The rain drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against the leaded glass of the shop windows in Undermere. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of St. John’s Poppy . You, the proprietor of , sat behind the heavy oak counter, stroking Hellebore the cat as he purred in the shadows.
A bell chimed. A woman in a sodden grey cloak stepped in, her eyes darting toward the back shelves where the more "particular" specimens were kept. File: Strange.Horticulture.v1.1.24g.zip ...
The woman took the small glass vial you offered, her fingers trembling as they brushed yours. "Be careful, herbalist," she warned before disappearing back into the fog. "The plants aren't the only things growing in the dark." The rain drummed a steady, rhythmic beat against
You turned back to your desk, picked up your magnifying glass, and began to study a new, unidentified leaf. In Undermere, the truth was rarely found in words—it was found in the soil. You, the proprietor of , sat behind the
"I need something for the dreams," she whispered, leaning over the counter. "The ones where the woods start to breathe."
Outside, the mystery of the "Servant" was growing. Strange coins were appearing on doorsteps, and the local coven had been seen gathering by the lake under the new moon. As the horticulturist, you weren't just a shopkeeper; you were the keeper of secrets hidden in petals and roots. Every plant you identified and every tincture you brewed shifted the balance of power in Undermere.
You reached for your trusty encyclopedia . You knew the symptoms—the Shattered Mind was a common ailment for those who wandered too close to the hag-infested forests surrounding the town. You had a choice: provide the soothing Mellow-Glow to ease her spirit, or perhaps a sprig of Devil’s Nightshade if you suspected her motives were darker than she let on.