Tucked into the river-fed lowlands east of Lindral Citadel and approaching Tellerwick, lies the Everglade Annex — a tiered wetland garden built along the flanks of an ancient embankment. Shallow rills and peat-lined pools wind through its levels, designed to harness the slope and hold water for the cultivation of marsh-rooted species. To the untrained eye, it looks almost overgrown — but within the tangle, every cluster is placed. Every stem watched.
This is one of the smaller holdings of the Verdant Order, and among the oldest. It’s said the ground here still remembers the hoofprint and clawmark, and that some of the resident fae prefer it that way. The air is rich with water mint, marsh valerian, and the dark metallic tang of iron-rich soil. Nets are hung to filter leaf-litter from the channels. Planks, slick with moss, span the pools. A silence often sits between the reeds.
The Annex is mostly worked by hand. Cuttings are trimmed by moon-cycle. Compost is stirred barefoot by the same few labourers who’ve worked the garden for decades. Some claim the moss here never dies, only shifts allegiance. Others speak of something held in the lower terraces — not dangerous, exactly, but old. Bound.
Fewer come here now — the work is slow, the plants difficult, the ground uneven. But some still choose it: those who listen, those who don’t mind wet knees, those who know how to wait.