Chapter 4
Bone litter. Nut levitated the fragments of bone and squinted through his monocle so that he might have a better look. There were places where the bone had been scraped by small, hard teeth. Trolls had teeth, teeth made from what appeared to be wood with remarkable hardness and density. Craftsponies made things from troll teeth, a practice that Nut found rather ghastly, but he could not deny that self-repairing hardwoods and such had a certain appeal.
In fact, some such troll teeth were harder than steel and their magic allowed trolls to gnaw through stone. But, these teeth didn’t appear to be all that fearsome, from the looks of things. Some of the bones were cracked, so that the marrow could be extracted. The teeth that had done this were tiny, teeny tiny little teeth that might deliver a nasty bite, but weren’t extraordinarily dangerous. Only some of the bones had been cracked open, the thinner, more fragile bits and sections. Clearly, this was evidence of a weak bite.
After his examination of the bone litter, Nut began to examine the soil, hoping to find troll pellets, though he wasn’t sure what to look for. Large trolls left behind large, noticeable troll pellets, which did remarkable things for the soil. Troll waste had all manner of nutrients and soil conditioners that benefited any ecosystem in which it was deposited. It stood to reason that tiny trolls, if he was, in fact, dealing with tiny trolls, would also have a beneficial effect upon their environs.
Nut found himself quite disturbed by the cooperative behaviour. Trolls reproduced with violence, tearing each other from limb to limb, and exchanging sap. Severed troll bits saturated with sap from multiple trolls grew into new trolls, with potentially the best aspects and features of each troll involved in the exchange, of which there could be several. It was quite fascinating, really, and troll sap was a curious liquid, serving as blood and reproductive fluid.
Troll sap was also extremely flammable, which meant it had a variety of practical uses.
Scowling, his face wizened with wrinkles, Nut put the bone litter into a small glass container. These would need to be studied, analysed in detail, so that every available bit of knowledge could be extracted. The glass container was closed, and with just a smidgeon of magic, Nut hermetically sealed it so that his specimens would be preserved.
With a turn of his head, the sealed glass container went zooming over to his belongings and was tucked beneath a notebook. Casting his gaze downward, he began to examine the soil. It didn’t matter what he found, so long as it was interesting. A bit more bone litter, what might have been footprints, a dead moth with one missing wing, but nothing that looked like troll pellets, which typically appeared to be clods of sticky black dirt with speckles.
He’d been sent here to determine if there was something worth further study; there was. There was more than enough compelling evidence already, and he was almost certain that the photographs that he’d taken would turn out well. If he wanted to do, he could yank a specimen out of the ground and get plenty of photographic evidence. Samples were good, but really, all he needed was a compelling yes or a definitive no.
So why was he dragging his hooves?
He was dragging his hooves.
Technically, he could leave today, and be satisfied with a job done well.
Was the odd phenomenon here worth the cost of a team so that a study could be done?
Yes, yes it was.
Since he had the answer, what was he doing here?
Trolls were fascinating, and he was fond of them.
No, that wasn’t quite it.
That wasn’t as truthful a statement as he wished for it to be.
And what of biases? He found this subject lurking about in his mind. Were his hunches biased conjecture, with a heaping, helping portion of bias confirmation? With scarcely any data, he’d suspected that these were trolls. Yes, there was a great deal of bias here. Blaue Viola Solanum certainly confirmed many of his biases about rural equines—but her husband, Hickory, not so much. In fact, Hickory defied stereotypes, the building blocks of biases. Or perhaps he had it backwards, and maybe biases were the building blocks of stereotypes, he could never quite tell.
It was something of a chicken or the egg conundrum, but the simple answer here had to be chicken; after all, when this idiom was brought to bear, when was the last time anypony said, ‘which came first, the egg or the chicken?’ Reversing them made them sound ludicrous, so the simplest, most direct answer was chicken, if only to sound like a sane, reasonable, rational creature.
Which in and of itself was a form of bias.
Thoughtful, Nut paused to sort out his thoughts.
“Natural selection,” he said to himself, almost muttering. “Survival of the fittest. Only the very best biases survive in the primal jungles of cognitive rationality. Alpha biases. Apex biases. Some of which have reigned supreme throughout the ages. Unicorns are snobs. Pegasus ponies are brutes. Earth ponies are numbskulls. These biases somehow survive because we believe them to be true, they are self-evident… just as any pony who has seen a pegasus showing off his plumage in a bird bath would know.”
