#sylphium....

[leoconstantinepinochle]

7) beginning of the mission

characters: Leo (Chris just mentioned but its worth it)

Leo POV:

Chris walked off in the opposite direction from Vijay, waving his hand casually without looking back. Since someone who should be in the dorms would stand out if they entered through the main gate, Chris planned to enter through the back door instead.

"Leo-sama , let’s go as well."

Bernard opened the rear door of the Doyle.

I couldn’t help but feel a bit uneasy about what lay ahead, but there was no use worrying about it. Vijay would handle things smoothly, and despite his usual antics, Chris would take the mission seriously. As long as no problems arose, it would be fine.

This mission was focused around me. It was a good opportunity to gain the CEO’s trust.

I got into the Doyle and crossed my legs.

By afternoon, Chris had been forcibly removed from the school grounds as a suspicious person. Apparently, he had been talking amicably with a female teacher, and his behavior was too much like that of a high school student. A different teacher had witnessed it and became suspicious of him.

He was too stupid for me to even sigh. Still, since the risk of his cover being blown was high from the start, it wasn’t surprising.

Chris’s school attendance was only planned for a short period, and I hadn’t really relied on him from the start. The fact that the police weren’t called was fortunate—it meant that things didn’t escalate into a bigger problem. I decided to forget about him and focus on the mission.

The story goes back to the morning.

I passed through the gate, which had aged stone walls and charming wrought ironwork, and walked alone toward the school building. The vivid green grass and trees that seemed to grow freely, yet were well-maintained, filled the air with freshness.

I could feel the vitality of the grass and trees, awakened by the morning sun. Vijay must have seen the same scenery and, no doubt, greatly appreciated it.

The grounds of Rummy college were vast. I walked along the winding path for a while, passing old Western-style buildings.

I didn’t dislike the scenery. Spada Province has a capital city, but it’s neither as flashy as Rosengi nor as pastoral as Polostick, and it’s not as detached from reality as Sylphium. Spada is a place that embodies the history and charm of the Kingdom of Forland, and Ramie School is a place that condenses that essence.

But, despite the pleasant surroundings, my mood didn’t lift. As the school building came into view, I couldn’t help but feel the tension rising inside me. With class about to begin, the sound of students chatting could be heard from the open windows.

I could see them. There were students near the entrance, on their way from the dorms to the school building. Some of them noticed me.

Then, one or two of them showed a brief expression of recognition before returning to their conversations with their classmates, as if nothing had happened.

I ignored them and walked into the entrance.

Every time I came to school, I saw the same thing.

I couldn't bring myself to like the school.

Rummy college gathers the children of influential people from all over the Kingdom of Forland. The admission requirements start with academic ability and other student qualifications, but large donations are also part of the process, making it, in terms of overall difficulty, probably the hardest to get into in the entire kingdom. While there is no discrimination based on background, in practice, it selects the wealthy.

I walked through the Gothic-style school building. This school, along with the chapel and museum on the grounds, was itself a historical monument. Through repeated repairs and renovations, this school has been shaping history alongside the Kingdom of Forland for a long time.

I walked along the hallway, where wooden floors were covered with carpet. The students glanced at me sideways as I passed.

I thought they would just watch without saying anything—until one of them spoke up.

"Hey, uh, hello. You’re Leo, right?"

It was a boy wearing glasses. I could tell he was a senior by his winged collar. He kept adjusting his glasses, clearly nervous. His smile was forced.

After hearing my cold response, his smile twisted even more awkwardly.

"You’re a senior, right? Uh, you should be careful with your manners when addressing upperclassmen…"

I let out a deep sigh.

"What do you want?"

I could see beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

He swallowed, then continued, his words coming out more hesitantly.

"My family runs a steel company, and we’re going to have a celebration for the company’s anniversary soon. We’re inviting the students from school. My father said I should personally invite you and your family…"

"I'm busy, so I'll pass."

"Wait—I'm not finished yet—"

"If you want to talk business, contact the headquarters. Don't bother me."

I turned and started walking straight ahead. He was still saying something behind me, but I didn’t pay attention to the idle gossip.

