Temple of The Frog: Part 1. The Swamps of Yo'Goth

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The Swamps of Yo'goth are a vast, trackless expanse of mottled green, all weed and water, shifting islets and twisted roots, hung with creepers and strange fungi that glow with a weird halflight. Such sunshine as makes a way through the canopy is weak, and no winds reach far enough to dispel the mists that hang. It is a place of shadows and strange rumour. People do live here, but they are not all human. Or perhaps all-human. Pallid, furtive shapes dart through the murk, and pale eyes gleam from the doorways of windowless huts in the damp little villages. Things splash and scurry unseen, and odd calls croak and chitter.

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Literally. It is warm, soupy, rank with the odour of still water and rotting vegetation.

"Ah, my old neighbourhood." Shlaym takes a deep breath of the fetid air. "Smell that."

"I'd rather not." Dranel slips off another stone. A long arm whips out, catches him by the collar before he sits down in the mud.

Sheldor is picking through the reeds like a heron. He's tall enough to be able to step from one moss-covered stone to the next without difficulty. The other three are mired from the knees down, a combination of short legs and poor co-ordination. Shlaym plashes along happily enough (and Taru wouldn't like to swear that he hasn't seen webbing between those toes) but the dark elf and the halfling are muddy and miserable.

(Penelope doesn't do swamps. Heat, humidity and mud? Nuh-uh. It wrecks her hair. So she'd seen them off with a cheerful wave. The boys are on their own for this one.)

"...don't understand why we have to walk all the way..." Taru is mumbling.

"Have none of my lectures on the properties of interstitial portals and the need for locative geodesic principles made any impression?" Sheldor huffs at his blank expression. "It's a lost temple, by definition. Anyway, it's a perfectly nice day for a walk."

This time, they all stare blankly at him. Even Shlaym.

"Sheldor, this place is a muggy, humid nightmare, full of vicious bugs and weird locals."

"Oh, I'm used to that. I'm from the Isle of Doom."

A seaport far to the south, the many bays and swamps provide a haven for smugglers and freebooters. Amongst other things. Taru's eyes go wide.

"Is it true about the giant albino alligators?"

"Yes." Sheldor navigates another stone. "They taste like chicken."

Dranel thinks that they should really know better by now. Sheldor doesn't talk much about his family, but from what they have gathered, he's the son of a monster-slayer. Hence the ability to use both sword and sorcery, which quite often comes as a nasty, if somewhat brief, shock to his opponents.

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After another hour of walking (and slipping, tripping and whining) they pause by a pool, a dark mirror that reflects a sliver of the sky, where the tangle of trees opens out slightly, a tiny space of solid, dry land.

Shlaym's mother has packed him a lunch. The others politely decline to share it – something in one of the containers is still twitching – but it is agreed to be better than Amanita's last experiment in the kitchen. The pancake batter is still lurking down in the pantry somewhere, and there are far fewer rats around.

Dranel gives up trying to pick the mud off his toes. It has dried to a clay, and the attempt is excruciating, so he decides to soak them in the water instead.

Now they have stopped walking, the warmth is almost pleasant. The water is silky, cool around his tired feet, and he watches a couple of dragonfly skim down over the surface, errant sunlight catching the jewel tones of their bodies. Perhaps it isn't so bad here, after all.

...which is of course when the rope-thick tentacles snake up out of the depths and grab him by the ankles.

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Dranel is actually a fairly competent magic user, but nobody is really at their best when being unexpectedly assaulted by an eldritch horror from the deep. He's reduced to thrashing and spluttering, fingers slipping in the ooze as he tries to claw himself free from the strangling grip. A quick upside down glimpse of Taru and Shlaym, mouths and eyes wide, and then the world is a blue-green cloud of bubbles.

"...Iä! Iä! Gaakh ph'tui periannath!"

In the thrashing hell of snaking limbs and snapping jaws, one great yellow eye fastens its gaze upon the tall figure glaring from the bank, arms folded and face stern.

Sheldor raises one eyebrow meaningfully.

The tentacles freeze for a moment. Then they begin to withdraw, coils loosening, slithering rapidly back beneath the oily water. Dranel is deposited on the ground in front of Sheldor, and one tentacle gives him a quick conciliatory pat on the head, before whisking away. There is one final plop, and the surface of the pool is again mirror-smooth.

The beast is old and wily, waiting patiently beneath the surface for prey to come within its grasp. Princes and peasants, wizards and warriors, all who enter that slimy embrace are pulled down into the crushing deeps, and devoured, their bones sinking through the mud, to lie forgotten. Many an Elven song has been silenced, many a merry Halfling jest, the weapons of Dwarf and Man rust amidst the weeds.

But to face He Who Walks Softly And Carries A Flaming Great Sword? The Lurker in the Lake burrows further down into the muck and ooze, and pulls a large rock over itself. Fh'tagn that for a laugh.

Dranel finishes coughing up slimy water, and rolls over, groaning weakly. Sheldor shakes his head.

"Perhaps we should walk a bit further before we set up camp."

Nobody is going to disagree.

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a/n - Galveston's original name was indeed Isla de Malhado, Isle of Doom. Seriously, how could I not be all up in that?

And Shlaym's a fun guy. Of course he's from Yo'Goth...