Biases, left unchecked, were the weeds that destroyed a garden of ideology. A beautiful faith might become a soul-crushing religion if the gardners became negligent and lax. There was a certain irony in the fact that earth ponies were the very best gardners, but in this settlement of earth ponies, the garden was overrun with weeds.
Not only that, but it was potentially infested with trolls, posing as harmless vegetables.
“Natural selection,” he muttered again. “It has been said that Canterlot is a city founded on natural selection. The best and the brightest rose to the top. They occupy their lofty city, and I’m not so sure that Canterlot is any less stagnated than this place.” Head drooping, he chewed his lip for a moment, not liking his thoughts at all, but much like unwanted flies, he could not be rid of them.
Isn’t that why he left home? To live by his own means? If what was said was true, that Canterlot unicorns were the very best and brightest that the world had to offer, then he would have no trouble rising back to the top. Yet, here he was, standing in some alicorn-forsaken rural backwater, poor and speaking to himself about the virtues of natural selection.
Like unleavened bread, he hadn’t done much rising.
He survived solely on odd jobs.
After coming down from the lofty clouds of Canterlot, he found a world that was not at all like the one he expected, the world that he’d learned about in school. Out of his own natural ecosystem, Nut found that the world was not rigged in his favour. The odds of survival were decidedly against him. Living as a commoner had been something of an eye-opener, an education in and of itself. What did the peasantry call it? The School of Hard Knocks?
That he survived at all had to be his upbringing as a noble, which had afforded him every advantage. Education well-beyond the reach of the average commoner. Extensive arms and combat training from Princess Celestia’s School for Disproportionate Responders. Manners Maketh Pony, as the old school motto stated in loopy, flowing letters.
Nut was a pony made from biases, and in trying to undo them, he threatened his own very existence. When thoroughly unraveled, with every thread of bias picked apart, Nut suspected that there would be nothing left at all, just a pony-shaped container meant to hold biases. Leaving home was rather like unraveling a fine tweed waistcoat, and now that his finery was gone, he was laid bare.
So laid bare, he now stood in a distant rural farm, far, far away from civilisation, muttering to himself.
Was he not the very pinnacle of what Canterlot had to offer?
“Mister Nut, are you okay?”
Withers sagging, he recognised the sound of Tater Blossom’s voice. She sounded distraught and he most definitely didn’t want her seeing him like this. Right away, his demeanour changed, he regained his starchy posture, and quickly composed himself so that he might be presentable. When he turned around, he saw her, and she’d been crying. It was so obvious that she’d been crying that it made him wonder why she’d done nothing to hide it. Young mares guarded their appearances; snotty noses and red eyes were worn in private, but never seen in public.
“Miss Blossom, the same might be asked of you.”
“The way you talk,” she said.
To Nut’s ears, it sounded as though she said, ‘tawk,’ which he found endearing for some reason. Everything about her was endearing. From her rather ruralish colouration, to her straight hanks of mane, to her brash, roughshod manner. She was covered in grass, twigs, and bits of leaves. Vivid green grass stains were plainly visible on her back and sides.
“I saved you breakfast,” he said.
“Well that is mighty kind of you.” She almost smiled. “Mister Nut, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you need breakfast more than I do. I’m pretty sure my legs are bigger than your neck.”
Before he could think about what it was that he was saying, he found himself blurting out, “I survive on pretzels and pints in the pub. After paying for school, I have very little pocket money.”
“I’ve never wanted for a meal,” Tater Blossom said, her round, chubby face now thoughtful. “Of all the things Mama’s done to me, leavin’ me hungry ain’t one of them. I done been thinkin’ ‘bout what I have to be grateful for, like Pinkie Pie do. It’s in her book. She calls it countin’ her reasons to smile.”
“That book clearly means a lot to you.”
“Without it, I mighta gone crazy by now. Mama has her Way of Almighty Celestia, and I done reckon I have my Pinkie Pie. I can’t make sense of it, but I done s’pose there’s something meaningful in that.”
“Indeed.”
“The way you talk, Mister Nut.”
“I strive for eloquence.”
Tater Blossom took a step closer and stepped out of the shadow of the wellhouse. Then, bathed in sunlight, she stopped. “I done heard Mama and two of my sisters talking ‘bout you. Mama seems to think you must like other stallions, or maybe colts, on account of me making it through the night untouched. Mama says I’m too pretty to leave alone, and I don’t know how I feel about that. She called you a fruit and my sister called you Nutty Fruitcake. Then all three of them had a laugh.”
