“Legend has it that once upon a time a small clan of sorcerers studied their esoteric magic far out of site from society on the eastern coasts of Centrium. A young person among them broke away from their traditional practices and began to take notes, research, and, putting ink to paper, began and, rather quickly, began expanding their clans ancient magic.”
“Rapidly their form surpassed each of their peers, then the adults, elders, and even those of legend from before their time. Taking a nacient wild magic form and reaching the territory of even exceptional druids. They learned to grow plants from barren soil and cull whole forests with a twist of the wrist but no matter how they tried his fellows couldn’t comprehend the techniques and form. It wouldn’t be long after their tenth birthday that the young person would leave his home behind and begin to wander the land seeking out new means to extend the powers they had acquired.”
“During this journey this scholarly sorcerer would come to discover that certain plants brought them a special excitement. With their vibrant colors, delicate forms, sometimes hidden murderous intent, but above all else simple beautiful for the sake of it. They fell in love with these flowers. Over the years, they would slowly forget the other plants and only think of flowers. Their power, unnoticed by them, sapping the life of all but the awe inspiring blooms and passing the energy within along to gorgeous blossoms.”
“They would learn to intertwine these plants of choice with themselves. Slowly over time, though no one knows how long it took, each limb, organ, even every hair follicle was replaced with one of their beloved flowers. Somehow unknowingly their humanity had been shed and their form changed. They simply realized one sunrise that they were different. They did not mind or ponder what that difference was. They simply continued wandering looking for the next beautiful flower.”
The old bartender coughs and drops the lofty tone he’d been using as he told his tale. “So the story goes at least” he announces to a rapt audiance before continuing “some say they are still out there. A sorcerer made of nothing but flowers that’ll steal your life by just being near.”
Another patron calls out over the crowd with a few drinks behind their voice “I heard they are out there still looking for some special flower” concluding with a snicker. “Indeed,” the bartender retorts. “That’s one version. Another is they lost their soul and are now just a wandering plant. Others say they are still trying to complete the spell their clan had been working on for all those generations. Still another says they are a god of flowers or the varient of that one that they are a counter balance to some cosmic evil plant.” The last few possibilities blanket the room in silence. Rumors of the destruction of Aldermoure remain unconfirmed but nonetheless word of a giant vine topped by a huge toothed flower have made their way around, even if preposterous and lacking witness testimony.
“Whatever you want to believe. Fact is, I’ve never heard a single first hand account of any of this. It’s all from my Greatgrandad or maybe it was my greatgreatgrandma. Point being it’s just an old tale and” he raises his voice before announcing “I’m sure it has nothing to do with these nonsense tales about Aldermoure.”
“They aren’t rumors” a feminine voice quivers. A slender woman sitting in the corner, seemingly uninterested in the stories of the old bartender till now, a drink in front of her, untouched. The bar sits frozen waiting until, after a long pause, she continues. “I don’t know about this Flower Sorcerer but Aldermoure is in ruin. The monstrous flower is real and the destruction it rought devastating.” Unsteadily, the figure stands, a shadow moving from behind the flaggon as she does. Her hands move, blocking view of the movement, and she cups her hands further hiding whatever it might have been from sight. Stumbling at first, she makes her way towards the door and, before stepping outside, she turns back, hands still cupped in front of her, and, facing the room of patrons announces “I only hope this Flower Sorcerer is real because if not the Flower of Madness may be the end of us all.”
They watch her figure pivot and hear the door slam shut behind her but none move as the words sink in. The fear of what migh come crawls up their spines like a vine climing the side of a building. Slowly but surely until it’s unable to dislodge. Some that night will drink in an attempt to wash away the woman’s words. Others will simply accept the solume proclamation. Whatever the patrons that evening did the next morning came with the arrival of the first refugees and tales of strange bark-carapase covered monstrousities, vines tipped in sharp barbs slashing at people, and other’s with eyes that brought those who looked into them to their knees. The horrors they’d seen were real each retelling the same tales. Some went farther, speaking of the massive toothed flower rising above the church’s steeple. While a few of the later arrivals spoke of heroes who faced the monstrousities and, maybe, succeeded in weakening it no one believed the horrors were over.
For those who sat in the pub that evening the woman’s words would come back to them time and again. “I only hope this Flower Sorcerer is real.”