more and more related concepts)
a side character that the main cast often interacts with that is a huge gardening enthusiast, naming every plant and spend most of their day taking care of them all
when the main cast asks about them, they talk about the plants as if they were people saying things like "Suzy was wilting a bit yesterday but is just loving the sun today" and "this one is Simon, he's a fucking bastard"
as the series goes on, the character describes the plants in more and more detail as it starts to become apparent that the plants are probably sentient and getting up to all kinds of shit at the side character's home while the main cast is away
"Hey we're back! So uh...why is there a hole in the roof?"
"Ah that, Francis gotta little rowdy last night after he was outvoted on what book I'd read for storytime. Oh, and be careful on the back porch; Simon pulled all the nails out again"
