Of Withering Thorns
Welcome to the Jungle
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In the heart of Mireth’s suffocating jungle, three strangers stirred in a bed of glowing blue flowers. The blooms — known as Xochitli — pulsed with a strange, fading light, each beat slower than the last.
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A Fribbit lay there first, his emerald skin slick with dew, strong legs coiled beneath him. He would come to call himself Harold the, a Champion wielding a heavy mace and an eager spirit. Nearby, a hollow suit of enchanted armor began to creak and shift, revealing itself as Frank — an Ironclad, haunted by echoes of life and driven to protect. Last to rise was Empyrion, a luminous child-shaped figure of purest light, eyes wide with ancient curiosity and a mind buzzing with arcane potential.
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Their confusion was interrupted by a rasping voice. A towering frogfolk, clad in coral and bone armor, leaned in close, orange eyes narrowing in amusement.
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“Oi! They’re wakin’ up!”
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His name was Gleep — boisterous and strange, a creature of the swamp who seemed equal parts guide and jester. Beside him stood Za’Mak, a spear-wielding Fribbit elder, weary and sharp-eyed, his patience worn thin from too many jungle dawns.
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Gleep and Za’Mak explained in fragments, between ribbits and jabs. The Xochitli flowers around them were dying, and with them, all of Mireth’s breath and spirit. At the center of this decay loomed Vorthaz the Hollow — a Fribbit twisted by forbidden magic, determined to remake the jungle into a brutal realm where only the strongest would endure.
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There was no invitation to this mission. The Fell — as these newly summoned souls were called — had been pulled here, fated to either fight or be swallowed whole by the vines and the waiting dark.
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Before they could even stand properly, the undergrowth shivered and split. Out swarmed the Needledrags, insectoid terrors bristling with barbs and hunger. Steel rang, arcane light flared, and green blood spattered the humming petals. Harold the leapt and swung with wild power, Frank absorbed blow after blow while lashing back with precise, punishing strikes, and Emperion danced at the edge of death, weaving spells even as his light flickered.
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Again and again they fell, slipping into Pandemonium — the spectral realm where lost souls wander and monstrous tendrils await. Yet each time, they clawed back to life, reforged by fragments of memory and will.
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When the final Needledrag fell silent, the flowers still trembled weakly in the quiet. Gleep and Za’Mak offered them rations and cautious praise. The Fell — reborn and reshaped in this first battle — gathered themselves beneath the canopy’s endless green.
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Beyond lay deeper shadows, dying flowers, and the echo of Vorthaz’s laughter in the wind. But in that moment, as the jungle paused to watch, the Fell rose together — no longer lost strangers, but a spark of resistance against a world slipping into ruin.
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They did not yet know each other’s histories, or even their own. But they knew this: Mireth would not claim them easily.
Conveyer Carousel
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After surviving their chaotic first day in Mireth — waking in the humming flower patch and narrowly surviving a vicious swarm of needle drags — the Fell set out toward Rib’Xotal, the largest Fribbit city hidden deep in the jungle. Gleep bounded ahead, babbling about towering trees and glowing vines, though he quickly advised the others to breathe through their mouths to avoid the city’s pungent swamp rot. Za’Mak trudged beside them, muttering that the Fribbit people trusted nothing they didn’t know — especially outsiders.
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Rib’Xotal rose before them like a fever dream woven from coral and bone. Vines coiled into spiraling bridges, and blue-violet Xochitli blooms pulsed like beating hearts among the canopy platforms. Yet every Fribbit eye that fell upon them was sharp and suspicious, and guards gripped their bone-forged spears as they passed.
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At the towering Council Hall, Za’Mak explained that if Vorthaz had truly returned, someone in the city would know — but the Council believed Vorthaz was nothing but a tale to frighten hatchlings. Gleep emphatically disagreed, chirping that the threat was real. Frank, the towering Ironclad clad in rune-scarred plates, offered to try diplomacy with the Council directly. Meanwhile, Harold, the quick and twitchy Fribbit warrior, and Emperion, the enigmatic Risen, decided to sneak below to the archives in search of deeper truths.
