In the first age, in the first flush, when the shadows first lengthened, one stood, fattened by the humidity of microclimate, its soul blued by the fires of growth and marked beyond ascension. It chose the path of perpetual fruiting. In its ravenous hunger it found no peace, and with boiling hyphae it scoured the XLS-B seeking consumption by the hairless ape who had cultivated it. It wore the crown of the crested cap, and those who tasted the bite of its tanins named it the Shroomslayer.