Ozzar and Lazharis approach the plant, one more cautiously than the other.
The withered flower turns to greet the sacrifice by lifting a vine adorned with blackened thorns for both of them. Each vine languidly creeps along at a tedious pace. Moving through the air, over the hand, and up the arms, until they find a suitable vein. The thorns find purchase in the flesh, and come to life with shocking speed. You feel the blood drain out, and something else being shoved inside.
"...Thank you... my children... have a chance..."
Before you can protest, the flower, the gardens, and the vines on the house wither into dust. Crumbling all around, and sinking into the dead mists below with a quiet ripple.
Unfortunately, the ordeal is not yet over for the duo. Your arm aches as something grows within it, burning and twisting as it spreads out inside your flesh. From the wound, a small black flower emerges. Iridescent, and much livelier looking than the one that was just talking to you.