I'll keep this short, and hopefully sweet
For you've places to go, and people to meet.

For the light begins to fade from the sky,
And the tears of their mothers have yet to dry.

The plain is going dark and the grass begins to feed,
Saturated with blood rich with nutrients for the weeds.

A place where armies came to tramp and stamp their show,
A plain so often fought upon, where flowers dared not grow.

But on this dey they fought a fight, despite their general's plan.
Where five armies of valiant souls where slain to the very last man.

Five armies of mortalkind, of man and dwarf alike,
Five armies of mortalkind that set aside their strife.

Five armies of mortalkind who fought with all they had,
Five armies of mortalkind, slain to the very last lad.

Five armies of mortalkind, wielding sword and magic and bow,
Five armies, each laid to rest where the flowers dared not grow.

Things of shadow, creatures of night, evil and ruthless and cruel,
Creatures that feared not steel nor flame, under a tyrant's rule.

Shadows that laid siege to every village late at night
Stealing children and killing families with no sign of a fight.

Shadows that five great armies challenged on the plain they knew so well.
Shadows that, upon that plain, watched every man who fell.

Hereupon this plain the creatures bested their great foe,
Yet not one shadow lies fallen, where the flowers dared not grow.

Light shines o'er the mountaintops, sunbeams warm the dew,
The shadows flee the rising sun as the day begins anew.

The creatures disappear in droves, making haste towards the trees,
Yet a single one repains, dropping slowly to its knees.

In the center of the field, swaying as the wind blows,
It tilts its head and stares, curious, at a single alabaster rose.

This purest rose, it was, in fact, the creature did somehow know,
A miracle, Unique, Inspired, the flower that dared to grow.

At its core it felt a spark, of what? It was not sure.
Grief, Remorse or Conscience brought on by a sight so pure.

It turned to see the last of what it considered its kin
Disappear into the trees, not to be seen again.

Their job was done, this it knew, but this one did not care,
It had to know, it had to feel, more of this spark so rare.

And so it turned, now towards the light, and towards it, it did go.
And that is all we know of the flower that dared to grow.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Valnuary, in the year 713 AF.