Fire Potatoes are a particularly valuable vegetable, but must be cultivated meticulously. Many careless gardeners have had their gardens set ablaze by poorly tended Fire Potatoes.

The most important thing is to make sure the soil around Fire Potatoes is always wet. Even a briefly parched Fire Potato can combust.

Toura stared at the soil, then up at the sky. He turned to a villager who was foraging. “When will it soften?”

“In spring.” 

Toura grumbled something in his language and turned toward his house. Still wasn’t used to the forest winters. 

He heard the villager trying not to laugh. 

Night shift sucked.

Goro sighed and punched in. At least the boss wasn’t around. He opened the janitorial closet where his well-stocked cart waited. Goro pushed it down the corridor to the first corner.

Another exasperated sigh. A six foot pile of dragon shite soiled the hall.

Night shift sucked.

Gwendy loved to dig. Her powerful claws shredded through bedrock as if it were freshly-fallen snow. After only a few minutes, Gwendy had transformed an acre of permafrost into soft, loamy soil. She pulled herself up onto the surface, maw agape to receive her payment: the farmer’s prized, blue-ribbon hog.

Our toes curled through the moist, loamy soil as we stood tall. We dragged our fingers beneath our nose, smelling the earthy decay that coated them. For millenia we lay buried, rotting beneath homes and roads. Lonely, forgotten.

But now, mankind will finally face damnation for their crimes against us.

The soil in Khed no longer supported life. A thousand years ago, the gods scoured the land, tainted its waters and struck down the city. Those who survived were scattered and cursed to wander forever. Their red hair and freckles marked them as wytch-touched and not to be trusted.

The fog clang to her. She glided effortlessly through the moonlight and slipped through the space between the boards. The soil beneath muffled her movements. Once fully outside, Sora released the breath she had been holding, espionage was not her preference. She lit the fuse; this was gonna be fun.

EDIT: bolded “soil” for reference.

The moist soil, the pouring rain, the clicking teeth. Pressing herself against her mother, searching for warmth, Hana thought about that traveler. The only thing that kept her warm was the cloak he gave her. “But why?” she though. “He didn’t have anything else to keep him warm with anymore."

If they only knew. Her surroundings were alive with sound, taste and movement, and she was master of it all. The worm digging through the soil, bits of food on the table, the blood coursing through their bodies. All susceptible to her command.

"Witch", they'd say.

If they only knew.

Elizabeth frowned as she tested he soil. Sure enough, it was packed down a long, broad trail. The other mice hadn't noticed--it was almost invisible, unless you knew what to look for. She needed to keep it that way. She looked at Lazarus, and flashed a single sign:

Snake

Aren slipped off his shoes and placed a hand on his injured companion. Magic channeled from the ground, up, and through him. This type of healing spell couldn’t be cast in the paved cities. As the plants know, life comes from the soil. The open flesh stitched itself back together.

Eled got no special treatment arriving at the House of Prudence. Stepping off the cart, he was shoved; his next step ended with his mouth in the mud. He thanked the day’s rain—mud was kinder than dry soil on the face. He was led through corridors and a darker future.

I’d already burned my coffin. The last thing to do was throw out the soil. One last box of it left from my homeland. I couldn’t cross an ocean without facing the sun. My sins must end; enough lives have fed my own. I tipped the soil into the river.

Roscia remembered Androco as a deeply calloused, bent-over son of the soil. So it was a bit of a surprise to encounter this elegant, graceful maiden. "Did a favor for a wizard" the smooth-skinned young lady explained.

The authorities thought the magic was in the soil, not the beans. No amount of shouting by Jack’s mother could change their minds.

Their property was to be compulsorily acquired.

Jack supposed it didn’t matter. They were rich. And in Jack’s pocket was a lump; the last little troublemaking bean.

"Did you not check the soil, you imbeciles!?" The Wizard's tirade only just starting. A frustrated rant looming on the horizon like an uncomfortable storm.

"Check this, check that!" Said the Fighter. The trap had them all dangling helplessly from the ceiling. Their arms wrapped tightly in an unwelcome hug.

-=-=-
I didn't have enough words for the context or the scenario I wanted to portray. Always a fun challenge though.

Judith felt the soil through her fingers, seeking the magical potential in it; there was something but she didn’t know.

Earth essence? No, too flowing.

Soil power? No, too, something.

Alive.

She tried to think what life could be in bare soil.

And then the magic fungi burst forth.

When they said the town was overrun, he didn't think they meant the whole damn thing.

"Gonna have to forgive me for this, Big Man," the cowboy said, face to the sky.

The zed filled church had burned rather quickly, nothing left but a patch of blackened soil now.

We bound them to our soil without a thought of cost.

Rock by rock, they ground mountains for ore we needed not.