“Is that so?” Without realising it, his eyebrow rose, and he struck a rather dramatic pose. “She’s wrong, you know. I’m keen on umbrellas.”
“See, I done thought you’d say that.” A broad, toothy smile spread over her muzzle, and as this happened, a little good cheer returned to her red eyes.
Though he did not say it, he found it quite remarkable that Tater Blossom could sneak up on her mother and sisters like that. She was sneaky, young Miss Blossom, and that wasn’t a bad thing. Where others saw trouble, Nut saw potential. He stood there, staring, not caring about doing so, admiring Miss Blossom, who was neither a filly nor a mare. She was stuck in that confusing space in between. Too old to be foal, but too young to be an adult.
Yet, expected to be an adult nonetheless.
“Pinkie Pie says in her book that her life changed all complete like when this fancy, hifalutin unicorn came to Ponyville. This unicorn didn’t talk like them, didn’t act like them, and didn’t quite fit in with the ponies of Ponyville. She came down from Canterlot and Pinkie knew that life would never be the same.” Tater Blossom kicked at the dirt with her hooves, and shuffled about a bit. “You, you’re the unicorn that came to Widowwood, and things can’t go back to how they was.”
Nut found himself quite overcome with emotion, though no outward sign of it showed. He swallowed once, found his voice, and said, “Why thank you, young Miss. I say, that might very well be the most flattering thing ever said about me.”
“Mister Nut, the way you talk...”
“What is it about the way I talk?” he asked.
“I wanna talk like you,” she said without hesitation. Her eyes narrowed, widened, narrowed once more, widened again, and then her head tilted off to the left. “I’m sick of soundin’ like a hick. Now don’t go tellin’ me not to say that. I ain’t dumb. I might be country, but I ain’t dumb. I know what ponies think about hicks. I know what my Mama says about hicks, and rubes, and yokels, and the whole lot, and that mare is dumb enough to talk all that trash without once thinkin’ ‘bout the fact that she’s a hick herself. Every bad thing she says ‘bout hicks applies to me. To her. To us. All that talk about cousin-lovin’ bumpkins.”
Blank-faced, Nut despaired just a bit. Marrying a cousin was common in his family. The standard. It was an established norm. Yet, there were, indeed, some biases and stereotypes about cousin-marriage, and he’d only ever learned about them after leaving home. He’d been entirely sheltered from these views the entirety of his life, and upon learning that some ponies found cousin-marriage disagreeable, he’d been quite shocked.
It was something that had upset his worldview more than a little.
Behold, ladies and gentleponies: the noble hicks of Canterlot!
The last thing said was, “Mama didn’t put no sugar or cream in the tea and she needs to be slapped upside her fool head.” Then came the silence. Tater Blossom scarfed down her breakfast with gusto, got settled in, and then started reading through Nut’s notes. It occurred to him that she was hungry for reading material, not breakfast, and he marvelled at just how careful she was with books.
This was a pony who loved books.
As she read to herself in silence, Nut had an internal debate about catching a live specimen for study. An up close examination. He had his findings, more or less. These creatures warranted further study by a fully-staffed field team. Of course, the arrival of such a team might pose real problems for the ponies of Widowwood, or, perhaps, possibly, Nut imagined problems where none might exist. Maybe a team of scholars might descend upon the town and everything would be fine. Normal. Maybe his own biases left him believing that tensions might arise, and problems might manifest.
It was mid-morning; Nut knew because he’d checked his watch, a watch that never needed winding. A curious thing, it was powered by crystal, and kept perfect time due to the fact that said crystal released bursts of ambient thaumaturgical energy with clockwork precision. A wondrous object that served a mundane purpose. He checked it again, and again, and each time he opened it, he glanced at his parents, who waited just inside.
“Mister Nut, what is it with you and the Gallopagos Islands?”
He was quite unprepared for the question, with his mind in other places. Unable to answer right away, he sat down, stood up, sat down again, and thought about checking his watch, because he needed his parent’s reassurance. How could he explain himself? Where did he start? This was no mere question, but it was, perhaps, the question.
“Nopony’s been there,” he said at last. “Nopony can go there. The magic is too strong. The Gallopagos Islands don’t actually sit in the sea, but in the sky. Great masses of land that float—and nopony knows why. Water flows upwards, and sideways, and downwards, and nothing there makes sense. Now, you might be asking, if nopony has been there, how is this known?
