Literature
Thereat the trunk breath'd hard, and the wind soon
Chang'd into sounds articulate like these;
"Briefly ye shall be answer'd. When departs
The fierce soul from the body, by itself
Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf
By Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls,
No place assign'd, but wheresoever chance
Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt,
It rises to a sapling, growing thence
A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves
Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain
A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come
For our own spoils, yet not so that with them
We may again be clad; for what a man
Takes from himself it is not just he have.
Chang'd into sounds articulate like these;
"Briefly ye shall be answer'd. When departs
The fierce soul from the body, by itself
Thence torn asunder, to the seventh gulf
By Minos doom'd, into the wood it falls,
No place assign'd, but wheresoever chance
Hurls it, there sprouting, as a grain of spelt,
It rises to a sapling, growing thence
A savage plant. The Harpies, on its leaves
Then feeding, cause both pain and for the pain
A vent to grief. We, as the rest, shall come
For our own spoils, yet not so that with them
We may again be clad; for what a man
Takes from himself it is not just he have.
—The Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto XIII
[on the song of the nesting birds] That is the sound of my revenge, Ombbo! You will hear it, morning to night. And I may send you a plague of bark beetles to feed the birds and keep you constantly itchful.
—Masquelayne, The Friends of Masquelayne the Incomparable
Old habits of stillness, solitude, silence pervaded his bones, freed his mind from language. He drew green into himself, sharp, stubby needles, smooth waxy garnet, tough branch and trunk that clung close to earth and weathered the worst of winter. He drew its smell into his skin, let the needles prickle through his thoughts, his eyes, until he felt himself rooted to the harsh land around him, so deeply that he could have tapped its hidden waters while he stretched his thousand windblown fingers out for light.
—Od Magic, by Patricia A. MacKillip
Radio
Reston: Look at it. That's a... hand.
Davros: ...Vander's hand. That's his ID tag. This used to be Vander. Incredible. The infection must have acted with astonishing speed, he... he's almost completely transformed! Roots and spines — this is a plant!
Tabletop Games
Claimed at last, the Seers' feet took root as their faces hardened into bark. Their arms split and twisted into gnarled branches, each finger hung with ripening Nurgling fruit. The Seers of Lugganath remain there still, a copse of wailing trees that brighten Nurgle's leisurely walks and strike a note of despair into the heart of Isha, his immortal captive.
Such is the fate of those who enter uninvited into the heartlands of Nurgle, for even the generosity of Grandfather Plague has its limits.
— Warhammer 40,000: Codex — Chaos Daemons
Video Games
You find a small tree that closely resembles the great Warlock, Brimstone, with a ring around one of its twigs. Scraps of clothing and rotting leather lead you to suspect that it IS Brimstone, transformed. Since you can't help him, you take the magic ring.
—Obtaining the Ring of Conjuring, Heroes of Might and Magic III
Henderson said words older than continents and Jack felt himself change.
"You've defiled my farm, boy. You've spilt your seed where only mine should grow. Now you'll reap what should have grown."
Terrific pain and Jack felt the bones of his skull split, felt a heat where his eyes should be. He ran east, to the river and looked down at his face, only to see a Jack-O-Lantern where once had been flesh and face. Jack-of-the-Field. Gourdheart. Lord of the Patch.
—The Buzzing, The Secret World
As you haul the Vagabond back to your engine, his broken fingers lengthen; his legs collapse in a tangle of pallid tendrils. He writhes, briefly, until his limbs petrify.
By the time you reach the engine, his right arm is a creaking branch. Below the waist, he is a trunk of white wood, ending in a snarl of twitching roots. Your crew stare in revulsion.
At your urging, they carry him to his quarters and stand him up on his roots. You can only see the whites of his eyes; small, keening noises escape between his lips. He claws at the bark of his branch-arm as though hoping to find flesh beneath.
By the time you reach the engine, his right arm is a creaking branch. Below the waist, he is a trunk of white wood, ending in a snarl of twitching roots. Your crew stare in revulsion.
At your urging, they carry him to his quarters and stand him up on his roots. You can only see the whites of his eyes; small, keening noises escape between his lips. He claws at the bark of his branch-arm as though hoping to find flesh beneath.
I remember when I first woke up here, in the garden.
I was so scared.
I couldn't feel my arms or my legs.
My entire body had turned into a flower!
"Mom! Dad! Somebody help me!" I called out.
But nobody came.
— Flowey, Undertale
Webcomics
"For thy valiant concern o'er hunger, I grant thee a power. The power to tend to the hunger of others. Eternally."
— God Empress Nadia Om, turning a critic into a fruit tree, Kill Six Billion Demons
Western Animation
"I turned myself into a pickle, Morty! BOOM! Big reveal, I'm a pickle. Whadaya think about that? I TURNED MYSELF INTO A PICKLE!"
— Rick, Rick and Morty