Mighty rivers diverted, they relentlessly tilled our fields.

For in the end, it was we who were the crop.

(Edit: fixed repeated soil, replaced with fields.)

The soil sang as the garden sprung to life by the druid's magic. Sweat dripped down from their forehead, creating months worth of harvest was no easy task.

"You know I'll get you for this eventually...Master." Kylora groused as she scrubbed Sir Ceran's soiled boots. The other knights surrounding them, with their busywork and watchful eyes, shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably.

Sir Ceran grinned. "My squire, when that day comes, I'll figure it out as always."

• Please, sire, I beg you!
  
• I shall soil these seas from this port, ere Africa herself be reached!
  
• Lets go home. You shall sail your bathroom and dock in the port of Oreiller et Pyjama.
  
• Blasphemy! I shant soil to France! That French cheese was spoiled, and so got I.

Wrant wrapped Tem in a tight hug. A tear slipped from his eye, down his cheek and onto her back as he murmured his affections into her hair. Pulling himself away he gazed into her eyes, before his feet left the soil of his hometown and landed in his stirrups.

My father locked his iron gaze upon me, but I was ready. “Did you soil yourself, son?”

“No father, I did not.”

I lied through my tooth. There wasn’t a scratch on me, despite our contraption lying in pieces around me, but I was more than soiled. I was flooded.

Digging through the mired soil, she hit the sludge and slather of ashen clay, only to realize the tomb was not underneath. The stillness didn't sound alarms, only the cold steel at her neck.

"What a pity." He softly soothed. "I don't enjoy blood and rain."

“Just stay calm, we’re almost there!” Karos yelled. He and his partner continued to dig furiously, precious seconds ticking away with each stroke.

The metal shovel blade finally hit stone with a solid thump, and Karo looked down to see the face of the coffin protruding from the disturbed soil.

Contemplating the stable yard's frozen soil, Isador brushed a glob of sodden leaves from his sleeve. Rue shook her head, dropping another batch of wilted, yellowed, sopping wet foliage from her bridle.

"Sorry, mare. Fresh greenery for the winter ceremony, eh? Let's plan a very interesting situation for Dumont's...help."

Horace held back a retch at the sight, the smell of the undead. Damp soil still clung to their recently unearthed bodies, some skeletal, some covered in maggots. He pushed his revulsion as far down as it would go; to storm the castle, he needed an army.

This army.

As the party was breaking camp, Jordan spoke up "Folks, this forest is teeming with magic, so listen carefully. The first rule is no food touches the soil". Meanwhile, Darius carelessly dropped a cracker, which promptly vanished. Jordan comforted him: "Could've been worse. Last time the bread ate Brandon."

I begged for the grave to take me, and in that torrid silence, the soil spoke out:

"No. You are far too rotten."

Then it laughed—a mangled, twisted tongue—as the rain turned it to mud.

From the dark soil thick grass grew, now covered with leaves, flowers, or snow in each season, each layering above one another until the large trees with their long roots were the only ones to reach the magic hidden deep within.

It happened every year in the wet season. The rain slicked the soil and the yawning bogs opened up, releasing their hoards to the surface with a lingering stench of sulphur. Black peat ran off grinning ivory faces in rivulets, exposing the cohort of fallen men once more to sunlight.

((I actually had this scene in the back burner and the prompt gives it a chance to shine!))

“My father was a florist,” Kurt stated, crouching beside the flower bed and grabbing a fistful of soil. “What is this made of Iris?” “Earth?” “And?” The penny dropped, “Death…” He nodded, putting the soil back, “And that is why life will stop long before death does in this world.”

Pale hands dug through the loose soil of a freshly dug grave. The person attached to these hands was an equally pale elf. Confusion covered his face, his hands breached the surface, bringing cool night air. Scrambling out of the dirt, looking around, he runs naked into the night.

The soil beneath me burned as I journeyed barefoot across the barren land under the beating sun. I had been lost for two days, unable to channel magic for sustenance as there was no nature to pull from. It would not be long now and I had made my peace.

“My blood’s in the soil,” he labored to say in a hoarse whisper as the sounds of the battle grew closer.

“We honor you! Your sacrifi-“

“NO,” he barked at the fresh-faced recruit with manic impatience, “I’m ordained…say the rites…hallow these grounds…and…”. He wheezed, then was silent.

The soil, its real worth lost in their contrite minds as they continually harvest the nutrients out of it. Spacers don't care about our culture, our needs, our lives.

Yes, we will overcome these invasive insectual parasites and their massive soil sucking machines!

This is our story, of our survival.

The family trees of Corberd and Bourond and Fathilier were more akin to creeping vines in truth, and the higher you climbed up the trunk, the more intricate they became. Them and two score other houses, great and small, north and south, each with a seed in the other’s soil.