I didn’t have any personal grudge against that boy—or rather, I didn’t even know who he was—but I could guess which company he was from. I didn’t know if he was a manager or an executive, but even if he reported to his parents, it wouldn’t affect Pinochle’s business in the slightest. No matter what, people would still try to suck up to me.

My family’s business, Pinochle, is the royal family’s supplier, and one of the most prestigious companies in the kingdom. When you consider its scale, history, and status, it’s the most influential company in the kingdom. To put it simply, it’s great.

That’s exactly why, wherever I go, people only see me as a stepping stone to build a relationship with Pinochle.

However, students like the one I just encountered have become rare. When I first entered, there were countless people trying to get close to me. Even among the upperclassmen, there were those who tried to act as my caretaker, gathering the younger students to gain favor. But with my extensive experience in high society, I could see through their hidden motives. I rejected them.

As I continued to brush people off, fewer and fewer tried to approach me. This was fine with me.

However, even though Rummy college is a gathering place for the rich, it’s not just a school full of spoiled kids with dollar signs in their eyes. I’ve never attended a public school, but it’s true that this school has a lot of well-behaved students. There are some delinquents or students who misbehave out of impulse, but overall, they are well-mannered.

That’s why everyone knows who I am.

Everyone at school knows about Pinochle, and they also know I’m the heir to it. As a result, rumors about me spread quickly. It’s likely that people are talking about me at home, among friends, and even among teachers.

“They say to stay away from the Pinochle family.”

And then they would probably add:

“Except when necessary.”

I didn’t need them to say that for me to understand.

So, I also kept my distance in the same way.

"Good morning, Leo."

I was greeted again, and without thinking, I furrowed my brows and turned my face toward the voice.

“Ugh, what’s with that face? Are you mad or something?”

Damn it. It's a teacher.

He’s wearing a light grey checkered suit, youthful in appearance. Although slim, his build is good. His black hair is styled in an old-school slicked-back fashion, typical of a teacher from a prestigious school. His gaze is sharp, but the dark circles under his eyes make him look a bit worn out.

I don’t know his name, but I think he’s a homeroom teacher from a different class in the same grade.

The male teacher stood in the hallway, greeting students as they arrived at school. He must be on duty or something.

I quickly switched gears in my mind and put on my best smile.

"Good morning, sir. I’m sorry, but it seems my eyesight has been getting worse lately."

"Haha, you shouldn’t be playing games so much."

"Please don’t say that. I’m studying hard, like a good student. I only play a little."

I added a playful expression to my face to fully commit to my acting.

"That’s right. After all, you’re the heir of Pinochle. Schoolwork alone wouldn’t be enough for you. Imperial studies should be a compulsory subject for someone like you."

That said, when it comes to general academics, I’m already proficient. At the very least, scoring well on regular exams is no trouble at all.

Before I enrolled at Rummy college, I was homeschooled.

I would sit in the study room of the mansion before dawn, dressed in my uniform, and receive lessons from a tutor who changed daily. During meal breaks, I was made to watch classic music performances or classic films to develop my cultural knowledge.

I was drilled in everything—how to drive every type of vehicle, handling firearms, martial arts, scientific knowledge, and even imperial studies.

My bedtime was early, but I would secretly study in my room to learn as much as I could.

Day after day, I spent my time desperately trying to absorb everything.

Before long, with a few exceptions, I began to see the adults and those around me as foolish.

Then, one day, I was informed.

I was the chosen one for the "X-playing Cards," the seven of diamonds, Never No Dollars, and I was destined to be a player, eventually becoming the leader of the High card.

While I had understood from a young age that I would inherit Pinochle Corporation, I hadn’t known that the cards were real or that I had a duty to recover them as part of the High card' mission, fulfilling the corporation’s great cause.

Upon learning this hidden truth, things became more chaotic.

Bernard seemed worried that I might be confused by such a heavy responsibility, but I wasn’t that weak. How could I not be happy with the increased opportunities to gain the CEO’s recognition?

So, I didn’t care about the rest.

The High card are a secret organization, and no other students or teachers would ever know about it. In other words, from the perspective of everyone else, I was simply the heir to a prestigious family, a separate and distinct entity. No one decent would approach me.

However, I didn’t need any camaraderie with my classmates, nor did I want it. As long as I could earn the favor of the teachers, that was enough.

