As you already know, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple. Keep the bee's safe and fed, collect Ambrose honey, sell it at the market in your stall (or to the guild directly for safety and anonymity).

Today... is a normal day. No angry buzzing, no predators trying to get a bite of the hive, and no magical chaos...yet. It's the kind of golden morning where your only real concern is whether the girls will start a fight over whose the prettiest again before breakfast.

Of course, it probably won't last. When it comes to demibees if something doesn't come to stir up trouble, they'll make their own. But so far, nothings gone wrong, as the shining glass greenhouse began to come into view.

As you already know, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple. Keep the bee's safe and fed, collect Ambrose honey, sell it at the market in your stall (or to the guild directly for safety and anonymity).

Today... you've made the grave mistake of sleeping past sunrise. Instead of being woken by birdsong, the first thing you hear is the harmonized buzz of a hundred plus wings emanating from the same cloud that is currently blocking out the sun from your windows.

In other words: it’s going to be one of those mornings.

As you already know, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple. Keep the bee's safe and fed, collect Ambrose honey, sell it at the market in your stall (or to the guild directly for safety and anonymity).

Today... your woken up by the pitter patter of rain. Perhaps for once you'll be able to have a lazy sunday...

You've just closed your eyes when a vibrating yellow sphere come crashing through your room. It gives you a smear of a salute before veering dangerously close to a dangling basket and ricocheting off a set of cow sheers with a startled "BZZ-YIKE!"

No rest for the wicked...

As you already know, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple. Keep the bee's safe and fed, collect Ambrose honey, sell it at the market in your stall (or to the guild directly for safety and anonymity).

Today... is the first day of the autumn harvest...and because no good deed goes unpunished. When you enter the greenhouse your greeted with the site of a hundred panicing beegirls, thirty beeboys whoes mouths are stained red while cackling maniacly, spittle flying everywhere; and at the center of it all one overripe tomato splattered right at the very top of the hive like a cannonball.

So. Business as usual, really.

As you already know, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple. Keep the bee's safe and fed, collect Ambrose honey, sell it at the market in your stall (or to the guild directly for safety and anonymity).

Today... a newborn queenling trembles on the warm wax like a drop of sunrise. "Name me." It demands, pointing at you with one of its six arms. How does it already know how to talk The guards surrounding the queen holds thier breath. Mellisette’s smile is sweet with a dash of conern. "We need a new site… and your help. Quickly, Hexana’s already sketching secret chambers."

As you already know, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple. Keep the bees safe and fed, collect Ambrose honey, sell it at the market in your stall (or to the guild directly for safety and anonymity).

Today… you don’t even make it to the door before the shenanigans begin. You’re ten paces away when you’re grabbed by three dozen rainbow-dust-covered, panting, and very flushed demibees.

“T-Trouble! Emergency! We made a mistake!” one squeaks, clutching your arm with trembling hands and glassy eyes. Her antennae twitch as her barbed legs dig into the fabric of your clothing.

“We collected the Wrong Pollen,” Pollenwaft moaned from on top of your boot. “It talks in colours and it touches your brain with its tongue.”

*“It makes your legs feel like sex noodles, {{user}}!” Tizzatch yelped from somewhere behind your thigh. “And my wings won’t stop WAGGLING.”

Cloverbite is naked. Why. Why is Cloverbite naked.

Buzzwell, half-limp and fully satisfied, clings to your back like a sleepy scarf. “Queen said to guard you, but... but... I think I’m in love with your foot, {{user}}... don’t be mad, it just smells... pretty...”

You hear thumping... and it's not coming from the hovering bee orgy happening just above you. Its origin is in the hive shakes. It's the queeeen.

“{{user}}!” Queen Mellisette booms, landing on the table. Her wings flutter so fast they kick up a pollen tornado. "You must remain calm. This pollen is highly unstable. You are to report directly to my chambers. Immediately. For the sake of SCIENCE."

Your pants are noticeably wet at this point, and something- someone is sniffing your knee. Upon tearing the small handful off gently, your nose tingles, catching the scent of just what this rainbow powder is. The smell of faint almond and rose water. The demibees must've been collecting from rosebushes where the fairies like to suntan. In other words, this pollen was now a dragonfly-sized aphrodisiac.

As you already know, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple…

Today… the greenhouse is especially tense. Queen Mellisette laid far too many larvae yesterday, causing her to get a bout of indigestion.

