Thursday, October 20, 2016

Magic Users: Federation engineers.

This is why only humans can be high-level Magic Users, and why all Magic Users are Chaotic.
(I think this is now canon for the Desolate North.)

Not all humans are like this. I want a slightly more serious game than that. But despite the fact that they're all squirreled away in towers doing research and pretending to be hermetic and wise, this is how magic works. Which explains why not everyone of a certain IQ can grasp magic - you have to be born with the particular reality-bending "Fuck it, maybe this'll work" twist in your soul - and it explains how so many ill-adjusted magical nerds end up in adventuring parties. You certainly don't see the more well-adjusted and academically-grounded sages bumming across the world with murder-hobos.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Grad school and inspiration

Just dropping a quick line here to say that I'm still working on my house setting, one bit at a time. Grad school is just taking all my time, so I haven't been here in a good long while.

I'm looking for a kind of Siberia or Alaska feel; still habitable, especially during the summer months, and travel is possible year-round (albeit not over mountains), but anyone sane will want to be by a warm stove on any night from October to May.

In the mean while, have some more inspiration:


The Naen Vormak are a savage elvish tribe who live in far undiscovered territory in the Desolate North. They are a small tribe, pushed to the brink by other bigger, stronger tribes. Their blood-magic is thin, and they have few sons, so they have no choice but to squat at the edge of the World Glacier, scrabbling and scavenging for what scraps they can get in that truly inhospitable place.

The Naen Vormak are not popular people. They're nasty, dirty, and brutish. If there are fewer of them than there are of you, they're servile and obsequious, but useless; they lie, cheat, and steal whenever they think they can get away with it. If there are more of them than there are of you, they'll turn violent, kill you or enslave you, and pillage your camp.

Some of the other elvish nomad tribes have stories of a time before the coming of the cold and the advancement of the wastes, when the Desolate North was a place of plenty. In these legends, they lived in forests and caves, shaped to their pleasure and housing many elves. Game abounded, the cold did not bite so much, their magics were stronger, and they had time for arts and pursuits which have since been lost.

The Naen Vormak also have such stories, but theirs take a different turn. Back in the time of legends, their forefather found something. Something deep, dark, underground. Something he dared not share with his friends, but that demanded his allegiance and that of his family, and that still does.

Every ten years a small party of the Naen Vormak head south. They dodge through lands claimed by other, bigger tribes bringing children to sacrifice to their god.

If their god is pleased with the sacrifice (the children disappear without a trace), his rantings commence. Pouring into their minds come secrets. Sometimes they learn of the future, sometimes of the past. Sometimes (the most precious and secret times), they learn of their god.

Their god was wounded long ago in a forgotten battle with mighty forces. He cannot leave his lair, and rests simply on the floor in a little nest of gifts and cast-offs made for him by the Naen Vormak. His huge spherical bulk rarely moves, and then only shifts a little across the floor. Sometimes he blesses or curses them with his gaze, settling his great milky eye or one of his many smaller roving eyes upon them.

A man knowledgeable about such things would call him a Beholder. A man more knowledgeable about such things would note that this is the oldest and largest Beholder ever chronicled.

From their god, the Naen Vormak have learned some little about Beholders. Sometimes, they have even caught glimpses of the sights of other gods.

Or, perhaps they are right: these are all manifestations of one God.

According to the Naen Vormak, in the Beginning Times before the World-Egg cracked and spilled Reality across the cosmos, this God had no name, and he blindly groped his way through the unformed chaos. As such He is older and stranger than the other gods, many of whom spilt out of the World-Egg with everything else. But when He blundered into Reality, in His blindness He smelt it, felt it, tasted it. He pushed against it, stretched it. Eventually He pressed through it, in places, and in those places His being became enfleshed, in an act of cosmic irony, as eyes. Eyes of the Blind God. The Blind God could now see.

Whatever a Beholder sees, all other Beholders also see. Whenever one is killed, all know who, where, and when. As manifestations of the Blind God they all have their own minds, unhinged and unfathomable.

Fortunately Beholders are usually not much for vengeance. Usually.

A particularly daring or desperate man might find a way to obtain information from a Beholder about the doings or surroundings of its brethren. If the legends are true, the forefather of the Naen Vormak may have been just such a man.

Still the best

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Are we popular in France?