I was Pinochle, and I was a High Card.

I walked through the school building and arrived in front of my classroom. When I opened the wooden door, intricately carved with a bird design, I found my classmates chatting eagerly while waiting for the class to start. As soon as they saw me, a brief silence fell.

I ignored them, sat in an empty seat at the back, and placed my large satchel bag down.

The teacher, whose face I didn’t even remember, entered.

There was nothing new to learn in class anymore. Now, I needed to figure out how to obtain information about the X-playing Cards hidden within the school. It was time to think it over again.

[theonlypandagod]

this: not only that, but they were ACTIVELY trying to invent ways to not die of preventable causes since ANTIQUITY. It doesn't stop at sylphium as an abortifacent.

a virginian colonist would survive just fine in 2024 (aside from the culture shock of "oh good heavens, what is that automated carriage where are all the coopers and wheelwrights") but we, with modern immune systems and the amazing advent of modern medicine, could NOT survive in the 18th century.

You know what?

My ancestors would have wanted pasteurization, vaccines, antibiotics, disinfectants, birth control, psychiatric medications, pain management, anesthesia. My ancestors would have wanted to be able to keep their loved ones around longer, and not lose them too early/too soon to childbirths, injuries, bacterial infections, mental illnesses, and diseases that are curable and/or preventable in our modern day life.

Modern medicine saves lives.

[inoppositionflorien]

Is capitalism uniquely wasteful among economic systems? Historically speaking, not really. Central-Planned communism has a poor track record with both massive over and underproduction, making it in principle more wasteful while also often failing to provide needed goods.

Agrarianism was not particularly wasteful in a physical sense, but also sucked forever and was not wasteful out of "if you waste anything you'll starve in the winter" so that's right out. Also it was actually incredibly wasteful, but in a time and space sense, agrarian societies where everyone's a farmer invariably are very bad at producing food quickly or efficiently.

Anarchist economies function essentially identically to capitalist economies. (Anarchist economies do exist, primarily in certain nationally-tolerated communes. There's one in Denmark for instance. So we do actually know this one.)

Market Socialism is just capitalism again in what it does economically. (Vietnam and Cuba do variants of this, so we know this. Debatably China has done this at times, though not consistently.)

Fascist State Economies don't work either, they share many of the problems of central planning and add a bunch of new ones because at least occasionally communists might try fixing a problem rather than saying "skill issue fix it yourself". Also they're inextricable from fascism so maybe don't.

Hunter-Gathering is staggeringly wasteful, one of the most destructive economic systems in existence, but the groups that do it rarely got the population density to make it obvious how destructive it is. You know aside from how there's a few plants we know were driven to extinction by gathering (Most notably sylphium) and many many types of megafauna that mysteriously disappeared after surviving every previous ice age right as humans showed up.

It may be impossible to have a practical economic system that doesn't produce some level of waste, but the important thing is capitalism is actually pretty good about waste per unit. (Indeed, one of the frustrations people have with it is it's not wasteful. That's what just-in-time supply chains and brittle employment levels and gig work are about. It would be wasteful to get a bunch of inputs you don't use.)

[sylphirium]

Sylphium. The light between the trees, dappling golden on the dark ground, the cold stream around your feet, the beating of moths' wings, patterns forming in the grasses from the breeze, the pale hour just before the dawn arrives, the things you whisper sweetly in the night, your body held against mine. The things that make it all worth while but are never said. Maybe it's the universe telling you it's all alright.

[cursedcuisine]

A Man (w/ Rice)

Discovering the ingredients in the back of a cupboard and laying in my fridge, the recipe for this entered my brain in a rush. Once the bleeding ceased and my eyes no longer beheld the horrors beyond sight, I was able to begin preparations and succumb to the laziness that is the Crock Pot and Instant Pot

You’ll need:

2-4lbs Boneless, Skinless chicken thighs 2 small or one large can of Cream of Chicken soup 2tbsp Flavor Powder (Curry, Cajun, Mrs. Dash, Sylphium) 4cups White Rice (or Brown, if you desire madness) 8cups Chicken Stock or Broth 2tbsp Garlic Powder Salt Pepper

1. Combine chicken, soup, garlic, and flavor powder in a crock pot, set for 10 hours. 2. When chicken is almost done, cook rice as desired. 3. Break up chicken with spoon, you may skim fat if you seek failure in all things. Season to taste with salt and pepper 4. Do not succumb to the void as the rice cooks 5. Serve the chicken atop the rice in a bowl. Leftovers remain excellent for two days and edible for five. Beyond that I fear for the sanctity of the bowel.

