“A perilous fair flower I saw, and found myself beguiled
And long I looked, but ne’re revealed
But nought that I desired”

Whether they came from primal green energies on borders of the wodes, or from the very dreams of Apothachron, Anthousai dazzle the eye and captivate the soul. A riot of color and flower with vaguely humanoid shape, they may have flowers sprouting all over their body and limbs, or even have petals framing their face, and leaves or grasping tendrils for fingers.

Swift to bloom and swift to wither, Anthousai remind others of the fleeting nature of life, and prompt them to make the most of their time upon Orden. Most Anthousai appear untroubled by this bittersweet impression, being too occupied with the moment they are in to mourn times yet to pass.

On Anthousai
“Why do you uproot the…” hesitating, the figure plucked a similar shoot and rubbed it between two tendrils.
The farmer stared back at a face framed in pink petals shot through with deep purple and answered, “The onion grass? Cows graze this field. Ruins the milk when they eat it. “
“But the soil is the same. So is the light, and the rain. Yet the taste differs?”
The farmer shrugged.
“And you eat it, I’ve seen you. It goes in your soup.”
“Be that as it may, the milk tastes off.”
Looking up at the sun, then back down at the grass, the flower-man spoke his thoughts aloud, “The nourishment from the cows withers by way of consuming this plant.” A shimmy ran through his whole stalk, “I can help!”
Before the farmer could speak, he plunged splayed tendrils into the dirt. A few leaves shook loose with the effort. Plants pulsed and writhed as they changed, a season’s growth over in moments under a haze of pollen and dust. “Now the cows won’t eat the onion grass!”
The farmer nodded as he looked out over unnaturally long thorns stabbing upward across the field, then turned to head back toward the barn to fetch his leather gloves.