Looking through my traffic analysis tools for this blog (because having the biggest possible reader-base is so important to me, as you can tell), it seems we've been getting a not-insubstantial number of hits from French Google (Le Google?) for our post on Queen's Landing. I can only assume this is because the sweeping originality and breadth of my vision resonates deeply with some essential element of the French soul.

I can't say this is too much of a surprise. After all, I've read by Baudelaire, and my Valéry.

Which seems like the genesis of an idea or two, actually...

So, for any French readers in the audience, à bientôt.

Friday, December 4, 2015

Movement paradigms

Writing about a bunch of sessile creatures got me thinking about movement and how different dimensions of movement are the kind of paradigm shift that you don't even notice it sometimes.

We're broadly accustomed to things that move in two dimensions, roughly. (Yes, we go up and down stairs, ropes, mountains whatever. If you consider the surface of the Earth as a curve defined by a pseudo-function, it has two parameters, not three. Thus two dimensions. And you people out there who want to point out that more than one person can be in a multi-story building at a time can hush.)

When they don't move in two dimensions, it changes things. It changes our approach to them. It changes their approach to us. All in ways much more fundamental than some special ability, like a gaze attack or turning invisible.

So here goes.

Zero Dimensions

This one is actually fairly common, both for monsters and for PCs. For monsters, you have things like ropers, shriekers, otyughs. They either rely on sneak attacks and range, or the inclusion of other elements that mitigate their disadvantage. (Like a shrieker calls for other monsters who can move in two dimensions.)

For the players, this just means being caught in a net or something, and generally sought out. It's a challenge to be overcome rather than a mechanic to be used.

One possible way to use zero-dimensional movement in a fun way might be something like a teleportation fight. You have a room (or whatever) and want to either get away from or get at something else in the room. In order to do this, you have to figure out the right series of jumps, which are all limited to small areas - say, big enough to stand two or three people in, but not big enough to count as small rooms themselves.

This can either be a puzzle (figure out the right sequence of jumps to get to the door) or a chase (trying to catch a guy who keeps fleeing after a few seconds of contact, or figure out a way to cut him off from other jumps). Or even both. Maybe I'll throw together a room, because this is an idea worth playing with.

In the case of mis-matches where one side has 2-dimensional movement (the most common mismatch), the 2-dimensional side determines the engagement. After all, if something can't come after you, you can always stand back and hit it with lightning bolts until it dies.

One Dimension

Things that move only in a straight line. These are, methinks, the least innately common. They're just hard to do - moving in a straight line is still pretty restrictive. The only monster I can think of off the top of my head that does this is the Juggernaut from the Caverns of Thracia, and it cheats by being able to turn in place.

There is one commonly-used poor-man's model of this, though: sticking the PCs/monsters/creatures/whatever on a bridge, or isthmus. To a rough approximation you can only go forward and backward, not around. You could probably mix it up a little by making the line curved - in two or even three dimensions. Walking up a deformed helix in the astral plane to get to the Altar of Osmeden while everyone has a different native rotation around the helix and must all reach there at the same time while being stalked by the feared Astral Shark sounds like it might be a good time.

Generally, restricting the PCs' movement to one dimension forces them to encounter something if they want to go forward.

In the case of a mismatch, those with 2-dimensional movement still control the engagement, but the methods are different. Instead of just walking away, you trap the creature, go around a corner, remove its ability to turn, and you have to make sure you're going the right direction - else it might follow you. (So, on a featureless plane, only moving in one dimension isn't a drawback if all you want to do is get away.)

Two Dimensions

As mentioned previously, this is the default assumption of movement. Randomly pick a monster out of your monster manual; chances are it moves in two dimensions.

This is already pretty interesting without being changed up. Two dimensions gives you freedom for tactical engagements, under the assumption that the enemy's awareness is not as well-distributed as your movement possibilities. But (as with others) one thing that I don't see done very often (though sometimes) is to have the plane of movement not be flat. This includes tricks like walking on walls, around 'roller coaster' curves, shifting gravity, and so forth.

This type of movement is also the first one to be altered more by a definition of where you can't move than where you can. Walls, pits, lakes, etc. become obstacles that are essential to figuring out where you can and can't move, because the default assumption is that you can, rather than that you can't. Mazes, chasms, even the structure of dungeons themselves usually assume this kind of movement is prevalent and are designed for freedom or restriction in two dimensions.