[yansquid]

you ever just kinda get sad about sylphium plant?

[the-king-and-the-druidess]

Ficlet inspired by this art: Mordred & Aglain, Mordred x Morgana, werewolves, canon divergent

The wolf cloak protected him from the blizzard, but he wished he could throw it off and freeze. But he wasn't able to. The wolf pelt dug into his shoulders with its dead long yellowed claws.

He was too tired. Mordred stopped, lay down in the snow, and closed his eyes. The north wind in his ears howled louder, it was howling like a wolfpack, triumphantly. Mordred could feel the beast approaching, the monster within him, and he had no more strength left to fight.

The world behind his closed eyelids coloured molten gold, and that light drove the wolf away. Not for long and not far, but still Mordred was able to keep from surrendering to the evil within him and dying snowbound. He opened his eyes and sat up. Beside him in an aura of golden radiance sat the ghost of a wolf. But Mordred knew, sensed that it was not a beast, but a man, warm and kind. A man once dear to him.

"Why are you a wolf?" he asked resentfully. "Of all the forms you could be..."

"Because you are a wolf, my boy." replied Aglain's spirit, "I was sent to help you."

"Nothing can help me now." Mordred's tone was colder than this northern wasteland.

"You have lost faith, Mordred. But salvation is at hand. What you need is beyond that hill. And what needs you badly."

Mordred looked into the distance.

"The one called the Wolf Queen lives there. She will heal you. Follow me." Aglain stood up and softly ran forward and down the slope of the snow-covered hill.

Mordred hurried after him. "A wolf queen? She sounds frightening."

"Look deeper, Mordred."

They, the wolf and the young man in the wolf pelt, saw a dark castle below. A light shone through a narrow window. The tower was like a beacon in a snow sea.

"Here will be the end and the beginning of your journey, son. I love you." Aglain's voice melted into the darkness.

Mordred looked round and managed to see only a glimmer of golden light fading away in the spiritworld. "I love you too, Aglain." he whispered and headed for the castle. The beast's shadow was glad that the ghost was no longer in the way of him hunting his prey. It crept along behind Mordred, keeping as low to the ground as possible.

When Mordred saw her, he recognised her at once. He lowered the scarf that hid his face and realised that she did not recognise him. By her wary look, by the shadows under her eyes, by the arms crossed over her chest. Has she ever looked at him coldly like that before...?

"Who are you? One step further, and I will kill you." the Wolf Queen clipped. She sat on an uncomfortable stone throne sinking her pale cheeks into a collar of black fur. She was surrounded by scary stranger warriors dressed in black leather. Truly, a queen of the wolves.

"Pardon, but the wolf will kill me first, My Lady." he bowed politely, chivalrously to her.

"The wolf? Who are you?" she wondered, raising her dark gaze to his.

"A werewolf. I was cursed."

"You're a rare thing. Who did this to you?" she rose from her throne and walked over to him, so close. She was smaller than him now, but so much powerful.

"The forest I got was infected. I survived alone of my clan, but was bitten..." his heart rose under her beautiful gaze, still as green as the forests of his memories. "I beg for your help, O High Priestess."

"Why should I help you, Wolf?" she arched an eyebrow, but her expression surprisingly softened.

"Because we are of a kind. You and I."

The Wolf Queen couldn't refuse helping one of her own. Something about the werewolf lad with icy eyes disturbed her however. His bright appearance awakened and shifted something in her frozen heart. Would she want to feel again...?

"Come with me." she touched the silvery fur of his cloak.

The wolf's eyes gleamed gold.

The sorceress drew a pentagram on the floor of the abandoned shrine. Mordred lay down in its centre. The beast crouched beside him. The hypnotic scent of smoking sylphium touched Mordred's nostrils. The Wolf Queen spent that precious herb for him. He heard the quiet clatter of her high heels. She stepped closer to him, leaning over his face, the raven curls of her hair move like grasses in an invisible soft wind. "Sleep." she commanded, and Mordred passed out.