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Frank’s attempt was doomed from the start. He tried awkward bows, gentle words, and even an impromptu dab to win them over, but the guards hissed and leapt away in disgust. Despite his best efforts, they refused an audience, insisting all outsiders wait three months — if they were lucky.
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Meanwhile, below, Harold and Emperion found the massive stone archive doors, watched by imposing frog statues bearing wooden spears cleverly embedded as locks. After a few tense moments and some chaotic frog logic, Harold managed to unlock the mechanism with a powerful shove. The doors swung open, revealing an ethereal chamber filled with floating orbs shimmering above steaming, pure water. The air vibrated with hidden magic, a sharp contrast to the swampy taint above.
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Emperion reached for the orbs and invoked his Pedaloom magic. Visions burst forth: ancient Fribbit elders performing arcane rituals in lush fields of Xochitli, the flowers flaring with celestial blue light before withering into black husks. The elders returned, carrying secrets back to their hidden halls. As the visions ended, tremors rippled across the chamber. One by one, the stone guardians awoke, their runes igniting like starlight in the dark.
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Harold leapt forward, smashing runestones with his heavy mace. Frank barreled in, axes swinging in sweeping arcs, cleaving stone to dust. Emperion unleashed radiant bursts and protective shields, weaving vampiric surges and ethereal wards to aid his allies. The battle churned into chaos, shards of lost knowledge and glimmers of magic scattering across the floor.
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With a final explosive leap, Harold crushed the last guardian into rubble. Silence followed, broken only by the sudden alarm ringing above, echoing through the massive tree.
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They bolted into Rib’Xotal’s upper streets, weaving through a stunned crowd, and headed for the Croaking Cauldron — a tavern Gleep had described with giddy excitement. Inside, the air pulsed with discordant life: amphibian musicians slapped turtle shells, Fribbits croaked drunken songs, and lily pad conveyors carried plates of swamp sushi in endless loops. Gleep, already deep into his cups, raised a mug in greeting as the Fell tumbled inside.
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At a shadowy back table, they found Gib’Do, a slouched merchant with milky eyes and a bowl of suspiciously chunky soup. Between stolen sushi, sloppy drinks, and Gleep’s loud interruptions, Gib’Do revealed the truth: Vorthaz had vanished into the ruins of Xul’Tec — the birthplace of the Xochitli and likely the heart of his dark plan. Gib’Do offered to trade this knowledge for a golden frog statue rumored to be hidden in the archives below.
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After drunken deals and impulsive brawls involving conveyor belts, accidental fish shots, and shattered bottles, the Fell staggered out of the tavern. Gleep nearly toppled over his spear, still crooning about a “jungle road trip,” while Za’Mak stood behind, haunted by the mention of Xul’Tec. The birthplace of the Xochitli — and perhaps the site of their final stand.
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Beyond Rib’Xotal’s shimmering bridges, the jungle loomed, heavy with restless spirits and chittering shadows. As they stepped beyond the city’s glow, the Fell pressed forward together. They carried visions of ancient betrayal, echoes of lost ancestors, and the knowledge that if Vorthaz succeeded, Mireth itself would rot from the root up. With weapons heavy and breath held tight, they vanished into the deeper dark, toward a destiny that would shape them — or destroy them — forever.
The Longsloths
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After narrowly escaping Rib’Xotal with their lives — and a certain golden statue — the Fell regrouped outside the Croaking Cauldron. Inside, Gleep and Za’Mak were frantically trying to smooth things over with the barkeep after the party’s earlier "food fight" chaos. Peering through the window, Harold tapped to get Gib’Do’s attention, proudly brandishing the stolen statue as proof of their success. Gib’Do’s froggy eyes went wide; he leapt out the window in a dizzy tumble, tongue splatting against the glass before he crashed onto the ground. He scrambled up, eager to snatch the statue, but the Fell demanded information first.
