I bring you good tidings this month, Sapience.

You need not raid the storage closets of your elders in the hopes of finding pickled purple lemons. You need not wait season after season for a royal lemon tree to grow from preserved seeds, if you can manage to get one to take root at all.

For I am here now, and my children are here for you.

On the Island off the Northern Vashnars, there is a small orange tree that has been growing in privacy for the past year. The earth was fertilised with the hearts of freshly-slain mortals, and now its boughs drinks deep of the blood in my veins in lieu of water. I have nurtured it and tended its needs since it was a tiny seedling, and it is nearly ready to bear its fruit: tender, bloody oranges, made stronger by growing where nothing else may ever grow.

But I have a problem, Sapience. And that problem is Mhaldor.

They have decided to stall my progress and stunt the growth of the cure to the Mysian Rot by murdering me on-sight when I arrive to tend to it. I slink through the shadows when they look away, for a mother will not be kept away from her children in their time of need, but they are intent on stopping me. It is a small price to pay, but then, am I truly the wronged party here?

Or are you?

I kept the location of my tree an open secret to try and protect its nascent growth stages. But now, with Mhaldor determined to keep me away and warp the cure to meet their own ends, I think it's time for everyone to take a more active role in their own salvation.

My tree resides in the burning grasslands, in the northwestern-most patch of similarly named areas. If my children thirst, you may ORANGE WATER to slit your skin and let them drink deep. If they crawl with parasitic insects, you may ORANGE PEEL to remove said predators. And if you are a druid with a quarterstaff, you may ORANGE SUN to imbue it with the sunlight it needs to survive the fog. And if you are a pious creature, you may ORANGE PRAY to consecrate its growth with faith and prayer.

Swarm the Western isle, Sapience. Find my tree, and you will see for yourself that I speak the truth. And if Mhaldor comes to murder you for it, know that they continue to try and deny you your cure.

My children will save us all. May their blood run freely from our teeth, cure us of this Rot, and remain delicious all the while.


-The Mother of Oranges

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Ero, in the year 979 AF.