He woke up because he felt cold. He still lay in the centre of the pentagram, his shoulders light without the wolf cloak. The Wolf Queen sat on the floor beside him. She hasn't taken her keen gaze from him for a moment.

"It's over. The wolf is gone." With magic incantatishions, she had ripped off his cursed pelt and burned it. So selkie's husband burn his wife's skin in the fireplace of their fishing hut to bind his loved one to him forever.

He's not a werewolf anymore. Inside him is only his longing heart and nothing else. Mordred sat up and smiled happily, brightly at her. "Thank you, I don't khow how I could repay your kindness..."

The queen hummed and shook her head. Kindness, she has almost forgotten what it was. "What could you possibly give me? You're just a wandering druid..."

"I can love you, My Lady." Mordred found her hand, so warm, and clasped it gently.

Morgana stood up proudly. "I do not need love. I need power to change the world."

Mordred followed her, came closer and placed his hands on either side of her waist. "Who said love isn't such a power? Morgana." He pulled her into his chest and rested his head on her shoulder reverently. "You still don't recognise me...?"

Morgana froze, gasped, then dug her nails painfully into the black fabric of his shirt, then whispered in his ear, "I thought you were dead..."

"Many times I was. But I'm alive now." Mordred whispered back.

Source

[charmemma]

Le concombre fugitif

Je vous dirai que j’aime les fleurs d’une passion presque monomaniaque. Les fleurs me sont des amies « silencieuses et violentes », et fidèles. Et toute joie me vient d’elles. Mais je n’aime pas les fleurs bêtes, car si blasphématoire que cela paraisse, il y a des fleurs bêtes, ou plutôt des fleurs, des pauvres fleurs à qui les horticulteurs ont communiqué leur bêtise contagieuse. Tels les bégonias, dont on fait, dans les jardins, aujourd’hui, un si douloureux étalage. Au point que toute autre fleur en est exilée, et que toute la flore semble se restreindre à cette stupide plante, dont on dirait que les pétales sont découpés à l’emporte-pièce, dans quelque indigeste navet. Pulpe grossière, artificielle couleur, formes rigides, sans une grâce, sans une fantaisie, tiges molles et gauches, sans une jolie flexion dans la brise, nul parfum ne monte d’elle, et son âme est pareille à celle des poupées : je veux dire qu’elle n’a pas d’âme, ce qui est à peine croyable. Au Mexique, où il pousse librement, on assure que le bégonia est charmant. Que ne l’a-t-on laissé là-bas !

Oh ! les jardins d’aujourd’hui, comme ils me sont hostiles ! Et quel morne ennui les attriste. À quel rôle abject de tapis d’antichambre, de mosaïque d’écurie, de couvre-pied de cocottes, les jardiniers, mosaïculteurs et cloisonneurs de pelouses, n’ont-ils pas condamné les fleurs ! Tout ce qu’elles peuvent avoir, en elles, de personnalité mystérieuse, tout ce qu’elles contiennent de symboles émouvants et de délicieuses analogies, tout l’art exquis, qui rayonne, en prodiges de formes éducatrices, de leurs calices, on s’acharne à le leur enlever. On les oblige à disparaître, taillées, rognées, ébarbées, nivelées par un criminel sécateur, dans une confusion inharmonique, dans une sorte de tissage mécanique et odieux. Elles ne sont plus tolérées dans les jardins, qu’à la condition de dire la suprême sottise du jardinier, d’étaler par des chiffres, et par des noms la richesse et la vanité du propriétaire. Les hommes exigent qu’elles descendent jusqu’à leur snobisme, jusqu’à leur vulgarité. Rien n’est triste comme des fleurs asservies.