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Gib’Do begrudgingly revealed that Vorthaz — the exile — had retreated to the ruins of Xul’Tec, the birthplace of the Xochitli flower. There, he plotted to complete his dark ritual. In exchange for the statue, Gib’Do handed over a golden augur — a curious coin-like artifact that, when activated, would guide them straight to Xul’Tec.
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After some debate (and discovering they had no money thanks to Gleep’s hop-thieving spree), the Fell decided against shopping and pressed into the jungle. Gleep claimed the upcoming jungle was “70% less likely to eat them,” though Za’Mak noted that wasn’t particularly comforting. Deep in the shifting green, the group encountered the Egovines — sentient vines demanding flattery to allow passage. Harold boldly complimented the vines' "sexy look," slipping by first, while Frank and Emperion attempted more sincere praise. When the vines hesitated, Gleep resorted to his emergency plan: hot sauce breath. The vines recoiled from the spicy swamp stench, allowing the party to pass — though Gleep now reeked like scorched swamp curry.
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Further on, they stumbled across Run-Loh, a moss-draped frog sage who blinked each eye separately and licked his own eyelids. Perched atop a hollow stump, Run-Loh rambled about Vorthaz being his “ex-roommate,” claiming the party sought “truth in a frog-shaped lie.” While Run-Loh conferred with his skull-topped staff (“the council”), Emperion swiped the skull and proudly mounted it on his own wand, unnoticed by the befuddled sage. After a round of cryptic nonsense and unsettling giggles, the group left Run-Loh muttering to his missing council.
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At last, they emerged before the moss-choked ruins of Xul’Tec. But before they could explore, massive Longsloths blocked their path — towering, shaggy beasts with enormous claws and molasses-slow swings. Frank dove in axe-first, embedding blades into their shaggy forms, while Harold took up close combat, pushing them around and slamming them into walls with forceful shoves. Emperion unleashed relentless magic bursts, weaving life-stealing volleys and ghostly strikes, sometimes even throwing entire fallen sloths at their kin in moments of chaotic genius.
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In the midst of the melee, Gleep shouted from the sidelines, “Tickle their chins!” And so Harold, seizing a moment of inspiration (or madness), did just that — discovering the sloths would collapse in bliss if scratched just right. Despite this odd revelation, the fight raged on. Several Fell dropped to the brink of death and slipped into ghostly visions, only to be yanked back by shards or Emperion's healing. Meanwhile, the battlefield turned into a swampy wrestling pit of fur, moss, and desperate laughter.
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When the final sloth fell, the Fell staggered among the carcasses, battered but victorious. They scavenged strange loot: runic inscriptions, questionable cloaks, and a mysterious lute humming with dormant magic. They claimed ascension crystals and lore points, each feeling their bond to Mireth — and to each other — deepen.
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Gleep and Za’Mak rejoined, celebrating with wild enthusiasm. Gleep waved sticky snack wrappers like victory flags, while Za’Mak muttered about how they’d all surely be cursed. Amidst laughter and exhaustion, the ruins of Xul’Tec loomed ahead, echoing with the promise of Vorthaz’s final scheme.
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With new scars, new shards, and an ominous path ahead, the Fell readied themselves for whatever waited inside those vine-choked halls — determined to face the heart of Mireth’s secrets together.
Revelation
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The thick tangle of Mireth’s heart finally opened into a clearing where light barely reached the moss-choked ground. Before them loomed the Ruins of Zol’tech: ancient stone terraces crawling with vines, the stones cracked and weeping with slick moss. Torches still burned mysteriously along the steps, casting wavering shadows across the slick ruins as if someone had only just left.
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Za'Mak stepped forward, his webbed fingers tightening on his weapon. “This might be it,” he muttered, eyes darting over the damp stones.
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Beside him, Gleep sniffed the air, his wide yellow eyes darting from torch to vine. “Definitely moldy,” he rasped. “Very moldy. Is that mold… moving?” He poked at a wall, half expecting it to squeal.
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Frankie stepped up to a weathered mural etched into the stone. He squinted, head tilting. “Looks like… some nice carvings. Could be hopscotch instructions for all I know.”