“I’ll tell you; ponies have been near it. Strange occurrences have been observed at a distance. Magic mutates and changes the species to be found in that area, and evolution happens rapidly. Some species can never leave the area, they depend on the high magic environment to survive, but some species do leave. We get sea monsters, and flying creatures, and as they depart, they change as the background magical radiation changes. There is so much out there, just waiting to be learned.”
“But if you can’t go there, how will you go there?” she asked.
“Poison joke,” he replied. “There is a tea brewed from poison joke that can help a pony endure dangerous magical radiation. I am positive that said tea could be turned into a drug”—he held up his hoof as he continued—“a medicine made in concentrated form. I am positive that equine ingenuity will allow me to visit the islands. It is just a matter of finding a way.” His lips pursed for a moment and he shook his head. “Zebra ingenuity, perhaps. Somewhere, there exists a means. A way. But I wish to explore those islands where none of my kind have stood. I want to study the creatures, as they change and evolve. I want to see how life has adapted to the islands, to magic, and the entirely unique environment of floating islands that defy gravity. They have secrets, and it is my desire to know them.”
Tater Blossom started to say something, she drew in a deep breath, her mouth opened just enough to reveal her orange tongue, and her eyes twinkled with understanding. But no words came. After a time, her mouth closed, and her lips formed a tight-pressed thin line of thoughtful concentration.
When at last she found her words, what she had to say was quite profound.
“Mister Nut, if you go there, what if you evolve? I mean, what if the poison joke stuff doesn’t protect you? What if you… what if you stop being a pony and become something else? If critters change overnight, what about you? What will become of you? Don’t the idea of becoming something else bother you? Scare you?”
What he had to say in response was no less profound.
“I am almost certain that just preparing for the journey will change me as a pony. Adaptations will have to be made. I may very well have to alter my form through alchemy, or other means. The pony that leaves for the Gallopagos will not be the pony that is discussing this subject with you right now. As for the pony who comes home… who says I’ll return? I don’t know the future. Such radical alteration might very well make it impossible for me to return home. I know where I need to be, but I have no vision of the future that comes after.”
“Almighty Celestia, you gots you some courage, Nut. My Mama, for all her talk of unwavering faith in the Almighty, she ain’t never said anything with as much conviction as you just did. I want faith like that. My faith feels empty.”
To this, Nut didn’t know how to respond. Faith? He didn’t see it. If he couldn’t see it… no, he refused to think about blind faith. This wasn’t faith at all, but something else. What though? Not faith, clearly. What did he believe in, anyhow? He believed in the journey. Getting from here to there. He was a pony of science. Mad science, perhaps, the sort of science spoken about in hushed whispers, but science nonetheless. He wasn’t sure if faith and science could exist in the same pony. One was rational, the other, well, calling it irrational struck him as being crass. Cold rationality and logic suited him, and faith was… it was neither of those things.
“How do you do it, Nut?”
Before he could inquire as to what she meant, she continued, “How do you have these plans to do the impossible? How does a pony plan for these things? You seem so confident about it, so calm. Like it ain’t no big deal. Have you ever stopped to listen to yourself, Nut? You talk about goin’ off and doin’ this, you talk about maybe dyin’, and you say it all like it ain’t no big deal. How are you like that? I want that for myself.”
Scowling, Nut pulled off his monocle and slipped it into the pocket of his tweed waistcoat. Something needed to be said, he felt obligated to explain himself, but how? What words would serve him? How could he explain a lifetime of being told that anything was possible to a pony who’d been told that her every idea, her every desire, her every dream was wrong? No, telling her didn’t feel right, this was something that needed to be shown… but he lacked the means.
Defeated, he felt his heart sinking down into the depths of his guts.
Tomorrow, he would leave this place, return to Vanhoover, and report his findings. Life would go on. School would continue. As soon as he could get to a respectable, proper pub, he’d do his best to forget this place. He felt foolish and stupid for hoping to infect the thoughts of young Miss Blossom with science. What he was doing was disrupting her life. Suddenly uncertain of himself, he felt his tweed-clad confidence wrinkle a bit.
Tweed-clad confidence, it was said, was a magnitude stronger than ironclad confidence, and to feel it suddenly crinkle was quite disconcerting. His young companion deserved better, but there was no better to be had. Lots of ponies deserved better; he’d discovered that not long after leaving Canterlot. Up there, above the clouds, in Canterlot, he was a pony with every advantage. Down here, he was a too-thin hobo who avoided a state of rattiness through a blend of magic and gumption.