One other way of looking at movement becomes potentially fun at this level: changing the way you move. Ice slicks are a fairly common example, which change the idea from, "I go where I want to be," to, "I gain the velocity I want to have (in order to end up where I want to be)." You could try the same thing with acceleration, though I don't know what that would look like or how it would play. There are also numerous other tricks, like switching directions (you go right when you mean to go forward) to translational or rotational instability (having to avoid falling down if you want to go forward; having to correct for a tendency to move away from your direction of motion, etc.)

A simple example: A room that has 'pits', changes the direction of gravity as you move across it, and has a strong wind blowing from one wall. Pretty difficult to navigate, that.

Three Dimensions

There are two main methods of movement in three dimensions: flight, and swimming. For the former, the PCs usually don't have it, and the NPCs do. For the latter, both the PCs and the NPCs usually have it.

I think movement in three dimensions is a large portion of why underwater adventures feel so weird. Yes, there's the fish/ocean/nonterrestrial theme, but take that and put it on the ground, and it loses some of its strangeness. There's just something alien about having that third degree of unrestricted movement. Another way to see this is if you say to the PCs, "Okay, you're underwater and can breathe just fine for whatever reason, but you have to walk along the bottom." It loses a lot of its charm.

Generally this is hard to run, at least with a mat, because your mat is in 2 dimensions and your characters are moving in three. No, I don't have any suggestions to help with that, sorry. What I usually see done is a kind of assumption of an X-Y plane and a deviation off of that (that happens with some rarity, depending on how enthusiastic people are about it). This is a shame. If you're going to design an underwater dungeon, town, or encounter, be sure to make it clear most things are not on the same level - why would they be?

If both parties are three-dimension capable, this also changes tactics considerably. You can swoop in from above or below. You can break off in any direction. Cornering someone is a lot harder. This is also an area where ranged weapons shine even brighter than they do in two dimensions, since they naturally operate in three. Be aware: if the party's flying, the wizard is going to outclass the fighter very easily for usefulness unless the fighter brought a bow.

 Flight is where we see the effects of a mismatch between the PCs and their enemies most often, though sometimes it can go the other way. If you can move in 3 dimensions and your enemy is stuck in 2, you define the engagement again. Generally this looks like momentary contact, or projectiles. (A classic example is the roc dropping rocks on the party from high enough that they can't shoot it.) If you're on the underside of this, your first order of business is to remove your enemy's extra dimension of movement. Cut off his wings, trap him with a low ceiling, suck the air out of the room so he can't use it, whatever. Even if you have superior force, he gets to decide where and how you apply it.

Many ways to change this up exist. One of the simplest is clustering and restriction of means - for example, rather than natively flying themselves, the monsters are riding flying beasts, or a magic carpet or some such. Removing their mode of transportation also runs the risk of giving them a nasty fall (assuming a force like gravity), and it can be separately targeted. Also of note is that 2-dimensional traps can still work - while pits don't mean anything, nets do.

Effects I don't see very often but that might be fun to play with include changing the parameters of the movement itself, like above. Maybe three-dimensional movers move like airplanes, instead of like people with a tallness control. Or maybe there are pockets - like pits, canyons, rivers, etc. - that they can't cross and must go around. Maybe you can move in three dimensions, but those dimensions have certain rigid ratios - like you can only move on planes of a certain slope, or within certain solids.

As an example other than the ordinary flight/swim alternatives, I give you: Orbital Mechanics, the Mad Wizard's play room! In the exact center of the room is a huge black ball, humming quietly. This ball floats in the middle of the air, and gravity points toward it at all times. If you manage to avoid falling in after opening the door and crossing the threshold (because you kept a hand on the door or whatever), you'll notice harnesses hanging on the walls. These harnesses, when worn, shoot arcane missiles out of the chest, which allow you to scoot around. Better get to orbital velocity quickly before you touch the black ball, or who knows what might happen!

(In order to use this, you have to know something about orbits, so here goes. Prograde thrust (tangential, in the direction of travel) widen your orbit; retrograde will narrow it. (At apoapsis, the highest point, this raises or lowers your periapsis, or lowest point). The higher you are the slower you're moving; the lower you are, the faster. Radial thrust (toward or away from the black ball) will both lower the part where you are now and raise the part across the orbit, but not by much. Normal (at right angles to both) will change your inclination, or the angle of your orbit.

You can probably ignore or gloss most of that with modifiers; being in orbit when you're not accustomed to it is weird. And of course, there are strange scintillating bullet-shaped animals here that squirt a dark cloud out the back end and come at you, all mouths. They seem to know what they're doing...good thing you have time to react, so you'll miss them at the next rendezvous. Oh, and did I mention that you're trying to get to the door over there in that weird corner that looks like it has a bit of ladder you could grab onto?