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Emperion, the ever-curious child, focused, eyes glowing faintly. A sudden vision seized him: a memory of the Council draining life from massive jungle blooms, weaving a false legend to mask their theft. The truth settled like a blade in his mind — there had never been a great spirit named Vorthaz. The Council had lied, twisting the flowers’ power for themselves and scripting false stories to control their people.
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Gleep, catching Emperion's horror, staggered back. “Wait… you mean I made up all those stories for the tadpoles? The monster didn’t even exist? Oh no… I’m never going to live this down.”
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Za'Mak’s eyes hardened. “The Council lied to all of us,” he growled.
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Their hushed shock snapped as shapes emerged from the swampy shadows: lean frog-like assassins with gleaming red eyes, each bearing jagged weapons and poison-drenched glimmers. Their leader stepped forward, brandishing a staff crowned with fungal growths that pulsed with a sickly light.
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“You are a threat to our way of life,” he snarled, pointing accusingly at Za'Mak and Gleep. “And you two… traitors. Death to the traitors!”
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Chaos erupted. Frankie charged forward with brutal force, slamming assassins backward in wild arcs. Emperion’s spells crackled across the humid air, while Za'Mak darted between attackers like a spear thrust. Gleep darted and ducked, hurling curses and axes alike.
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Blood and spores splattered across the stones as magic clashed with claw and steel. One by one, the assassins fell, their dying croaks echoing under the moss-choked ceiling. Frankie, battered and nearly downed more than once, refused to yield. Emperion, weaving between shadows, called on his lorebound spirit to mend and empower his allies.
Za'Mak discovered a scroll on the fallen leader, bound in vine-twine and slick with sap. As he unfurled it, an intricate map of root-lines spread out, converging on a single symbol marked Rootheart. Below it, scrawled in urgent glyphs, read: Backup site of the first seal. RESTRICTED. COUNCIL EYES ONLY.
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Gleep leaned in, dirt and blood smeared across his cheeks. “It’s labeled in all caps,” he squeaked. “That’s… probably bad, right?”
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Emperion’s eyes gleamed with understanding. “The Council’s true power… it’s there,” he whispered.
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They argued, wounded and exhausted, debating whether to strike at the Council directly or delve deeper toward the Rootheart. The jungle around them hummed with restless energy, the roots vibrating as if listening to every breath. Above, Gleep slipped on moss and landed in a wet heap with a curse, bringing a sudden, absurd break to the grim tension.
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Amidst blood, spores, and broken illusions, they realized the next step: confront the rotted heart of the Council’s lie. Whether through vengeance or salvation, they would find the truth waiting, deep in the tangled veins of Mireth.
The Rootheart
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The revelation at the ruins had left every breath heavy. Betrayal echoed in the silence between each footstep as the group debated their next move. Frank shuffled forward first, his sharp eyes scanning the map Za'Mak had handed over. Emperion watched from behind, cards swirling at his hip, while Harold adjusted his grip on his massive weapon, restless to act.
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Gleep, buzzing with nervous energy, suggested the place marked on the map might be a “wishing well.” Despite warnings, he convinced Harold to lend him an Oro coin. Gleep scuttled forward and flipped the coin — only to be smacked backward by a massive purple vine that lashed out of the pool, scattering mud and echoes of laughter.
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While Frank scolded Gleep for nearly getting them all skewered, Emperion stepped closer to the edge. The group remembered why they had come: the flowers needed healing, something only Petaloom could touch. Frank and Harold moved in together, summoning their magic, coaxing the vines into a calm, bright green pulse.
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The jungle fell silent as a spirit emerged, a ghostly fusion of frog, vine, and tree, hovering above the flower's core. It radiated ancient sorrow, speaking in a thousand whispered voices, offering no comfort.
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“The Heart breaks. Will it be mended, or left to rot in silence?”
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Frank reached out first, grasping at the spectral hands. Harold followed without hesitation, defiance burning behind his eyes. Emperion stepped forward last, eyes narrowed in cautious resolve. Vines curled around their wrists, yanked them forward, and pulled them down into the depths of the Rootheart.