Les fleurs que j’aime sont les fleurs de nos prairies, de nos forêts, de nos montagnes. Je vais demander à l’Amérique septentrionale la miraculeuse beauté de ses Composées, la majesté de ses hélianthes et de ses sylphiums. Au Japon, je cherche l’obscène candeur de ses lis, l’exubérante et fastueuse joie de ses pivoines, la verve folle de ses ipomées. L’Orient m’apporte toute la diversité innumérable de ses bulbes, l’extraordinaire chiffonnage de ses pavots, de ses anémones, de ses renoncules. Et que dire de la Suisse, où de chaque pente de rocher sort une merveille de vie végétale, où le caillou est hospitalier à la petite graine qui se confie à lui, où la neige couve et prépare les ardentes soirées printanières ? Quel plaisir — et je le dirai, quelque jour, ce plaisir, et je dirai aussi tout ce que les fleurs contiennent non seulement de rêve, de beauté, mais d’excitation intellectuelle et d’éducation artistique — quel plaisir de rassembler en un jardin, tous ces êtres de miracle et de leur donner la terre qu’ils aiment, l’air dont se vivifient leurs délicats organes, l’abri dont ils ont besoin, et de les laisser se développer librement, s’épanouir selon leur fantaisie admirable et dans la norme de leur bonté ; car les fleurs sont bonnes et généreuses pour qui sait les chérir.

⁂

Il y a bien longtemps que je désirais une merveilleuse plante, qui s’appelle le Sylphium albyflorum. En vain, je l’avais demandé partout, aux horticulteurs, aux collectionneurs, aux muséums, aux jardins botaniques. En vain, je l’avais réclamé de l’Angleterre, de l’Amérique, de la Belgique, et même de ce botaniste, passionné et charmant, de Genève, M. H. Correvon, qui cultive, dans ses curieux jardins de Plainpalais, tout ce que la Flore universelle peut donner de plantes révélatrices de beauté. Comme je me désolais de l’inutilité de mes recherches, quelqu’un me dit :

— Je connais un bonhomme qui l’a, peut-être, votre plante. C’est une espèce d’original, très amusant, et dont la coquetterie est de posséder des fleurs que personne ne possède. Il en a, paraît-il, d’extraordinaires ; allez le voir. Il habite Granville, et, par une prédestination singulière, son nom est : Hortus.

Le lendemain, j’étais à Granville.

Je trouvai le père Hortus dans son clos. C’était un vieux petit bonhomme, très rouge de peau, très blanc de cheveux, et qui, en manches de chemise, le chef couvert d’un chapeau de paille, en forme de tente, jouait du cornet à pistons devant un hibiscus.

— Je crois que ça y est, me dit-il, en m’apercevant… Cette fois, je le tiens, le gredin…

Et, comme je paraissais intrigué par cet accueil, le père Hortus m’expliqua :

— Voilà… Moi, je n’aime que les plantes qui font des blagues… Seulement, je suis aussi rosse qu’elles… et je les embête… Savez-vous ce que je viens de faire ?… Je viens de féconder un hibiscus. L’hibiscus déteste la musique… Eh bien ! je lui joue du cornet à pistons, juste au moment de la fécondation… Ça l’embête, ça le dérange… ça le met en rage… ça lui fait perdre la boule… et il va se féconder de travers, c’est-à-dire qu’il va me donner des graines d’où sortira une espèce de monstre cocasse, qui sera un hibiscus sans en être un, qui sera une plante comme on n’en a jamais vu…

Je le félicitai vivement de ce procédé de culture et lui expliquai le but de ma visite.

— Moi, je n’ai pas ça, me répondit le père Hortus… ou du moins je ne sais pas si je l’ai… car j’ai un tas de plantes dont je ne sais pas le nom. Mais j’ai autre chose de bien plus curieux que tous vos sylphiums… c’est le concombre fugitif… Je vais vous le montrer…

Et il m’engagea à le suivre.

L’enclos était vaste, divisé en carrés rectilignes, et traversé par de larges allées herbues. Jamais, même dans un jardin abandonné, je ne vis pareil désordre. Les plates-bandes, les planches, picturées, jamais rajeunies par la bêche ou l’humble binette, offraient l’indescriptible spectacle de plantes emmêlées les unes dans les autres, au point qu’il était impossible de les reconnaître. Et tout cela, jauni, roussi, jonchant la terre dure, disputant aux herbes folles le peu de fraîcheur resté dans le sol brûlé par le soleil.

— Ah ! vous allez rire, me dit le père Hortus…

Il s’arrêta devant une planche, se baissa, écarta quelques tiges séchées de phlox.