Four or more Dimensions

(More than four and just four look pretty much the same at the table.) I'm not talking about movement through time or anything like that. The problem with four-dimensional movement is that, while we have the tools to mathematically analyze it, we don't have the intuition to grasp it, seeing as we're naturally creatures in three dimensions.

Unrestricted four-dimensional movement is probably boring. As far as the PCs can tell, it's no different from occasional teleportation, since in order to interact with the PCs the creature needs to be at a certain point on the fourth axis - and that doesn't move (at least relative to the PCs). If the PCs are given unrestricted four-dimensional movement...well, you're a braver (and probably brainier) GM than I am.

This can become interesting, however, with proper restrictions. Instead of being completely free, say the creature has to move in a certain relation of the fourth dimension to the rest - like a tesseract. Then, with observation and a little smarts, the PCs can start to predict points of contact with their three-dimensional existence, and plan accordingly. The same is true if you give them access to four dimensions - the fun will come from observing those restrictions and seeing what freedom you're allowed within them. For example, maybe you can step through this wall but not that one because of the local geometry. Or maybe you can figure out a way to steal the Fire Emerald off its Pedestal without setting off the Rolling Rock of Doom.

Side note: ethereal and astral travel could be used as a sort of poor-man's fourth dimension, but I feel like that's reducing something really potentially cool (you have a whole other world in those planes!) to something rather quotidian.

A simple, restricted example of a challenge related to movement in the fourth dimension is the dungeon room that's a tesseract. In order to construct one, make each surface (floor, ceiling, walls) a potential floor. Give them all kinds of accoutrements, too - essentially you're stuffing six rooms into one, and allowing them a way to interact.

Then, label them 1 - 6, or A - F, or whatever. Then, for each side of one floor, (NESW) choose a number/letter it connects to, while making sure that it's not the one it should connect to in 3 dimensions.

In a way, it's like a teleportation maze where you can see everything in the maze at the same time, with the added complication of looking a little crazy to the eye, because you never change orientation but the room does.

Anyway, I hope that helps someone come up with something cool. I feel like I hadn't really been considering movement paradigms enough in my designs, so I reckon I'm probably not the only one.

Other notable fauna in the Forest of Fog

I started off the last post with just an idea of "Desert hyacinth monster" and it grew from there. Aaaand then I kind of went overboard with the monster description; nobody needs umpteen paragraphs on a single gimmick plant. So here's some more information on the Forest of Fog for anyone who's interested.

Denizens of the Forest of Fog

The first thing to remember is that there are no animals. Most everything that tries to kill you is going to be a plant, because the plants eat everything else.

There are the hyacinths of course. But there are some others. These are just samples; the Mad Elven King was really, really into horticulture.

More of a trap than a monster, shattergrass is a delicate, transparent green grass that almost looks to be made from spun glass. From a distance, it looks normal. It grows in patches, usually in gaps in the trees (which it sometimes causes). In the dim light of the forest, it can be hard to tell from regular grass - not that there's much of either.

When disturbed by anything stronger than a gentle wind, shattergrass breaks into thousands of razor-sharp shards, like really thin slivers of broken glass. Basically, moving through a patch of shattergrass is going to cost you 1d6 hp and possibly shred your footgear or leggings.

Weeping bromeliads
Like their more mundane cousins, these live on the branches of trees. Unlike their more mundane cousins, they hijack trees.

Trees with a large number of weeping bromeliads on them will have trunks and branches stained a deep red from the juices of the flowering plant. They will also move whenever anything larger than a cat walks by, because the bromeliads are territorial and don't like invaders.

Stats as a treant, only most of the trees are sessile, and have 1d10 + 3 bromeliads all over the branches. Trees with ten or more bromeliads may even uproot themselves temporarily to chase off the party.
(7HD version, treants go up to 12): HD 7; AC 2[17]; Atk 2 strikes (2d6); Move -- or 3; Save 9; ML 12; CL/XP 7/600

Hangman's moss
Here's another trap-monster. This looks a lot like like Spanish moss, except maybe even longer. It likes to form long curtains, hanging in the air and waving listlessly on any light breeze. Close inspection will show a small assortment of insects, birds, and an occasional bat caught in the curtain and dessicated.

