Fjarnskaggl was not always so rare, my child. It was a staple of our culture; to be vrykul was to live among the fjarnskaggl. It lined our beds, it flavored our broth, it warmed our infants.
Now, it dies. It grows in scattered clumps at the edges of our town, never in the neat rows we once reaped. Only the most resilient snarl of fjarnskaggl can survive the brisk winds of Stormheim, and none can survive the frigid winters of Northrend.
We lost our way, my daughter. We forgot from whence fjarnskaggl came. The herb is a gift from the heavens. Those that smile down on us from above want us to be happy, and one of their gifts is the fjarnskaggl. To harvest fjarnskaggl is to touch the tangled beard of god.
At some point, however, we took their gift for granted. We burned fjarnskaggl when simple straw would do. We fed it to the musk ox. We harvested the herb, then let it rot in storage.
Do not allow yourself to repeat the mistakes of our people, child. Treat the sacred herb of our people with respect, and it may return to our people in its full splendor once again.