Scarlet Whisper

Scarlet Whisper, a name spoken with either a fond smile or a discreet cough depending on who's listening. It grows in chill, wind-bitten slopes where snowmelt drips slowly through rock crevices, its tiny roots drinking from trickling, mineral-rich streams. It is small, rarely rising higher than a handspan above the stone, and its unassuming appearance belies the intensity of its effects.   Its leaves resemble those of a young rose bush, rich green with a faint waxy sheen that catches morning light in delicate glimmers. Along its thin, reddish stems sprout minute blossoms of vivid carmine, barely the size of a fingernail. Their scent is faint but sweet, carried further than seems reasonable on cold air, often the first sign to hunters or travellers that Scarlet Whisper grows nearby. In the right light the petals seem to tremble, though no breeze need be present. This is not a trick of the wind but the plant itself, sensitive to warmth and touch.   Skin contact with its leaves or blossoms stirs a flush in the blood. It quickens the pulse, heightens sensitivity, and often induces a state of languid euphoria in which inhibitions melt away. Prolonged exposure may make the affected person delightfully distracted, as though every brush of fabric or breath of wind were something more. Those with magical aptitude have sometimes reported their senses "blending" briefly, as though touch and sound tangled together. Touching the leaves has no effect when they have been dried, but the effect can be revived by soaking the leaves in water.   When consumed - whether by chewing the blossoms, brewing them into a tisane, or mixing them with wine - the plant takes its mischief deeper. Within an hour, the drinker slips into vivid, tactile dreams: gardens of impossible colour, hands they cannot quite see, heat at the nape of the neck, whispers in languages that feel like kisses rather than words. In some rare cases these dreams are shared by more than one participant, especially if several consume from the same preparation. After waking, most feel either tender and calm, or tremulous and needy; both states can last hours.   The plant is rare not only because of its remote habitat but because it does not transplant well. Its roots seem to wither away when brought below the snowline, and attempts to cultivate it in gardens almost always fail after a single blooming. This makes Scarlet Whisper a favoured and jealously guarded treasure of certain mountain enclaves and scandalous salons in far-off cities.   Some smugglers call Scarlet Whisper "winter's little scandal" and carry pressed petals wrapped in silk. Alchemists prize it for how little is needed to provoke its full effect. The fae say the plant is a gift from Mag Mell, deliberately scattered upon the snow to see what mortals might do when night closes in and the fire burns low.