Anyone touching a sufficient amount of the moss (a couple clumps is fine, but a curtain is dangerous) must save vs. poison or be paralyzed. (Elves are not immune.) Anyone so caught will be slowly dessicated, losing 1hp/round as the moss sucks out their bodily fluids. Losing 6 or more hit points in this fashion at a time may cost the character either 1 CON or 1 CHA at the discretion of the GM.

Suggestive forsythia
(The name sucks. Sorry. Feel free to suggest a better one; I'll probably adopt it.) These bushes were magically bred from their mundane cousins in an attempt by the Mad King to create "someone who finally understands me!" They are telepathic.

Many are just lonely and looking for someone to talk to. However, all are subtly (or not so subtly) mad - whether from the original process or the long isolation or just their alien natures, its hard to say. 

Only 1 in 6 elves can actually hold something like a conversation with them; everyone else just gets creepy crawly feelings in the back of the skull and an occasional burst of suggestive emotion - save vs charm or be given a two-word suggestion. (Anything obviously life-threatening or morally contrary requires no save.) The forsythia are also accomplished chromatophores, changing the colors of their flowers in various different patterns. This allows a few of them to cast spells via complicated, rapid color shifts. They favor charm effects and other emotion/perception altering spells.

Suggestive forsythia: HD 2; AC 7 (9 vs fire); Atk None; Move --; Save 17; ML 8; CL/XP 2/30
Can cast 1 2nd level and 2 1st level spells per day. Example spell list: Charm Person - Faerie Fire - Phantasmal Force

It's hard to say what these trees look like, because anyone wandering within 50ft of them falls prey to an hallucinatory effect that subtly changes the terrain, cloaking certain objects and giving the illusion of progress when in fact they are walking in circles. Once this is noticed ("Hey, I think we passed that tree a couple times before!") the illusion is broken - in game terms, give a secret save every fifteen minutes or so. The thing that makes these nasty is that other, more dangerous plants will often live nearby and be altered by the effect so as not to be noticed until too late. (If this happens, the effect is broken immediately - it doesn't stand up to direct contradiction.

Travellers who are aware of the danger and alert get a save against the effect when they first wander in. Roll once for the leader of a party.

The bark of the warpwood tree contains a powerful hallucinogen that when properly prepared and boiled into a tea gives visions. These are usually relaxing and pleasant, but can occasionally evoke powerful emotions - fear, loathing, lust, despair. There may even be a way for a shaman to use it for a vision-quest of sorts (like use of the Commune spell, with no level requirements, but only 1 question). Overuse, especially of potent concoctions, can lead to all kinds of nasty effects best left to the DM.

One 'dose' - a given tree will have enough easily reachable bark for 50 or so, if you want to carry a bunch of bark around - is probably worth 5gp to the right buyer.

That's great, but how do I use this?

Good question. Once the players figure out the gimmick of the place, the solution is simple: stay away from the plants. They mostly can't come after you.

The solution to this is to put them near/around something the players wan to investigate and so much brave the dangers of the plants to do so, or to place them in such a way that the players don't know until it's too late that they're wandering into danger. (Warpwood is an example way to do this latter one, but if you use 'it's a mind-screwy tree!' too often, your players will probably get angry.)

Concrete examples, as well as notable areas of the Forest of Fog and random encounters should be forthcoming shortly, like in the next post.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

The Hyacinths of the Mad King Undumiel

Once upon a time, in what is now the Forest of Fog (so called by the natives, who shun it and force exiles into it), there flourished an elven city. To call it a city is something of a misnomer: elves rarely live in communities larger than 300. The Forest of Fog is the remnant of that city.

Elves prefer to carefully sculpt their chosen environments (usually forests, but sometimes mountain valleys, river plains, prarie, etc.) to provide the comforts of civilized living while still appearing to be 'in harmony with Nature' by elven standards. One of the things this means is that elven settlements tend to decay quickly once the Elves move on.

 The Forest of Fog is roughly three miles by three miles, circular in shape. It looms over the surroundings on a plateau 200 feet up. This is the traditional boundary among those tribes who use it for exile. The guilty party is force to climb up at spear-point (there are plenty of easy ways up and down from the plateau for even a mediocre climber, but you'd have to leave ponies behind). Sometimes the climber chooses the spears, for legend has it that no one ever returns from the Forest of Fog.