She had freckles.
Nut noticed them for the first time, and it was almost too much to bear.
A light dusting of freckles could be seen on the strong corners of her jaw, just below the place where her cheeks turned to pleasant, plump, chubbiness. There were far too few freckles in the world, Nut decided. To see her smile… he found himself in a strange place where neither optimism nor pessimism held sway. This… this was the exact reason why he avoided feelings. These sudden bouts of irrationality. Moments like this one could be circumvented if one kept one’s emotions in check.
“Gather your courage, Miss Blossom, for we’re going to capture a live specimen.”
Armed with a stylish umbrella named Susan, Nut recovered his tweed-clad confidence. Her heft somehow offered much-needed reassurance and the world was a more sensible place when he was holding her. From her beautiful hardwood crook, to her gleaming steel and brass, to her delicate gown made from spun dragon moth silk that he kept carefully oiled. Susan’s canopy was a masterpiece of Minotaurian stitch magic, which made her self-repairing. Lining the canopy was a fine chainmail mesh; he’d been told it had started out as regular chainmail, which was then shrunk and compressed into a thin curtain of high-strength steel. This mesh also had enchantments, more magical stitching done with fine steel thread.
The carrots had migrated a bit. They were armies, the carrots, swift moving, with the advantage of numbers. As for the cabbages, they were more or less where he’d seen them yesterday, though not in neat, orderly rows that ponies favoured in their planting. Of all the garden trolls, the cabbages were the most aggressive, though the potatoes might be the oddest.
Said potatoes were true to a potato plant, and during Nut’s overnight observations, he’d watched them hunt. Multiple tubers, all connected to a common shared photosynthesis engine. Connected as they were, a certain level of cooperation was required for them to coordinate their movement. It was a bit like two ponies tied together at the legs, and having to work together to run a race.
“There’s something peculiar ‘bout them tater blossoms.”
“Funny, there’s something peculiar about potato blossoms in general—”
“Hey, Mister, that’s not nice!”
“What do you find peculiar?”
“Something is off. I dunno what it is, just yet.”
With the peculiar potatoes just a few yards away, Nut paused. Squinting through his monocle, he examined the potato blossoms in question. He knew very little about potato plants, but thankfully, he was in the company of an expert. Patient, he waited for her to say something, anything, that might make clear what she found strange.
“Now, tater blossoms, when the taters is done a-growin’, they turn into little fruits. Green things, that look like tomaters. These tater blossoms look weird. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before. Huh… not sure what it is, but I gots me this feeling of unease, like I’m being watched.”
“The eyes of the potatoes are upon you—”
“Mister Nut, if you make just one more bad joke, yer goin’ down yonder well.”
“Prey animals know when they’re being watched. Trust your feelings, Miss Blossom.”
“Yeah… we is bein’ watched. Them tater blossoms is eyes. Look, if you watch long enough, you can see ‘em blink. Look!”
Holding still, Nut waited. He was good at waiting. Waiting is what a naturalist did. Lots of waiting, long periods of intense boredom, interspersed with irrationally exuberant moments of running for one’s life. Exciting. Then he saw it; the petals moved in a weird way, and the potato blossom ‘blinked.’ Tater Blossom, the filly, not the plant, clucked her tongue in triumph.
Again, he saw a ‘blink.’
Fascinating.
Aboveground eyes to keep watch whilst they were buried. What an adaptation. These potatoes really did have eyes. A communal pack of potatoes—not to be confused with a peck of potatoes—that had eyes on their shared photosynthesis engine. His professors would have a hard time believing this. How did the eyes function? Was there a central brain? How was visual information processed?
Looking about, he sought out something to throw, and spotted a sun-dried stalk from something, which he lifted with his telekinesis. Monocle forward, he took careful aim, and tossed what he’d picked up from the soil. More of the potato plant’s eyes focused on the incoming stalk, the plant moved, and several green shoots sprang up to snatch the stalk out of the air. So caught, the stalk was dragged down to the base of the plant, where it was pulled beneath the ground.
“Miss Blossom,” he whispered to his companion, though the reason he was whispering was unknown. They were dealing with potatoes, not corn. “This is quite fascinating. I bet that bugs and like can be seized right out of the air, or maybe even birds. The visual acuity for such an act would require considerable brainpower. There’s distance, movement, the ability to track a target in motion. This is really quite extraordinary.”
