Queen Of A Thousand Roots
Greater God (True Neutral)
Before the multiverse was formed there was a primordial existence which knew no boundaries named Orsa
. There dwelt unimaginable potential, shaped by need and thought. When it reached the complexity needed to become the planes we know today there were scattered spores of that miasmic potential. Like seeds that only open during a forest fire, so these were scattered in the great expansion. They took root did these spores, and they began to search for others. Digging through reality like roots through soil they spread, connecting, touching, spreading over the eons. There became an intelligence to this, not of man or god, but simply of an awareness to rival any deity.
Few know of her existence, and none fully understand it, but many have bowed down to worship it. The Queen of A Thousand Roots. Once you allow her in, to twine herself with your soul, it is nearly impossible to leave.
Of plant and ooze and beginnings she is, her main worshipers being sentient fungus and slime, such as trleetrlaa
and deathcap myconids
. Aberrations from before the multiverse was made, such as aboleths, occasionally worship her as a power from the past order.
Jublix and Zuggtmoy is thought by some to have spawned from a growth within the lower planes, either taking over primal fiends of great power or adapting to the abyssal nature of their own accord, though none know for certain.
She appears as a great twisting mass that could be tree or fungus, topped with a cap, and branches dangling with amorphous sacks that twitch and heave grotesquely.
The Queen Of A Thousand Root's symbol is a black background with green tendrils snaking through it. Her favorite weapon is the root/tentacle (or whip if the race possesses neither)
Parasites, fungi, plants, flowers, oozes, reproduction, fertility, beginnings
, Gluttony, Life, Mind, Plant, Slime, Travel
Clerics of the Queen must make a pilgrimage to her invasive form on whatever world or plane they inhabit. Once there she plants a thought in their mind that seems to dig into their psyche and root within their souls. They become the host of her parasitic will, which continues to grow and flourish for the rest of their lives.
Clerics of the Queen often take the spores or rootlets of her physical growth and attempt to spread them to and fro throughout existence. Once there she slowly connects up with it so as to have eyes in that region. Though they believe she will one day have her roots into every cranny of existence, they wish to quicken her spread where they can.
Prayers to the Queen are on the whole unnecessary as she knows what they know and sees what they see to provide for them. She aids as she wishes and doesn't aid if it doesn't seem necessary. As her view of non-plant creatures are skewed, these worshipers are often neglected.
The worship of the Queen is often conducted within the growths of her transplanted bits, or one the plane of thought where her existence meshes with those of the worshiper.
The Tangle is a land of thorns and thickets, of predators and perfume. A floral kingdom, where madness is in the air you breath, and death in the scrape of a knee. It is the home of sentient fungi and carnivorous plants. Here you are being watched with the eyes of green. This is literal as almost every plant has eyes in some manner, and most possessed of limited mobility.
Since time immemorable there has been this land, where few animals survive, and insects wage war. It is a land of mystery only vine and toadstool know, which even the fey shun with dread.
Here everything is a parasite. Spores and pollen, shoot and root that infect and violate and prey upon the unprepared visitor. The few non-plants that live here are symbiotic with a chosen plant, immune to its affects and protected from others. Here are mushrooms the size of mountains, organic masses, that ooze unimaginable growths, all lit by the riotous colors of blazing foxfires.
With each year the tangle grows a little larger while most of the planet slowly dies. Few live close-by the tangle, and fewer yet think to measure, but those rare individuals fear it as great as the approach of the chill, for there is something uncanny within that cares nothing of man and his ilk.