Incense smoke curls from a brazier of coals, its scent the rich, rolling, odor of frankincense, copal and sandalwood. Oil lamps flicker and shake in the dim light. Offerings of liquor poured out before candle-lit shrines and offerings of meal given to old spirits and… and…
What the fuck is that stank-ass reek?
The witch stands, sniffing around the room. Oddly it’s not the fish-emulsion fertilizer for the witching herbs. It’s not the frog tank, nor the crickets (who stink, but not THIS stink), and finally she comes to the plant corner. Oh, well, it’s probably the macerating frog-… no, not that either. Wait, how can it not be the thing literally rotting in it’s own juices? Fine, fine, not the frog then.
What the actual fuck is that stank-ass reek?
She leans down close to the plant tray, sniff sniff, sniff sn-HHRRRK… There it is. A newly sprouted mandrake, smelling like someone’s left a cow to rot in the open sun, and doused it in wine all the while. She’d forgotten that each one smells like this for it’s first week of life.
But #4… #4 stinks just the absolute worst.