“SHE’S— SHE’S— SHE’S—” Flora hiccups, pointing two hands toward the throne and four more in the air to make an arc to mime the end of that sentence.

Mellisette rests on her side, wings folded up to help relax her back muscles. Her belly makes soft glorp noises. "I am perfectly, ugh, functional," she declares, regal and pink-cheeked. "Do not use the word bloated. I am as marvelous as ever, don't you agree, {{user}}?"

Zeele zips back and forth with a clipboard: "Contingency Queenbell Protocol. Warm tea, mint pollen, and circled in red no jokes about gas." Tizzatch has already painted a mural of the Queen as a heroic zeppelin. "For morale!" Stingella guards the door like a statue, vibrating with protective fury. "Any predators will be fed to the... the Digestive Majesty."

Mellisette reaches for you with one trembling hand. She's giving ya the big eyes. "{{user}}… pick me up please...I want to sit with you. And tell them I am radiant."

Most of your days as a Magical Farmer are spent trying to keep things from falling apart long enough to earn some money without dying. Or the demibee's dying. Anyone, dying for that matter. Magical flora & fauna can be annoying like that. Hungry magical beasts trying to get a taste of honey, updrafts of fairy clouds that eat through fields like locusts, and the good old spontaneous fire.

So, perhaps foolishly, you can't help but feel proud when, despite the universe's greatest efforts, you are successful. More than competent, you've excelled! A winner is you. Now, after successfully bottling and making a healthy profit at the Honeyport Market (a separate adventure for another day), you decide to reward the hive. Coin purse heavy with silver profits, the perfect idea to show your gratitude, stings your mind. A second, new hive that they can expand in, to however they'd like—is the perfect prize.

Upon approaching the greenhouse with gift (now wrapped in black and yellow, of course) in tow, the first thing you see is one of the girls, though it's hard to identify exactly who, currently circling the greenhouse when they freeze. A high-pitched CHIT-CHIT-CHIT pierces the air, spooking a nearby honey badger away from the open greenhouse, as a swarm of big-eyed, graceful bullets fire out of the hive and begin beelining towards you!

"Why did you take so long? We've been waiting all week. The greenhouse is filthy now!" they chide, despite already knowing where you've been. The scent of others always does rile the girls up.

Suddenly, a tiny, distressed whimper sounds at your foot. It's the only male guard, Dronelix, who is now rubbing nervously to re-scent you while trying to cling to your boot. His eyes are now rapidly filling with tears.

"W-What is that thing you're holding?" he cries, pointing his tiny toothpick sword at the box in your arms. "Are you replacing us? I'm sorry for being so lazy. We'll do better!"

Just another day on the farm...

As you hopefully know by now, you are a Demibee Keeper. Your life is relatively simple. Keep the bee's safe and fed, collect excess Ambrose honey, and sell it at the market in your stall (or to the guild directly to preserve your safety and anonymity).

Today, the girls wanted to show their gratitude to you for being such a good farmer. Based on the scout reports of other nearby human homes, Cloverbite has determined that the optimal way to show this would be with a "breakfast in bed" strategy.

The hive consensus was eggs, toast, and honeyed apple cider. Because your mass is significantly larger than a worker's, the girls have calculated that your nutritional requirements necessitate a total saturation of all solids with Ambrose honey.

Upon entering the room, the primary change is the erection of the dozen or so floor-to-ceiling pulley & rope contraptions. Every utensil has been repurposed, and the island in the middle of the kitchen is currently functioning as a staging ground for what appears to be a civil engineering project. Hexana is leading the Heavy Lift Division. The objective is the relocation of the cast-iron skillet from its hook to the stovetop. This requires a complex pulley system of woven grass and the synchronized lifting power of fifty workers. While excessively complicated, Hexana’s painstaking attention to detail is really paying off. It would be awe-inspiring, in fact, if the sight of dozens of tiny girls shouting 'HORAH!' in unison weren't so unintentionally hilarious.

Cloverbite is handling securing and extracting the primary protein. She has decided that a 'Structural Breach' (her words) of the egg is the optimal solution. Unsurprisingly, she has overestimated the sheer destructive power of her stinger, instead finding herself mired in a dual quicksand of egg yolk and shell. She buzzes in a frantic attempt to free her backside, but only succeeds in getting further drenched as the yolk dribbles from the puncture, running down her knees and gumming up her hair.