But foggy

It is called the Forest of Fog because it is continually covered in a cloudbank

The first thing you will notice upon entering the Forest of Fog is that it is warmer than the surrounding land. It never snows here; the fog's warmth melts all snow before it hits the ground. The second thing you will notice upon entering the Forest of Fog is that there is no animal life. No birds. No squirrels. You can look, but you won't find any deer, or wolves, or anything like that. Even bugs keep a low profile and are hard to find. The reason for this is the hyacinths.

A fictional example, placed in a desert to confuse onlookers. Note the lack of leaves.
 If you travel into the forest instead of staying near the cliff edge, you will eventually see the reason for the fog and the lack of animals: a hyacinth, sticking out of the bark of one of the trees. If it's large enough, it will try to kill you.

 Hyacinths in the Forest of Fog

The hyacinths in the forest of Fog were created by the mad sorcerer-elfking Undumiel in the search for the perfect plant. During the cataclysm that ended elven civilization here, the nursery was broken open, and they have since spread through the forest.

These plants are shaped like multiple small flowers in various states of opening, ranging from the size of a human hand up to the size of a fir tree. They attach themselves to trees, rotting logs, the ground - any stable non-rocky surface will do.

When a non-elf first sees a hyacinth roughly the size of a dog or larger (smaller hyacinths are not yet mature), he must make a save vs charm or approach the plant. This effect is completely mundane; the hyacinth is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Beautiful enough to make an angel cry. Beautiful enough to take your breath away. You simply must stop and admire it. Those who have seen the hyacinth try to eat someone, made the save, or seen truly sublime beauty before (e.g. glimpsed Aphrodite in her bower) are immune. It's still beautiful beyond description, but you don't have to approach.

Elves are immune because they're jaded assholes who have seen it all before and it's, "just a flower, nothing to compare to what my grandmother grows in her window box at home." (But with more pretentious language.)

Each hyacinth has a profusion of flowers. These are its digestive organs. The ones at the top are usually closed because bugs are stupid and easy to catch. The ones at the bottom are often open. If a flower is open, and you're the right size, it will attack when you get within range - usually about 20ft for a human.

A tendril will emerge from the flower and seek to rapidly twine around you. The tendril bears a contact euphoric - save vs. poison each round if it hits or be paralyzed in ecstasy. The plant will then attempt to drag you toward the flower that houses the tendril and engulf you at a rate of 5ft/round. A tendril has STR 12 and 3 hit points, but can be hurt only by cutting weapons. Incidentally, this also makes the plant immune to arrow or sling fire - tendrils from the smaller flowers dart out and catch the projectiles to ingest them, only to spit them out a few moments later.

Elves are immune, because they've felt it all before and aren't that impressed.

Once engulfed in a flower, you take 1d6/round until dead, and will dissolve over several days. By accounts of survivors (or the ghosts of former victims) it feels like being in the womb. You don't even notice as your flesh sloughs away; all your cares and concerns are dissolved with it.

They look so happy right before they die
A combined STR of 30 is required to pry someone out of a bud in 3 rounds. A combined score of 40 will drop that to 2 rounds; a combined score of 50 will drop that to 1 round.

A hyacinth uses water pressure gradients to move, and each one has a small mass of water bladders buried shallowly into whatever surface they are attached to. Since pressure gradients are required, when moving the plant lets off a constant trickle of escaping water vapor, which is the cause of the fog. This means that a hyacinth will generally only be able to move for 1d12+7 rounds before it depletes its water supply and goes still.

Once the plant has digested its victim, it will eject any inedible bits (over-large bones, metals, woods or cloth of plant material), meaning that plants old enough to digest people will probably have a small cache of treasure scattered on the nearby ground.

The pollen of the hyacinth is a strong euphoric. It loses a little of its potency when taken out of the flower, but kept in an air-tight bottle can be shelved almost indefinitely. It could probably sell for around 25gp/oz to the right buyer; a plant will have a number of ounces of pollen equal to its hit dice. One ounce contains 20 doses. (Pollen is light.)

Hyacinth of the Forest of Fog

This is an example plant capable of engulfing a human. At any time it will have 1d6 open blossoms of the appropriate size.

HD 4 AC 8 ATK no damage, save v. poison or be paralyzed MV -- Save 14 ML 12 CL/XP 5/240 Special Engulf for 1d6/round; also, immune to sleep, charm, etc because it's a plant.

Edited to add: made things a little clearer above; specifically, the plant can't simply be shot from a distance with non-magical projectiles, and it requires a to-hit roll to touch a victim. The tendril never misses, but it can't poison a leather breastplate.

You can't have a post about carnivorous plants without Audrey.