Plant Protein

Plant Protein is a pale green slab, roughly the size of a clenched fist, its surface matte and slightly porous, like a leaf pressed between pages and left to dry in the sun. Tiny embedded seeds glint when the light catches it, and the scent is a quiet mix of fresh greens and earth after rain. When you bite, it offers a compact bite of the harvest—dense, chewy, with a subtle snap of crunch as if you’re tasting the soil and the sun at once. The texture holds its story: firm enough to stay intact in a travel pack, yet yielding enough to dissolve into warmth when you simmer it in broth. Lore says it was pressed from the seeds of Moonseed vines tended by the orchard sisters who live in the valley’s oldest grove, where every harvest is read as augury. Traders tell a more practical tale: it’s a dried, plant-based staple that travels well, a ration for the road that can be traded for favors at dusk. In the field, Plant Protein becomes more than sustenance. For the rangers who track through bramble and mist, a single slab can refill a traveler’s stamina after a long dawn climb. Cooks swear by it, turning it into a sun-bright broth that breathes life into a weary party, or grinding it into a powder to thicken a green soup that tastes faintly of meadow and memory. It’s not glamorous, not flashy, but it’s resilient—the kind of ally that keeps the party moving when gold runs thin and the weather grows sharp. I’ve watched it redeem a misstep in a skirmish, where a cook’s quick stew, enriched with Plant Protein, steadied hands enough to mend a torn strap and finish the map’s last mile. It’s the quiet, steady thread through the world’s fabric, binding travelers and villagers with the same simple promise: you’ll be fed, you’ll endure. Markets at dawn are crowded, and the Saddlebag Exchange hums with the shuffle of leather, barter, and banter. The price flickers as traders push crates along wooden carts—two silver per slab in fair weather, copper if the drought lasts, whispers of a bulk discount when a caravan buys by the crate. I watched a barter end with a shared nod between a seasoned trader and a farmer, the crate changing hands like a vote in a small town. It’s a staple, yes, but it’s also a pact—between the grove that grew the seeds, the camp that keeps it alive, and the market that keeps the story moving. Plant Protein isn’t a legend around a campfire; it’s the steady drumbeat under every step, a small piece of green that powers a larger journey. Now, Plant Protein continues to travel with the next dawn’s caravan, tucked beside dried herbs and a folded map, a quiet green beacon that says the road itself is edible, that nourishment is a story we carry, shared and traded, until the grove speaks again. May the grove's patience feed many more journeys.