Botanicals: Mortal Flora (buh · ta · nuh · klz / mor · tl flaw · ruh)

Classification

Mortal Flora forms the living body of Tir na nÓg. These are the trees, grasses, vines, mosses, and flowering beings whose presence weaves the very architecture of the land. They are not backdrop or resource—they are kin. They shelter, they nourish, they listen. And though they may appear ordinary to the untrained eye, there is no such thing as "common" flora here. Every blade of grass bends with awareness. Every seed holds a story. These plants thrive across every corner of the realm—from windswept cliffs to dew-heavy valleys, from shaded undergroves to sun-warmed meadows. They mark the turning of seasons not with calendars, but with color, shape, and scent. A single petal can tell a skilled observer what the soil has endured. A canopy's sway can whisper the mood of the wind. Mortal Flora is not passive—it speaks, it remembers, and it responds. Communities in Tir na nÓg live *within* these ecosystems, not atop them. Paths are woven between roots, homes are cradled in branches, and gatherings are timed to the flowering of certain blooms. These plants provide food, of course—but also shade, breath, medicine, and peace. They shape rituals and hold space for grief. Children learn their names before their own. Healers consult them. Elders plant them. Lovers leave tokens at their bases when words fall short. Though not imbued with enchantment, many of these plants exhibit sensitivities that feel magical to those who rush. A tree might open its canopy for rain-dancers. A vine might untwist when sung to. But these are not spells—they are relationships. Long tended, mutually respected, quietly unfolding. The role of Mortal Flora is not static. Forests shift. Fields wander. Flowers bloom and fade, return and remember. This cyclical wisdom is one of the greatest gifts they offer: the knowing that change is not loss, that stillness is not death, and that beauty often arises most fully when it is allowed to move. To walk through the forests and fields of Tir na nÓg is to be met—by scent, color, rustle, rhythm. The land is not silent. It is blooming. Always.