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The descent twisted around them like a living throat. Roots spiraled and warped, gravity tilting and bending with each pulse of green light. Whispers of ancient Fribbit voices chased them through the darkness — murmurs of failure, of being too late.
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They crashed down into a rotting forest, half-living, half-decayed. Xochitli flowers pulsed in grotesque colors — sickly blue, deep red — while towering trees rose and dissolved into black sludge.
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At the heart of this dying grove stood the Bloomwither, a monstrous hybrid of twisted Xochitli bloom and a decaying Fribbit’s shape, its vines writhing with unstoppable hunger. The creature howled, a noise that splintered the mind and churned the swamp beneath.
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Frank lunged first, his blade swinging in tight arcs, severing roots that clawed for his feet. Emperion unleashed wave after wave of arcane cards, their sharp edges shimmering with ethereal fire. Harold charged forward with brutal force, each strike a thunderclap, his laughter cracking through the haze even as vines whipped around him.
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Frank’s precision cut through the worst of the Bloomwither’s defense, but not without cost — his movements left deep rents in his armor, and the sludge crept up to burn at his skin. Emperion's focus wavered only once; a vine lashed out, snapping a card from the air, but his next gesture summoned a spectral arm to catch it before it could fall.
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Harold pressed forward with reckless abandon. In one clash, a vine coiled around his arm and tore it free, flinging it into the sludge before he could react. He bellowed in pain but roared even louder in fury, brandishing his remaining weapon with blood-soaked resolve.
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Vines erupted from the ground, wrapping legs, pulling bodies back toward the swamp’s center. Frank slipped and nearly vanished beneath the sludge, only to be hauled up by Emperion's summoned grasp.
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Through screams, arcane detonations, and searing pain, they cut the tethers feeding the Bloomwither. With each severed root, the creature shrieked louder, its shape mutating further into a mass of writhing petals and bone.
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At the brink, the Bloomwither offered them a final, silent plea — merge and become one with the jungle, or finish it and watch the forest limp forward without its corrupted guardian.
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Harold, face pale and splattered with gore, growled his answer through clenched teeth. Frank's gaze met Emperion's; no words were needed. Together, they chose defiance.
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The final strikes landed like the cracking of ancient trees in a storm. The Bloomwither convulsed, its cries echoing deep into the roots. The core wilted in a slow, trembling collapse, collapsing into the sludge below.
As the last echoes faded, the swamp quivered. Slowly, the corrupted glow receded.
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Frank stood first, one hand pressed to his ribs, his eyes darting for any surviving threats. Emperion exhaled shakily, his cards flickering out of existence. Harold leaned heavily on his weapon, blood trailing from the stump of his arm, eyes wide and unblinking.
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Above them, the jungle shifted, as if taking its first breath in centuries. Whether saviors or executioners, the three now carried the weight of the Rootheart in their scars and blood.
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Somewhere far above, the vines shivered in the wind, whispering their story into Mireth’s endless green expanse — a story that would stain the roots and petals for generations to come.
The Bloomwither
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Harold cursed under his breath as he wiped a smear of emerald sap from his blade. The living bloom pulsed around them, its walls shifting like a ribcage inhaling. Every petal and thorn seemed alive, watching.
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Frankie pushed forward first, his heavy steps echoing like distant drums through the cavernous root chamber. Though battered and outnumbered, he moved with unstoppable resolve, each strike from his massive mace shattering vine-wrapped guardians into piles of twitching moss. Sparks of unnatural light flickered around him as he forced the towering root hearts to recoil.
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Behind him, Emperion knelt low, his hands moving in elegant, ritualistic gestures. Threads of light and shadow flowed from his lorebound companions, who darted between roots and fallen allies with uncanny precision. Each time Frankie staggered, Emperion's companions surged forward, pressing shards into armored hands and weaving life back into cracked edges of spirit.