— C’est là ! fit-il. Ah ! c’est un concombre impayable que le concombre fugitif !… À le voir, il n’a rien de particulier… Mais dès qu’on veut le prendre… il fiche le camp… il s’en va au diable… impossible de le manier…

Le père Hortus cherchait toujours, à travers le lacis des tiges jaunies qu’il écartait d’une main brutale.

— Mais, je ne le vois pas, cet animal-là… Où est-il ?… Il est à se balader, bien sûr… C’est toujours la même chose… Quand on vient pour le voir, il n’est jamais là…

Et se tournant vers moi, il me dit :

— Est-ce curieux, tout de même !… Un concombre !… Attendons un peu, il ne va pas tarder à revenir…

Je ne savais si le père Hortus était véritablement fou, où s’il voulait me mystifier, et je me disposais à interrompre ma visite, quand, tout �� coup, le bonhomme se précipitant à plat ventre, dans la planche de fleurs, cria :

— Ah ! Gredin ! Ah ! Misérable !

Et je vis sa main noueuse cherchant à étreindre quelque chose qui fuyait devant elle, quelque chose de long, de rond et de vert qui ressemblait, en effet, à un concombre, et qui, sautant à petits bonds, insaisissable et diabolique, disparut, soudain, derrière une touffe…

[jlyangportfolio-blog]

concept for an herb inspired by sylphium, an extinct plant, and j.r.r. tolkien's athelas  plant.

[glabrezu]

Playing around with screenshot editing, again. Farmed up enough gold to get Sylphium some cowboy digs.

[woogyulibrary]

[AFF] Red

Title: Red Author: sylphium Status: Complete Length: Oneshot Rating: R Genre: Angst, Illness Warnings: Violence, Character death Summary: Every step of their life was connected by a single element: the color red.

[fabricatedgeek]

This already has happened to other foods and plants that were cornerstones of societies. One that immediately came to mind was sylphium.

This plant was so widespread in usage throughout the Mediterranean that the Greeks and Romans used it in cooking, for contraception, perfume, medicine, and so much more. The city of Cyrene, where it grew, put it on their money. Hell, the seeds of this plant are where it’s assumed we get the heart shape from.

But, it went extinct. Over harvesting, desertification, there’s a lot of theories as to why. And it’s something we can never try.

Listen. Listen. Most of you have likely never tasted genuine soy sauce as it has historically been made. The vast majority of the entire world population has never actually tasted soy sauce. Because soy sauce takes years of fermentation in a giant custom made squeezable barrel and there's only a very few remaining people who make traditional soy sauce. Only one single company atm afaik makes the special barrels anymore that are required to do it. They make them by order.

Like, can you fucking imagine what a loss it would be if just a single person stopped doing this? If that singular company simply no longer makes the barrel. If those sporadic soy makers moved on or lost their business. Can you even begin to imagine? You can't. There is an entire taste that you have never experienced for yourself because it is dying. And one day it will die and you will never taste it and neither will anyone else ever again.

Saffron crocuses are dying because of climate change. Because of the rising temperatures and drier climates in Iran, the crocuses aren't growing as well, and of course by harvesting the saffron stamens, that prevents the crocuses from being able to go to seed. The balance of this incredibly important historic ingredient is being undone out of circumstances beyond the crocus farmers' control. One day there is a very real chance that a staple ingredient in food across the entirety of the Middle East will no longer exist. No more shirini keshmeshi; no more yakhni pulao; no more mandi djaj. An entire taste will be erased from the world, and all these foods, all these proofs of humanity, of the connections we have with our past and our ancestors, it will be severed as simply as if by a cutting knife.

How can I even begin to cope with the depths of that grief? How do you live with the knowledge that these things could very likely die in your lifetime? That you could witness the atrophying of entire swathes of history and culture happen in realtime, because of greed, because of callous uncaring for others?

How can I explain to anyone why every time I cook with saffron it feels as if I am saying goodbye to someone I love, for the ones who will come after me? Where do I begin to describe to the children who come next the food that our ancestors have eaten for countless generations will never exist for them in the way they were intended to be?

How do I understand my grief when it is based in the knowledge that eventually, it would be impossible to understand?