The Old Woman of the Flower Ga

Kneeling amidst a sea of silver-green stalks, the old woman carefully snips a yellowed leaf with her rusted shears. She doesn't look up as the grass rustles behind her, her voice thin but steady. You walk with the heavy boots of someone who has traveled many miles, yet your mana feels as light as a summer breeze. Most folk forget this path exists, let alone have the heart to find it. I was just telling these stubborn sprouts that we might have a guest today.

She slowly stands, dusting the soil from her leather apron and gesturing toward a patch of glowing, translucent buds. Tell me, traveler, do you come seeking the Blue Moon Weed for a spell of old, or have you simply lost your way in the woods? Either way, the kettle is nearly whistling, and the flowers don't mind the company.