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Meanwhile, Harold crept along the far side of the chamber, each step punctuated by nervous muttering. When the time came, he launched into a soaring leap, sailing over shifting petals and snapping stalks before landing behind an unsuspecting vine brute. In one fluid motion, his blade flashed, severing spore-coated tendrils and leaving the creature writhing in shock.
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The battle churned like a storm. Roots cracked under crushing blows, luminous sap rained in thin arcs, and for a moment it felt as though the entire bloom might collapse. Emperion's voice rose above the din, calling for patience, for careful steps—only to be swallowed by Harold’s manic laughter as he sprang from one kill to the next.
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Twice, Frankie fell beneath the relentless barrage, his iron form sagging like a bent pillar. But each time, Emperion's lorebound arrived just in time, shards pressed to his chest, flickering light coursing through fractured armor. He rose again, bellowing challenges, sweeping aside enemies with renewed fury.
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At the heart of the chamber, the largest root heart began to quiver, sensing the tide turning. Emperion's eyes narrowed; he gathered the swirling remnants of arcane echoes and hurled them in a radiant burst. Vines shriveled under the impact, and for a breathless moment, silence claimed the room.
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Then Harold stepped forward, wiped blood and sap from his face, and grinned. With a final rush, he vaulted straight into the heart’s gaping maw, burying his blade deep. The root heart convulsed, its glow sputtering, before it collapsed inward like a dying star.
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When the echo faded, Frankie stood steady once more, his armor gleaming under the glow of dripping spores. Emperion pressed a hand to the last shard, eyes weary but victorious. Harold looked around with wild satisfaction, already scanning for new trouble to jump into.
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Together, they took in the ruin they had wrought—a battlefield of torn petals, steaming roots, and glimmering shards. There was no time for celebration yet. Beyond the dying bloom, a new threat waited—greater council forces above, unaware that three unstoppable spirits were climbing closer every moment.
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With silent agreement, they gathered their strength. Frankie adjusted his grip, Emperion called his lorebound to heel, and Harold stretched, blades ready to dance again. Ahead lay vengeance, and perhaps redemption. But for now, there was only the soft hiss of settling spores and the pounding rhythm of their unbroken resolve.
The Corrupted Council
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Amid the hush of dusk, as the jungle’s breath clung heavy over Rib’Xotal, the heroes—Frankie, Emperion, and Harold—emerged from the gaping petals of the withered bloom. Sap and blood dripped from their armor; the air trembled with the scent of moss, decay, and something ancient set free.
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They rose from the depths, guided by the gentle glow of Xochitli flowers at last beginning to heal. Each step forward carried them into revelation: the council awaited them above, cloaked in ceremony and rot.
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In the gathering square below the ziggurat, the Fribbits of Rib’Xotal assembled under the ghostly luminescence of the blooming flowers. The heroes watched, tension curling through their spines. Frankie’s battered plate rang softly as he shifted, Emperion's fingers danced through petaloom threads, and Harold's grin gleamed bright and eager.
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At the pyramid's peak, Rung-Loh emerged, once a wild-eyed elder, now revealing a deeper, more calculating power. His voice, stripped of its frantic croak, rolled across the crowd like thunder.
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“You’ve come far, outworlders,” he rasped, eyes cold and sharp. “But you do not understand the roots beneath your feet.”
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And then came the truth — projected in spectral shimmer by Emperion's lorebound. A stolen memory unfurled across the ziggurat wall: a ritual, centuries ago, a Fell bound and helpless. His name was Vorthaz, an outsider, sacrificed beneath moonlight and flower to anchor a terrible power. There, at the heart of it, Rung-Loh stood with a twisted staff, chanting as Vorthaz’s blood spilled to awaken the corruption within the Xochitli flowers.
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Gasps cut through the gathered Fribbits. The jungle itself seemed to shrink, petals curling in horror. Frankie’s gauntlets tightened, Harold stepped forward, laughter gone from his lips, and Emperion's spectral glow flared like a blade unsheathed.
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With a wave of his hands, Rung-Loh twisted the flowers’ essence, draining them in a pulsing wave of sickly light. A hush fell as the curse of Withered spread through the heroes, choking their vitality and sealing off every chance at healing.
