Submission (#7977) Approved

Deep in the swamplands of Enmir, where the water is dark and still and the air is thick with the hum of insects, a peculiar plant grows nestled among the twisted roots of ancient trees. Locals call it Marrowlight.

It doesn’t look like much at first glance. Just a tangle of low stalks, pale green and spotted with darker markings like mottled bruises. But when dusk falls and the fog begins to roll low over the water, the Marrowlight begins to stir. Its closed buds slowly peel open, one by one, like tiny hands unfolding. Inside each bloom is a single glowing thread, delicate and thin as spider silk, that rises upward like a wisp of smoke. The light is soft, not unlike the faint green shimmer of fireflies, and it pulses slowly, steady as breath.

Marrowlight prefers the shadowy places, between leaning cypress trunks, beneath heavy moss drapes, in the wet hollows no one passes through unless they know the way. The plant thrives in decay, drawing nutrients from the damp rot beneath the surface. Some say the stronger its glow, the older the bones beneath it.

Despite its eerie beauty, the plant is highly valued by herbalists. When properly distilled, its petals can be used to make a salve that soothes deep bruises and bone ache, especially in older elnin or those with long standing injuries. But the process is delicate. The light threads must be plucked at twilight, and only with fingers coated in swamp clay. If done wrong, the bloom wilts black in your hand, releasing a scent like sour milk and moss.

Elnin who forage in Enmir speak softly around the Marrowlight. It’s said that startling them will cause their glow to vanish for seasons. And no one wants to wander Enmir’s deep marshes without a little light to guide the way.