“I just watched some taters grab something.” She shook her head, then shook her head even harder. “That’ll be in my dreams later. Tater tentacles.”
“So, the carrots hunt in packs, the cabbages are solitary predators, and the potatoes are ambush predators who lurk and keep watch. Which of them should we dig up, Miss Blossom?”
“So long as we don’t hurt ‘em, I don’t much care which. Maybe a cabbage. All of them spit, so we gotta watch out for that.”
“Yes, though they each have specialised applications, they seem to share a few common characteristics,” he replied.
“That’s a lot of words for a simple yes.”
“Indeed, there is a surplus of verbiage. Do forgive my verbose prolixity, I suffer from occasional bouts of logorrhea.”
“What in tarnation is logorrhea—no, wait, don’t tell me, is that like diarrhea of the mouth?”
“You possess a keen and rather remarkable intellect, Miss Blossom.”
“Thanks. I think. We should catch us a cabbage.”
Umbrella forward, Nut uprooted a cabbage and then conjured up a simple barrier spell, which he hoped would hold. Peering around the edge of Susan, he had himself a look at the hissing, spitting, thrashing vegetabloid creature that he’d just yanked out of the ground. The cabbage had a long root, which was the body. Nut counted three legs, two arms, and exactly one cyclopean eye.
In the mouth, hard wooden teeth could be seen gnashing, and the vulgar creature kept spitting. At the end of each arm, there were tiny hand-like appendages, with two claws on the right hand, and three claws on the left. Dirt crumbled and fell away from the rootlike body as the not-cabbage thrashed about, trying to get free.
Aside from the cabbage shape, it very much appeared to be a troll. The wooden teeth gave it away, as did the non-symmetrical body. Extra limbs were not uncommon. Sometimes, a troll had a severe injury, and when regeneration took place, extra limbs formed. Perhaps this cabbage had lost a leg to a rabbit or something, and two legs had grown in so that what was lost could be replaced.
“It’s angry.”
“Miss Blossom, you would be too if I suddenly uprooted you.”
“I think it knows I like coleslaw.”
“Oh, no doubt.” He grinned for the sake of grinning, and then turned around to head back to his camp, so that he could take pictures. “Keep an eye out for trouble, Miss Blossom, our actions might have consequences. Hopefully, we’ll not have angered them.”
A second glass container joined the first, and Nut was rather proud of his collection of mucus, shiny, glisting, and gleaming as it was. For having a single cyclopean eye, the cabbage-troll had exquisite aim, though at a rather short distance. He held it aloft now, and waited while his assistant situated herself behind the camera. Of course, he didn’t need for her to take pictures; he was a unicorn and this would be easy enough to do, but he liked that she was happy.
“Say cheese,” he said to the cabbage-troll, which snarled unpleasantly in response.
After his assistant took a picture, he said to her, “You just took the first up-close and hopefully detailed photograph of a new species. Congratulations, Miss Blossom. ‘Tis a fine accomplishment.”
Flustered, Tater Blossom blushed, and then stood there behind the camera, shuffling her hooves. She smiled, became more flustered, blushed a little harder, and then, grinning from ear to ear, she looked down at the ground and said, “Aw, shucks.”
“Another one, if you please, this time we capture his behind,” he said as he turned the cabbage-troll about so that its posteriour faced the camera.
Still flustered, her face still all a-blush, Tater Blossom snapped another photograph.
Tater Blossom don't like puns.
That makes her a supremely unlikable character. 
Sorry, but it is a recurring theme, if you've been paying attention. At least her freckles are redeeming.
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lies!
She just hasn't grown to love the beauty of a well crafted pun yet.
Such a fine, new story in the weedverse - finally I found the time to read it
Because the Tater Blossom question still needs to be addressed.
Fantastic.
Ahh, so that's why he knows there's evolutionary knowledge to be had there.
Hmn.
Yeah, that would be a good step for the research and a good excuse for still being here.
I wonder if Maud has considered visiting the Gallopagos Islands? She's a rock, and has proven to be pretty much immune to background magical radiation.
9701660
Yeah, that's definitely too old.
Dammit, I know you had a Kingsman inspired line in one of the chapters and I forgot to comment on it after reading. Now I can't find it, lol. If it was intentional (and I think it was) I appreciated it a great deal.
Roll credits
Tater Blossom and the punacious tweed
At least she recognizes them. And it is a suitable flaw. Every character should have realistic flaws.
Of all the garden "tolls"-> trolls?