The voice was like rustling, uncertain leaves in an autmn breeze. A whisper in the background, dwarved by other sounds, voices, thoughts even. Hissing away in the far corners of the audible, it spoke to the unconscious mind directly.

Like seeds that sprouted in fertile soil, the voice left thoughts in the subconscious, to unfold to the conscious mind at later point. Much like the seeds, and the once who plants them, the voice was rarely noticeable.


With an outcry of reluctance Phyllis rose from her bed. Waking from sleep to her was the least favorable part of her days. Never the less the chiming bells told of a new day, calling all who still slept into the realm of the wake and sane.

Fainting away into dim memory of ancient past, the whispers dispersed as her mind regained control over her body.

Half numb, half automated Phyllis left her bed and dressed, after freshing up, she tied her black hair into a tight knot on the back of her head and left her chamber. Although the day was far from being young, the sun had not fully reached the capital city of the fungal empire, she directed her pace past the chambers of other conjurers in the house, left the citadel, and ventured out to the market. Breakfast in the dining hall was despicable, her taste was always displeased with the food available to the conjurers. From the corner of her eyes she beheld sight of some distraught young fungals. They had all been under investigation after the leader of their lot and generation had not only gone awol, but supposedly set ablaze the raging forestfire in the south of the empire. She held no pity for them. Such was the danger of not seeing subversion before your eyes. Since they could not be trusted anymore their careers were over. Simple market guards, such was their reward for remaining loyal to the fungus.

Phyllis would have them publicly executed, just to remind others that they ought to look out for freethinkers. And to straighten freethinkers up. They not only gambled with their own lives but the lives of their fellow guards.

Returning from the market with her breakfast she went for the eastern rooftop garden of the conjurers citadel, awaiting sunrise over the city.


“Master?” Phyllis’ pupil shyly called out to her, after breakfast she had sat down in the library. “Yes Crysallis?” the young woman always was reluctant in voicing her wishes, a trait that was highly valued in the society of the fungal guards. “You seem worried. May I ask why that is?” Phyllis shook her head, got up from her comfortable chair. “Freethinkers, Crysallis, freethinkers. I strongly believe we are too kind, on them and their next up kin.” she referred to the young ones she had seen on the market again. Each class was raised together. Anonymous parents, anonymous siblings, each class was a family unit, thus each class was next up kin. “I hate these people.” she continued pacing around in between the tables, chairs and books. “Them and their rotten ideals! How dare they threaten the integrity of our great society, the glory and teachings of the fungus, for mercy and compassion with subcreatures like these filthy florals?” Crysallis inhaled to formulate an answer, but was interrupted before uttering a single word. “The florals should be seen as we see an appletree, or rows of corn. We harvest from them. In our kind nature do we tend to them, and allow them to prosper!” others in the library gathered nearby listening in. “As for the Albin and the Humans, these vermin have encroached on the land for long enough, we ought to wipe them from the land as we would with other pests, like rats and locusts!” she faced Crysallis again. “And dare no one mention that nautic nuisance to me! Thrust them below the waves where they belong! The fungus and the guards are the only rightful owners of land and sea!” sudden applause tore her from the passionate speech she held originally for her pupil alone. Proudly she accepted the ovations, Crysallis also applauded, however reluctantly. She felt the envious glances other adepts gave her.