The master stem speaks throughout a wicked spectacular blossom. The supplicant crawls up to it. Acknowledged, the supplicant kisses the gnarled roots before him. The stem quietly evaluates through senses unknown, judging by a formula known but to itself.

“Purge.” The blossom strains with the effort of speaking the only word it will utter for the month.

A radio crackles the news throughout the glen. The galactic search will continue for one that is fit to kneel before the kernel of divine and growing and green. The others gather around the stricken supplicant without incident. He knows he is for the purge, and he accepts it.

His body will go beneath the roots, helping them to grow strong.

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