Not to step on any ideas that Alan might have in mind for the flavor of the plant (especially since Dak smokes it as opposed to chewing it like Seleniniel), but I've kind of imagined it to have a vaguely earthy/grassy flavor with citrusy or minty overtones to it. *shrug* Just where my mind went with it... I could be wrong.

Unless you get the occasional bad batch, then it's overwhelmingly bitter and leaves you with days of a really weird aftertaste and that tingly feeling at the back of your jaw. (Kind of like Malort, if we have any chicagoans up in here)

I don't know how much longer I can remain that way though.

sorry! sorry, i havent gotten around to it but I'm trying

Even if Olan moves us forward you can always include it in your next post as well 

I'm just being impatient lol

...to see if there's a post.

The comet diligently traces its predestined path, nudged along by the gravity wells of a thousand suns, worshiped by near-sentient denizens of a fraction of those--none for the reason they should. It has again returned to the cluster that birthed it all those eons ago. At the Beginning. A three hundred million year circuit, proudly repeated hundreds of thousands of times. Within the icecrusted shell, a rite as old as the stars is beginning as the overlapping radiance of the motherstars greets the Traveler once again. The vault in the comet's heart stirs. In that preciously-held chamber, the voidblack vacuum is broken by the dappling glow of thousands of yellowgold orbs--an uninterrupted lining of pulsing fingerous villi--leaning almost imperceptibly toward the quicking pull of the motherstars. From one, the first, a thin pseudopod forms within the mucosa, merges with the translucent skin of the birthsack, creating a small protuberance in the otherwise smooth exterior of the gently pulsing ovule. The filmy outer layer coagulates around the protrusion, growing more opaque, more solid, as faint crackles of silvery electric current ripple outward from the milky core. Cell growth explodes in the primordial amniotic fluid, the small protrusion elongates outward into a delicate stalk at its base that thins as it lengthens, forming a whispy tendril toward its end, reaching for the center of the heart chamber, microgravity content to leave it gently swaying in syncrony with the rhythmic pulsing of the birthsack. As exponential cellgrowth slows, nerve clusters begin to trace their way along the thread, weaving an overlapping lattice that eventually forms into a dense knot of sensory fibers at what has now become the terminus. The first is not the only. In time, thousands of tendrils from thousands of sacks join the first's in the center of the vault. As they bump gently among themselves in the vacuum, they begin to tangle and merge into into an interwoven commune of nerve and tissue. By the time the last finally joins, the communal mass has swollen to fill the heart chamber, pulsing with the collective energy of the once-glowing multitude that lined the inner walls, now dark and flacidly drifting, having served their role for now. The central mass remains tethered by now-dormant whispy umbilicals, exterior growth replaced by a less visible metamorphasis. Bursts of interior light illuminate the thick skin from within as synapses form and fire. It slowly becomes They. They wait, patiently. The universes turn. The motherstars draw Them inward. The largest most insistently, ultraviolet light from her swollen red form slowly melting the Traveler's icy casing to reveal a deepblack crystaline exterior of sharp geometric lines broken only by a small circular orface. The tug of the red mother calls to Them. They answer, pressing against the lonely opening in the vaultwall--much too substantial now to risk becoming the Traveler's jetsam. Red mother's radiation burns away a layer outer skin sealed against the orface, revealing a dense mass of optic receptors. They see, basking in the mother's rustred light for nanoseconds before her angry flaring embrace burns away nerve endings too--returning Them to the dark. The ephemeral glimpse is enough, though. It is not Time. As the mothers sling the Traveler back to their everdistant cousins, the cycle begins anew. The cold dark welcomes the Traveler back. They slowly retreat along umbilical tetherings, devolving back to Their comfortable stasis. Just as cognition leaves Them, there is a tinge of something. Sadness perhaps. They will wait, though. It is Their purpose. The Traveler carries what was once Them outward, past a dazzling array of worlds lit by suns They might oneday see. When it is Time.

Alan! Thanks for that juicy snippet! Was jonesing for some content and I always enjoy what comes out of your brains (all of them). Is there more or was this a one off?

I just sat down this morning with an itch to write. My prompt was "I'll write a story about waiting for a post" and this is what popped out 

Is Olan the Red Mother and we're her little Travelers?

The storyteller makes no choice, soon you will not hear his voice. His job is to shed light, and not to master. 

(Hail Red Mother, may her light illumen our optic receptors forever)

What if instead of making a beautiful story, we instead collaborated to form a community of like-minded individuals who perhaps lived in a shared communal space together? We could heed and hail the Red Mother's all too brief illumination, while also warning the non-believers of their folly should they remain in the shade.

Together we can cultivate a better ending to the Traveler's journey.

A little loot, a couple of questions... there ya go.

1. Have we laid eyes on the ceiling, or is it out of the radius of all light/sight?

2. it is still early/mid morning, correct?

3. S focused her ESP spell on R, but would she have sensed the presence of any unseen creatures' minds during that spell? (despite the fact that she was not probing for that purpose)

4. is there enough of the remains left to discern whether all these corpses were initially killed by owlbears?

With the unexplained Sylvari tracks

• If there is a solid impression, does the footwear imprint resemble something more suited to travel, or something more refined?
• If there's any close enough together to indicate a stride distance, can their pace be described as slow or fast?
• If they're in seemingly random locations, are they also in seemingly random directions too? Or overall pointed towards one or two places?