Oddly Targeted Container

[eternally_aggrieved]

The island is deserted, save for the statues.

And now, a rectangular brown paper package. It rustles and rocks, then tips over onto one side and stops moving.

Comments

[all_the_worlds_have]

The seed cracks apart like shattering glass, and the vine snakes upwards along the closest bamboo shoot -

Only for its saw-toothed edges to shear right through the bamboo with its movement, bisecting the stalk and leaving the half-grown vine lying awkwardly on the ground. A single hesitant blossom unfolds, flaring fitfully with light, and a tiny cloud of smoke drifts up and away.

(Eva files the paper into the deep recesses of her desk, and inquires as to whether the dragon would like to purchase telekinesis.)

[pythbox]

"...And what would that get me, exactly?" asks Saravasse.

[endragoned]

The Endarkened contemplates the vine, petting it absently as he searches for the cause of the premature thorn growth. Perhaps he can calm the vines down a little, and if not, he can always grow sturdier frames for them.

[all_the_worlds_have]

The vine cuts into his hand with its thorns, of course. That's its way of letting him know that it loves him too.

(The poison that feels like his arm's suddenly been dunked into below-freezing water is new, though.)

After a bit of fiddling, it appears that an interesting little gold-tinged portion of the vine's magical 'genome' has caused them to grow the thorns too early. It doesn't seem to do anything else useful: removing it isn't particularly difficult, either. Odd that he hadn't noticed it earlier.

(Meanwhile, Eva explains that telekinesis would allow Saravasse to use mental commands to finely manipulate things on a human scale - possibly even smaller, depending on how much she wants to pay for it.)

[pythbox]

"That does sound useful. And I suppose it will cost me only a negligible fraction of my vast wealth," says Saravasse.

[endragoned]

Very odd indeed.

He removes the extra thorns and the magical genes that produced them, makes his bamboo-like framework a little sturdier, and drapes the vine over it, then encourages the vine to grow some more. (The freezing effect is fun and interesting.)

[all_the_worlds_have]

The vine curls into the lattice, snaking its way back and forth with unplantlike intelligence until the entire space is occupied: then the thorns grow, digging it deeply into the bamboo stalks. The stalks groan with the strain as the jet-black vines constrict, but hold.

A moment later, seven rose-buds swell from the vine. They open one by one, each and every petal flaring with brilliant golden light. The heat washes over him like a bonfire.

(Meanwhile, Eva is explaining that simple telekinesis on the human scale would cost perhaps two or three Ka per person.)

[endragoned]

How lovely. He touches a flower, just to see what happens.

[pythbox]

"I'll think about it," says Saravasse.

[all_the_worlds_have]

The flower sets his hand on fire. It is really a remarkably uncreative way of inflicting pain.

(Eva nods to Saravasse. "Alright, then. Is there anything else I can help you with?")

[pythbox]

"I'll let you know if I think of anything."

[endragoned]

Hey, there's nothing wrong with fire. Fire is nice.

The next thing he tries is getting this vine to produce seeds of its own.

[all_the_worlds_have]

Inspecting its structure, it seems that the only sort of seed he can derive from the plant is the same fist-sized one that he's already encountered.

(Eva settles back into filing papers.)

[endragoned]

Seems reasonable. He coaxes it to make some.

[all_the_worlds_have]

The flowers tremble, as if they want to close -

And then relax back to their fully-open state.

[endragoned]

Certainly the most recalcitrant plant he's ever worked with.

But then, that's part of the fun.

He investigates the flaming flowers. Perhaps there is something wrong with them, and fixing it will allow them to fruit properly.

[all_the_worlds_have]

The flaming flowers... Are different from the ones he has in his template. They should be black, and burning blue.

A bit of searching reveals another piece of golden 'DNA' in the 'genome', buried more deeply than the first. A bit of finagling, and gold scales fall from the flowers, leaving them burning a brilliant cyan. The light pierces into his skin like a million tiny pinpricks, each flicker of flame making the pain shift and shimmer across his body.

[endragoned]

Aww, they're pretty! He pets the vine some more.

Time to sort through the whole genome and deal with all this golden stuff, he thinks. All it seems to do is make the vine less itself.

[all_the_worlds_have]

A deliberate, targeted search discovers more of the golden 'DNA'. Much more.

It seems like this plant was not originally a vine at all. Someone has reshaped it rather extensively, overwriting crucial portions of its 'genome'. Much of the damage is fixable, but some of the larger sections of golden 'DNA' are too large to simply remove. They must be replacing something crucial to the original plant - but what?

(The necessary tinkering to discover all of this unfortunately does not result in a healthy Takkarash-vine afterwards. The not-bamboo has burned down, and the vine has taken on the rough consistency of stale bread.)

[endragoned]

But now he has a clearer idea of what he's doing.

He discards this vine, builds a stronger, taller bamboo framework, and picks up another seed. Let's try growing another vine, with as much of that golden nonsense edited out as he can manage without compromising its health, and particularly with those gorgeous blue flowers intact.

[all_the_worlds_have]

This time, it does not come out as a vine at all, but instead a hedge. Roots dig deeply into the earth, shattering the mundane soil into glassy shards of black rock. The natural plant-stalks vanish quickly into the mass of brambles, torn apart by scything thorns. Dark leaves unfold from the red-hued branches, marked here and there by smaller flowers - but these are even more intensely cyan, like the sunlit sky caught in blossoms. There are also far more than seven of them.

The light bears a wild, exultant pain. The raw-throated release of a scream of grief. The grimace-grin of bloody knuckles on an enemy's jaw. The stabbing warmth of a fire after being out in the cold. All these things and more compress and blend together, forming a single excruciating glory, like and yet unlike any of its components.

[endragoned]

...

He may have to spend a while snuggling this hedge.

[all_the_worlds_have]

The thorns tear at his skin, but they are a minor, minor note in the symphony of pain carried by the light. The flowers brush against his body, but even their freezing fire is barely a chord.

But the scent - ah, the scent of the blue-burning blossoms -

It carries a heavy, leaden pain, deep in the lungs, the gut. The knee-hugging hollowness of something lost. The wincing smile that speaks of hidden bruises. The miserable aches and nausea of a illness that has lasted far too long. These pains and those like them melt and intermingle, alloying into a wretched, hateful counterpoint to the light's soaring melody.

[endragoned]

He snuggles the hedge anyway. The hedge is beautiful and precious.

And then he coaxes it to bear fruit and seeds.

[all_the_worlds_have]

A blossom closes, darkening to a deep sea-blue, then a navy, then finally black. The fruit falls into his hand, dark-fleshed and perfectly egg-shaped, cool against his palm.

(It hurts to touch it, of course. It is a thing of Takkarash. But it is difficult to tell where the symphony-pain ends and the fruit-pain begins.)