The blue-tongued daylily, *Hemerocallis fulva*, is far more than a simple wildflower. It is, according to the fragmented records of the Chronarium, a point of convergence – a nexus where the threads of time fray and reweave. Initially, the blooms appeared only during periods of heightened temporal instability, coinciding with cataclysms, moments of profound artistic creation, or the precise calculations of exceptionally skilled chronomasters. It’s theorized that the plant itself absorbs and redistributes these fluctuations, stabilizing the local timeline.
The earliest documented accounts originate with the Order of the Azure Iris, a secretive sect obsessed with manipulating the flow of time. They believed the blue-tongued daylily was a 'temporal seed,' capable of accelerating or decelerating local time. Ritualistic harvesting of the blooms was central to their practices, though the specifics remain shrouded in paradox. One particularly unsettling legend describes them attempting to use a concentrated bloom to rewind the construction of the Great Library of Alexandria, a feat that, predictably, resulted in a cascade of alternate realities.
The Order of the Azure Iris, despite their disastrous attempts at temporal manipulation, recognized the blue-tongued daylily’s potential for stabilizing the timeline. Their research focused on cultivating the plant in ‘chronometric gardens’ – carefully constructed environments designed to harness and mitigate temporal instability. These gardens weren’t about controlling time, but about harmonizing with it.
The key to their success lay in the arrangement of the blooms. They discovered that a precise geometric pattern, a complex mandala of blue-tongued daylilies, could dampen the chaotic energies. The most effective mandala required 72 blooms, arranged in a spiral pattern around a central obelisk crafted from obsidian – a material known for its temporal resistance.
Today, the blue-tongued daylily is considered a ‘wild temporal anomaly.’ While its effects are still observable – occasional surges in local temporal activity, fleeting glimpses of alternate realities – the knowledge of how to effectively cultivate and utilize its power has been lost. The Chronarium, now a repository of fragmented records and half-remembered legends, serves as a constant reminder of the delicate and potentially catastrophic nature of time itself. Rumors persist of secretive organizations still searching for the lost knowledge, driven by a desire to either control time or simply understand its mysteries. Perhaps, if one observes closely enough, one can still see the faintest shimmer around a blue-tongued daylily, a subtle echo of a time yet to come, or a time already gone.