Deathblossom, Angler's Spire: Montage/Scenes
Atus—Philosophizing with a storm
Park—Engaging in sophisticated culinary discussion at the Charred Mantis
Tharr—Earning respect in a gardener's shed
Tolliver—Tempting a tzelicrae
Charred Mantis—Park
The view from the loft was commanding, and Park spent a moment admiring the bright red color of the stew below him; was it a spice that gave it that 
vibrant color, or maybe some quality of the large mantis that was said to be boiling at its bottom? He could ask, he supposed. He turned his attention back to the small group of butchers before him, admiring the way they cleanly removed chitin from flesh, making as few cracks as possible in the insectoid armor.
The young ardent char, who he presumed was in charge, noticed him immediately, of course, but made no move to remove him. Park continued sidling closer, and determined that she and the gau were discussing what the flesh of the Tyrant's HeraldFrom the Almanac: "The sixth and last is the Tyrant's Herald; it's like a big moth-bee that judges the worth of those who approach. It tries to sink most. It comes back from the dead when it's killed, so fighting it is only a delaying tactic. It's unmistakable; can't miss it.", the Sixth Sign of the Bloom, would taste like. The ardent had a gleam in her eye as she hypothesized that it would have the floral timbre of a bee combined with the gaminess of giant moth-meat, while the gau seemed to think that it would taste only of "dreams and bitter regret," whatever that meant.
The woman eventually whirled around to face Park. "And who are you? What do you want?"
The gau chuckled. "Look at his poise; he is a fellow char. Perhaps he would weigh in on how a moth-bee hybrid would taste?" The gau sheathed his cleaver and made a half-mocking bay. "Greetings, wanderer, I am Shahan Farr, the Wandering Char, captain of the Grand Gourmet. I came to offer this young lady some sage advice about the proper balance of spices in that stew there, but she has since derailed the conversation. Tell me, don't you think the stew could use some more gingerweed? Or maybe you think blue chilipepper would do the trick?"
"It's fine, interloper," the ardent replied, glaring daggers at the gau. "It's a communal stew; anyone can add anything to it, provided it passes the approval of the stirrer on duty." She glanced at Park. "If you add something worthwhile to it, you'll get extra helpings."
Gardener's Shed—Tharr
The two gardeners barely had time to react as Tharr shifted his frame of reference and grabbed the machete from them. With his powerful eyes and twitching antennae, he noted how the mothryn's hemolyph flowed in visible patterns beneath the skin, and how the tuber's bulging growth sucked it in and then shunted it away, replacing the mothryn's lifeblood with its own. Like any beast, its heart is its weakpoint.
The machete flashed once, twice, thrice as Tharr first sliced off the part of the tuber sticking out above the skin, then gouged a hole in the flesh to rip out a pulsing core, and then finally ripped the shelled remnant out of the mothryn's flesh. Hemolyph flowed freely from the gaping hole left behind, and the ketra scrambled to press bandages over it, while the ektus crushed some leaves into a disinfecting paste.
Tharr laid the machete down carefully and stared at the fleshy core in his hand. It did not look like any sort of plant he had seen before; it actually pulsed, like a heart, and seemed to bleed. He carefully laid it down in a thick piece of nearby cloth and wrapped it up before washing it off his hands.
The mothryn's breathing eased, and the ektus looked at Tharr, impressed. "A maneuver worthy of a Deathblossom hunter." The ketra nodded in agreement. "Should you wish to pass up to Spire, or to mark yourself as one of us, simply speak the password: 'the bee flies far, but always returns home.' You shall receive aid from those who know those words, and in return, we ask you give aid to them, fierce hunter of flowers."
That description seemed somewhat absurd, but it was meant in all sincerity here. It seemed to Tharr a small thing, but his impromptu surgery had clearly left a mark. The two gardeners promised to take care of the mothryn, and Tharr decided they were in good hands.
Heart of the Storm—Atus
Atus' body stiffened and thrummed in response, the lightning speaking through him again.
"Oh rhyming spark of future storm,
The shattered sky has not been born.
Your origin you say you seek;
Pray choose one, your soul too weak.
That which birthed you, with lightning true;
Or that which looms; the Tyrant's Bloom.
Past or future, there is only one;
Which answer would you see be done?"
A choice; the storm knew something about Atus' past, or at least claimed to. How, he did not know. But she also knew something about the Bloom, which did not surprise him. But the storm would not answer questions about both, unless he was very clever in his asking.
Aster's Scar—Tolliver
Tolliver's rival growled. "You aren't seriously considering another offer?"
The tzelicrae shrugged. "What can I sssay? I am an oportunissst. My friend here has offered me a great quantity of greater squirrel-meat. The quantity impressssessss, but not the ssstyle. My crew and I are more partial to unique tasssstesss. What do you have that we have never tassssted before?"