This massive package of desiccated, possibly sentient leaves from beyond the gulfs of space itself was harvested by priest-kings waiting for the day when the powers that covered their planet in the noxious weed will return. Here in my hands, the very flesh of the Old Ones quivers with anticipation for the day when it will be set free to consume all this pathetic world.
Even at the rapid rate my spawn drink the green ichor, the gargantuan bag will last at least a year.
As I partake of what was promised to be a fountain of health and vitality, my skin crawls with delicious dread at the memory of the pungent horror that is surely watching me behind its mycelium prison. Dare I place a value upon just one discolored sliver from a plant that crawls through the mineral soil of an alien dimension, filled with monstrous creatures and predatory gods? And yet, bafflingly, I am in possession of one pound of the terrible plant material.
The elixir made from boiling nettle leaves has been a very effective treatment for hay fever, which is no doubt a hallucination brought on by an ancient streak of hereditary insanity on both sides of my accursed bloodline.
