Lichblossom

"You look deathly pale, George, what happened to you?"
"Those blasted flowers. We needed them for the dying, but they... I can hear them still..."

— George and his wife

 

Enter into Death

  In the shadowed groves where no sunlight enjoys lingering and the soil remembers every corpse interred within its grasp, the lichblossom thrives. It is a flower of death, and perhaps of what lies beyond it. Each petal, pale as a bleached bone and streaked with dark veins, unfolds like a skeletal hand beckoning the unwary closer. The center of the blossom is a hollow, inky black, so deep it seems to devour the light that dares fall upon it.   These flowers are not born of nature but of necromantic energies, seeping from old battlefields, forgotten crypts, and sites of dark rituals. Where the veil between the living and the dead grows thin, the lichblossom roots itself, feeding on the lingering grief and decay in the soil. Its stems, thin and fragile-looking, pulse faintly with an eerie light, as if carrying the remnants of lost souls through its veins.   Legends whisper that a lichblossom blooms where a soul has failed to find rest, its growth marking a tether between this world and the next. Those who dare pluck a bloom often find themselves haunted; first by dreams of the dead, then by voices in the dark, and finally by shadowy shapes at the edge of their vision. For the lichblossom does not die when severed. Its roots remain, seeking a new vessel for the burden it bears.  

Interred for Life

  Alchemists and necromancers prize the lichblossom for its potent properties. Its petals, ground into a powder, are said to heighten necromantic spells, while the nectar from its core can preserve a dying spark of life in the gravest of wounds; though not without cost. Some claim that prolonged use draws one closer to the realm of the dead, irrevocably.   The flower is not wholly malign. In the hands of an experienced healer, the lichblossom's essence can soothe restless spirits or ease the pain of the dying. In this way, the flower serves as both a harbinger and a guide; its purpose dictated by the intent of the one who wields it.   Few dare to linger long in its presence, for the air around it is heavy and still, as if the world itself pauses to honour what passed for such a flower to bloom. In truth, no one knows if such a thing is a gift or a curse, but all agree it is something to respect upon sight.