Nature; a harsh mistress. Plant life dominates the face of Earth more than humans by far. They can withstand more cold, more heat, more drought, even more pollution than we can. Where humans fear to tread, there you find plants living in ease. We cut and we burn and we uproot, trying to carve out a small portion for ourselves, yet for all our machinations, as soon as we leave nature reclaims what one belonged to it, at a clip more rapid than we would ever believe manageable.
Harsh, but fair. Unlike humans, nature does not attack without reason, and in fact rarely attacks at all. It defends that which it has, cedes defeat if pressured, and slowly inches forwards if uncontested and left to itself; a humble and reasonable path for any living thing. Human discomfort at the hands of nature is largely of their own design, their own short-sighted folly, as they run headlong into thorn bushes and foolishly consume poisons. Plants are mindless, reactionary; they strive for no pleasures or power or revenge, and cannot comprehend any of them. The goal of humans is to live; the goal of plants is simply to survive.
But give a plant a brain…
Give a plant a soul…
A jungle, deep and thick, rests on the edge of civilization, and past it. Here, if anywhere in the world, lies those plants that do attack first. Barbed stranglers that seek out the warmth of flesh; poisonous maws of fiber and leaf that bite and chew and swallow. An old forest with old magic, and old plants with old hatred. Plants that know. Plants that know of the constant meddling of humans; plants that can remember the increasing frequency of their visits, and the inevitable scars they leave behind. Plants that desire revenge against their tormentors.
Those of middling years spurn hope. They have seen too much of the human’s strength, and too little of their own in this day and age. They curl up and try to find a small unclaimed patch of sun where none will find them.
The new sprouts and the youthful saplings burn with hate and swell with hope. Committed to make their cause heard when they have no voices to speak it, they will grasp for any stray vine of possibility given them. They will creep out of their jungle and crumble the mortar of the human habitations. They will drink the life out of the human intruders and step into their forms, fighting fire with fire, and beating the humans at their own war.
The verdant lords, however, know the preciousness of patience. They know that humans are flighty; a short-lived race. Though their machines and their magics are strong, they themselves are weak. Nature is strong, and old, and patient. Nature has outlasted many perils, and nature will outlast humans.