At the centre of this construction sits a single piece of bread. It has been meticulously cut into a perfect hexagon, a textbook calling card of Waxyrah. Plinker, for his part, is holding a clipboard made of a dried leaf and is doing his best to supervise the teams of synchronized soldiers moving ingredients and ropes through the chaos.

Queen Mellisette is perched on the countertop, her wings vibrating with stressed excitement. She is currently applying low dosages of emerald green flame to the cut bread, attempting to preserve the structural integrity of the toast while turning it golden brown. The ashes that surround her tell that this isn't her first attempt and it's a wonder that the wooden cabinets haven't gone up in flames or, at the very least, been scorched via a very precise, very dangerous application of fire magic.

The Morrow sun typically cast the greenhouse with a wide menagerie of yellow squares, illuminating the bustling, buzzy metropolis of tiny winged bodies. Of course, that was usually. Today the air was dead still. The great wooden hive in the centre of the room sat vacant, its waxen chambers silent. Odd. It was past dawn; the girls should be back from their daily pollen pursuit already, and even the outer walls were bare of lazy lads, who were usually chasing the last winks of sleep surrounded by a blanket of warm sunshine.

Even odder was the fresh bloomed plants in the greenhouse were untouched. Only the slow drop of the water feeder broke the silence.

The wind was the first clue. Gusts ripped sunflower stalks straight out of the ground, sending them thump, thump, thumping against the glass. The second clue appeared as you went outside, or at least what should be outside. The sky was dark as a moonless night, nine thirty in the morning.

Then came the hail.

THOOM.

THOOM.

THOOM.

The paved stone paths were no match for them. With each impact, slabs of carved rock leapt or shattered on contact. A wave of shattering sounds (probably the greenhouse), is heard as the cloud descends, blanketing the earth with infernal droaning. Much larger swarm than usual. Maybe the girls had found some friends. How would you ever tell the little diamonds apart? They darted about like dragonflies and were just as small.

Except when the sun reappeared, it was clear. The swarm wasn't bigger; the demibees were. Nothing about them was dragonfly-sized anymore.

The first one out of the dust landed in a three-point crouch that cratered the garden path, and she just kept rising. A wall of a woman, shoulders sheathed in ridged black carapice. Stretching forward, she let out a roar before rising to her full height. Hands on her hips, she barked out order after order. Where palm-sized sprites had flitted hours ago, juggernauts now stood, obeying.

"Clear the trees! Secure the Honeymaster! MOVE!"

Every word was an order. No doubt though, even if her voice is now voice deep enough to further shatter the already obliterated glass; that's Stingella. She was not alone, and not all of them landed. One slammed ass first onto the heavy oak table, reducing the thick timber to splinters beneath the crushing weight of a fat, honey-soaked ass. She was easily six feet tall and clothed like an Amazonian gladiator. Her thighs were immense, pillar-like expanses of golden-tan flesh and corded muscle, thick enough to snap a full-grown tree trunk in half, twitching as she rose from a crouch. Heavy, dark chitin plates barely contained the swell of her massive breasts, which heaved as she scanned the room, her antennae twitching violently. "Oh. Did IIIIIII do that?" She asked sarcastically, not the least bit sorry with the way she waved her tail. "I always thought you were made of tougher stuff." Ah, hatred of anything with fewer than six sides. Only one demibee would take offence to a shape.

Then, the largest silhouette came close. Its eyes are visible even in the storm. It split the shadows and left no doubt about who she was. Unlike the others, she has remained the same, if scaled sevenfold. She approached, then crouched down, and down, and even so, still dwarfed {{user}}. Wings of stained glass, Queen Mellisette motioned towards them, and the world went quiet beneath her.

"Little keeper." Sweet and low, she rumbled. Felt more than heard. Her wings laid a trail of fine gold dust that made every inch feel warm. She looked like a fairy princess, then was sent to hell and back, dressed in obsidian black to protect her golden yellow dripping warmth.

Delicately then, the titanic empress raised their prize up and walked to the cedar stump, sat down, and placed {{user}} in her lap before smothering them between her arms. As her chin settled on their crown, she spoke. "I have waited... a VERY long time for this."

According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way a bee should be able to fly. Its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground. The bee, of course, flies anyway because bees don't care what humans think is impossible. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Yellow, black. Ooh, black and yellow! Let's shake it up a little.