“In the depths of the forest to the west they call Labyrinth, there grows a rare, prized flower. A flower that blooms only on the eves of march. It blossoms only for a moment, in a flower’s terms. A single night hence, and it withers away in the wind.  The flower is a beautiful cerulean blue, with five gossamer petals the shape of tears. At night, it glows, and turns the fields on which it lays into a river of soft light.    The flower grows on an unremarkable vine. It is remarkably unresilient, it requires a certain humor, a certain warmth, a certain spirit in the waters, and a certain rockiness in the ground. If one takes a sprout of it, and plants it on another land, it will refuse to grow. Such a flower is surely magical. After all, there is magic in rarity, magic in unattainability. Like the way gold is expensive because of its rarity. Like the way one swoons on a girl who is above one’s status. Like why people chase after their dreams. There is magic in this flower, that is why this flower is not named, for naming such a thing will slowly drain away its magic. That is why this flower is only spoken of in whispers, amongst wizards and learned men; for too many knowing of it will slowly but surely drain away its magic.  That is why this flower is capable of many things. Used in the right way, by the right person, it could even grant one’s deepest, most earnest wish.”