I like the mechanic, but I can see the bushes having certain limits, they can foresee their demise, but some things are vague, some things are bold. Storms, volcanoes, etc, they can see coming. More incidental things are harder for them to foresee. Go to Comment
Yup, players would simply use the causality paradox to mess with bushes, and by proxy, with the GM. A good idea, but as said, most useful for fiction unless their prediction is not infallible.
PC: "I cut down a non-blooming bush for firewood."
GM: "Really? >.<" Go to Comment
The Death of the titan Rossmartboot and Drylake Valley.
The floor of Oldedrylake Valley had been completely taken over by gromgroms. One day the tin miners working on the cliffs above the valley notices]d there were several patches of blooming gromgroms about 100 yards apart and one large section of blooming gromgroms arranged in a rough cross on the valley floor. Several weeks later the titan Rossmartboot came running through the valley pursued by the vengeful Nazak, Last of the Griffin Riders. The titan’s enormous feet crushed the patches of gromgroms that had previously bloomed. When a Nazak drove his magical lance, Ztem’oroum, into the Titan’s neck, the great man-shaped being fell forward with his arm’s out stretch, and crushed the cross shaped swath of gromgroms that had bloomed. Go to Comment
Snow capped and rising above most of the other mountains, Mount Kazan looks flat as a table from those that admire it from hundreds kilometers away. It once had peak. It once was home to a clan dwarvers that worshiped the God Dahkturin and used his life blood, molten rock, to fuel their forges. The slopes of Kazan had been stripped of all useful wood by the industrious dwarves, and the side of the mountain became covered in gromgrom bushes.
One year a invading force* laid siege the mountain. Try as the dwarves might they were unable to break the siege. For years the invading force surrounded the Kazan and pushed inward. Cliff by cliff and tunnel by tunnel the dwarves were pushed back. Then one cold morning the chief of the attackers climbed on top of his ramparts and saw little red flowers on blue pine pushes. Every gromgrom for as far the forgein chief could see was flowering.
The chief of the invading army was wise after his own fashion. He knew what the blooming meant. He ordered his army to break camp and march away from Mount Kazan. The dwarves of Kazan, seeing the army preparing to march, increased their skrimishes and haressments. The invading army was slow to move. After a day on the road cheif still found himself surrounded by gromgroms decoorated by red flowers. The chief pushed his men, the dwarves pushed his men, the narrow mountain roads pushed his men, and harsh mountain weather pushed his men, but despite the slow crawl of a fight retreat, they moved with military discipline. Until one moonless and starless night, the cheif was leaning over a pry bar as he and his men tried to move boulder from the path. Mid-task the chief took a break to straighten his aching back and lean his hot face into the cool mountain breeze. He wiped the sweat from his brow found that his face was covered in the blue feathery seeds of the gromgrom bush.
The next morning Dahkturin broke free from his home beneath the earth, tearing of the top of Mount Kazan in the process. With in moments the sky was blacken with his ashey breath and the air was filled with poisonous bile. Dahkturin spat his firey blood all over the land surrounding Mount Kazan consuming his faithful dwarves and their hated enemies in one single act of swift justice. Go to Comment
This is some handy info, even if I can't quite wrap my head around it. I wonder if an illustration would be helpful? But, as your AI says, that's a rather human way to approach the complexities of space travel. Go to Comment
Cold Comfort is a long-sword of star-steel, its blade giving off a wan, blueish light. Its grip is wrapped tightly in snow-serpent hide, and its pommel bears a single opalescent gemstone.
This blade is enchanted in such a way, that whoever wields it, begins to fall completely and irrevocably "in love" with the weapon. This love does not manifest itself as the expected reverence and bond formed between any warrior and his weapon, but as a deeper, truer love, one has for a soul-mate of the same species! The longer the wielder carries Cold Comfort the stronger and more disturbing this love becomes, and only the most powerful of magicks can potentially break the sword's insidious spell. The blade's owner will even speak to and coo to the weapon, convinced that the sword understands and returns this epic love.
If the blade's wielder somehow loses the weapon or has it taken away, they will become inconsolable, and will predictably go to "ends of the earth and back" to retrieve it at any cost. Such is the weapon's curse that even separation from it does not damper the feelings the owner has for the sword. Legends tell of several distraught and mind-addled knights who even years after losing the blade, still wander the country-side searching for their lost love. And woe be to the "new lover" if and when they find him or her.