Ah, then listen well — no lute strings or rhymes tonight. Just a story, as it’s told by firelight at the Lucky Griffon, when the mugs are half-empty and the storm outside rattles the shutters. --- They call it **the Bombing of Kalteo**, though those who lived through it still mutter another name under their breath — _the Salad Siege._ It began quietly. No warnings, no letters of intent. Just a series of small explosions across the Sapphire District — cabbage carts, of all things, bursting into green fire and lightning. The first blast turned a merchant’s stall into a crater of compost. The second took out half a noble’s garden. By the third, people realised this wasn’t chance… someone had declared war. The culprits were a circle of druids who called themselves **the Savage Cabbage** — radicals who believed the city’s steel and smoke had “choked the breath from the earth.” They’d infused their vegetables with alchemical spores and druidic energy, turning humble produce into weapons of “natural correction.” Their goal wasn’t to kill, not exactly — it was to reclaim the city for nature. To make Kalteo bloom again, whether its citizens liked it or not. The city guard tried to intervene, but how do you fight plants? Every root they cut grew back thicker. Streets were overrun with moss and vines overnight. The air filled with pollen so heavy people sneezed spells into being. The Savage Cabbage’s leader, **Thorn Underleaf**, was the worst of them — half prophet, half lunatic. He preached that the cobblestones would one day crack and the forest would walk again. And for a moment, it almost did. He made his stand in an old brewery beneath the city, where ale once flowed but now only roots and stagnant water remained. There, he prepared something called the _Verdant Ascension_ — a ritual that would awaken every seed, spore, and sprig in Kalteo at once. A band of adventurers — names long forgotten, though some whisper it was Sordia Vignti themselves — found him there. They stopped him before the ritual could complete. The final explosion flooded the undercity with moss and steam, leaving the northern quarter smelling like stew for years after. To this day, when it rains in Kalteo, the scent of cabbage rises from the cobbles. Some call it a curse. Others say it’s the earth reminding the city what happens when you forget who fed you first. That, my friend, was the Bombing of Kalteo — when nature fought back, and won... just a little. --- Would you like me to make a **Quintin-style delivery** version — the one he’d tell behind the bar, with his dry humour and timing?