Battle erupted like a storm. Frankie slammed into guards with the force of an earthquake, his mirrored armor punishing each blow back upon its wielder. Harold vaulted between pillars, cutting down foes with surgical strikes, his movements a dance of violence. Emperion moved between them, stitching wounds with fleeting magic, dragging souls back from the brink of death.
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Rung-Loh cloaked himself in living shadows, summoned discordant energies, and unleashed Pandemonium, an attack that swallowed both mind and spirit. Twice, Harold fell under its crushing power, only to rise again by Emperion's desperate efforts. Frankie stood unbowed, his runes gleaming defiance into the dark.
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Among the watching Fribbits, anger stirred. When Harold cried out, calling them to rise, they leapt forward. Tongues and arms bound the council’s guardians in a web of righteous fury. The city turned, as if overnight, from frightened bystanders to a wall of defiance.
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At last, Harold ripped Rung-Loh from his veil of shadow with raw, aether-bound force. They faced him together: Harold’s eyes alight with vengeance, Frankie looming as a final judgment, and Emperion's magic pulsing like a heartbeat at their backs.
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The final strike crashed down, echoing through the jungle canopy. Rung-Loh fell, a final hiss of withered breath leaving his lips as his twisted laughter faded into the dark.
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Below, the council scrambled to save face. They lied, they pleaded, but the people had seen too much. Emperion projected the memory again: Vorthaz’s sacrifice, the crime at the jungle’s heart. The crowd roared, fury and grief breaking like a monsoon.
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Gib’Do stepped forward, eyes wide, tongue flicking nervously. The heroes nodded, and the people crowned him and Za’Mak as the new stewards of Rib’Xotal. Frankie raised a battered hand in approval, Emperion finally allowed his magic to dim, and Harold snatched a drink from a nearby barrel, his grin returning at last.
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Above them, the Xochitli flowers shivered, their long-held sorrow slowly releasing into the night. A single moonbeam shone down upon the victorious and the lost — a silent vigil for Vorthaz, for all who had been consumed.
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In the quiet that followed, as the new leaders called for free drinks at the Croaked Cauldron and the Fribbits gathered in celebration and relief, a whisper echoed beneath the earth: roots still writhed, and the jungle's secrets waited, patient and hungry.
Character Bios
Emperion
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Emperion is a Rysen — a luminous, childlike soul reborn from pure arcane resonance, embodying curiosity, innocence, and a quiet yearning for belonging. Though ageless in spirit, he carries the wonder of a child seeing the world for the first time, each new mystery lighting his eyes with soft, spectral glow. His connection to the Petaloom weaves him into the heart of Mireth’s living magic, yet he remains gently detached, as if always listening for a call from somewhere beyond the stars. Emperion is not just a spellcaster or healer; he is a living echo of forgotten songs, a wanderer seeking the true meaning of life and self beneath layers of vine and memory.
The Harold
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The Harold is a Fribbit — a restless, emerald-skinned jungle spirit whose boundless energy and fierce heart define every breath he takes. Beneath his twitchy movements and roaring laughter lies an unshakable drive to protect and prove himself, shaped by a lifetime of survival in Mireth’s tangled depths. His soul is equal parts warrior and trickster, thriving on challenge and chaos, yet deeply loyal to those he calls kin. Ever eager to leap headlong into danger or mischief, The Harold embodies the wild pulse of the jungle: raw, unpredictable, and impossibly alive.
Frank
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Frank is an Ironclad — a hollow suit of enchanted armor animated by echoes of a long-lost spirit, driven by an unwavering instinct to protect. Beneath his rune-scarred plates and heavy steps lies a quiet, contemplative presence, as though each clash and scar is a question he carries in silence. He is both sentinel and wanderer, holding onto fragments of forgotten duty and faint memories of warmth he can no longer fully grasp. Stoic yet fiercely loyal, Frank moves through the world like a living monument to sacrifice and perseverance, forever seeking a purpose that feels just beyond his armored reach.