Throatbloom Flowers

"The first time you see one, you'll think it’s lovely. The second time, you'll be too weak to care."

The Throatbloom is a plant that does not hunt, yet it feeds. It does not move, yet it spreads suffering wherever it grows. Everwealth is a land of misfortune, and the Throatbloom thrives within it, blooming in the wake of grief, war, and despair. Its pollen is invisible, drifting in the air, entering the lungs, and taking root in the mind as much as in the body. Victims do not simply grow weary; they unravel. At first, it is a creeping discomfort—an unease without cause, an irritability that turns companions against one another. Then comes the panic, the sense of looming dread, the mind clawing for an escape where none is needed. Finally, the weight of hopelessness crushes all reason. Travelers who were never in danger, who had full rations, weapons, and warm fires, become convinced there is no point in continuing. They sit among the flowers, heads in their hands, until breath simply stops. The Throatbloom does not hunt, but it does not need to. It is patient. It is inevitable. And, in the cruelest irony, the pale petals of this dreadful thing are the source of the rare pigment Everwealthy White—the very dye used upon the nation’s banner, its symbol of unity, of resilience, of triumph. A land of suffering marked in the colors of its own despair.

Basic Information

Anatomy

The Throatbloom is deceptively delicate, its thin, translucent stems bowing under the weight of pale, ghostly white petals. At a glance, it looks fragile, something that would wither at the first sign of frost. But at its core, it is anything but. The golden filaments within each blossom release an almost imperceptible pollen—so light it remains suspended in the air, invisible, waiting to be drawn into the lungs of the living. Its roots do not dig deep, nor does it require fertile earth. It takes root in tragedy, blooming in places where suffering lingers. It is not merely a passive passenger upon the misfortunes of others—it ensures they continue.

Genetics and Reproduction

The Throatbloom does not spread by seed. It spreads through suffering. Its pollen carries not only a slow suffocation, but a rot of the mind, ensuring that its victims linger long enough to take root themselves. If a Throatbloom field is burned, its pollen carries on the wind, settling miles away, waiting for sorrow to nourish it once again. There are rumors, whispered and hushed, that some have learned to manipulate this process. Druids, alchemists, rogue sorcerers—those with the knowledge, and the willingness, to plant their own suffering to cultivate it. They are said to keep fields where tortured animals, or worse, people, cry out for days or weeks before succumbing, their pain seeping into the soil to nourish the next bloom. These fields produce the richest dyes, the most potent alchemical ingredients. Even among those who traffic in horrors, such methods are reviled—but their existence is never truly questioned.

Growth Rate & Stages

The Throatbloom does not follow the seasons. It follows grief. It blooms in days, spreads in weeks, and lingers for years if suffering remains.

Ecology and Habitats

War-torn fields, plague-ridden homes, execution sites, and forgotten graves—wherever sorrow has settled, the Throatbloom finds purchase. It does not wither in drought, nor does frost weaken it. In places where tragedy never ceases, the flowers bloom endlessly, each generation of petals drinking in the despair of the land.

Dietary Needs and Habits

The Throatbloom does not consume flesh. It does not drink water. It feeds on breath, on sorrow, on the unraveling of the mind. Its pollen is slow in its work. Victims do not collapse immediately. They grow tired. Anxious. Restless. They snap at loved ones, they distrust companions, they grow overwhelmed by fears they had long since buried. Then they panic. Then they despair. And only then do they stop breathing. Though deadly in the wild, its properties make it invaluable in alchemical brews. Properly refined, it serves as the base for powerful sedatives, sleep aids, and draughts meant to soothe fractured minds. A healer’s tincture, if used in careful measure. A killer’s poison, if left unaltered. For folk skilled enough to distill its essence, it is the key ingredient in potions that render a person utterly pliant—mind clouded, thoughts slowed, breath shallow. Those who trade in flesh and secrets pay handsomely for it.

Biological Cycle

It does not cycle with the world. It cycles with suffering.

Behaviour

It is a plant. It does not think. It does not move. And yet, it always seems to bloom exactly where it will do the most harm. The Throatbloom ensures its survival through misery. It is a parasite of the soul, sowing paranoia and despair so that its victims linger longer, breathe more of its pollen, feed it more fully. It does not spread in places of peace, nor does it take root in lands that know no grief. This is why it thrives in Everwealth. Here, sorrow is abundant, ensuring that even as old patches wither, new ones will always take their place.

Additional Information

Perception and Sensory Capabilities

The Throatbloom does not think, but it does react. It spreads where it will thrive, appearing in the places where it will do the most harm. And more than simply draining breath, its pollen gnaws at the mind, feeding off suffering as readily as it does the air from one's lungs. At first, the inhaler feels a vague sense of unease—nothing more than a creeping anxiety, as though something is watching them from just beyond the trees. Then the thoughts turn inward. The inhaler grows irritable, snapping at companions, dwelling on every past mistake, every regret, every fear. Doubt festers. The heart races. Even the strong-willed begin to feel hunted, as though something terrible is about to happen, even when they know they are safe. Then, the panic sets in. The mind cannot focus. Hands tremble. Breath is shallow. The inhaler is convinced they are doomed, though they cannot explain why. For most, this is when they flee, leaving the Throatbloom behind. But those who remain too long face the final stage: hopelessness. The deep, gnawing certainty that all has been in vain. That there is no point in struggling, no reason to go on. They sit, sometimes speaking softly to themselves, sometimes laughing bitterly at nothing, sometimes simply falling silent as the air leaves their lungs one final time. The flower does not kill with speed. It kills with certainty.

Scientific Name

Florum suffocare

Origin/Ancestry

A natural plant—if something this cruel can be called natural. Some believe it to be the product of some ancient curse, an unholy thing born from the agony of the Schism.

Conservation Status

Neither protected nor deliberately cultivated—at least, not in polite society. It spreads too easily on its own, requiring no tending but the presence of grief.