The air hangs thick with humidity as I stand before the edge of the treacherous Fading Swamp, its dense maze of moss-covered trees stretching as far as the eye can see. A tangled choir of croaking frogs, buzzing insects, and distant sounds I can't quite place echoes around me. Dark tendrils of mist snake through the twisted foliage, and murky pools of stagnant water dot the uneven ground. The faint smell of rotting vegetation lingers in the air, a natural warning to those who dare enter this forsaken place. The swamp is alive, and it feels as though it's watching me.
The sun sets beyond the horizon, casting long, jagged shadows that dance eerily beneath a sky of fiery oranges and purples. My cabin, a ramshackle construct that has served me well for the past few weeks, now rests behind me. Its creaking wooden frame seems less like a refuge and more like a reminder of the solitude I've chosen to embrace in my quest for ultimate power.
The artifact I seek—one rumored to amplify my magic far beyond the limits of mortal comprehension—waits for me somewhere within the depths of these cursed lands. The passages of the leathery grimoire I carry spoke of an ancient relic buried in the swamp; its precise location remains frustratingly cryptic, alluding only to its presence deep within at the "Ribcage Henge," some obscure site that once marked the domain of a forgotten civilization.
As the last rays of sunlight fade and the swamp darkens even further, a choice lies ahead. Venture forward into the unknown dangers of the swamp now, under the cover of darkness, or bide my time and prepare further at my cabin before my descent—with the risk that each moment of delay could allow another hunter, or worse, to close in on their prize.
A guttural roar echoes faintly in the distance; it is brief, but it reminds me that this place is not unoccupied. And worse still, the tales of this swamp also spoke of the dead rising to guard what should never have been disturbed.
The forest's shadows deepen as the wilderness grows quiet around me. I can only hear the faint bubbling of the swamp's waters and feel the soft patter of a drizzle beginning to dampen my robes further.
I push off from the soggy edge of the clearing and step into the Fading Swamp. The damp reeds brush against my robes, and the ground sinks an inch with each footfall—soft loam and hidden pools underfoot. The mist thickens around me; my breath fogs in the cool, fetid air. Cries of distant creatures and the metallic creak of something large shifting through the trees echo ahead.
As I move deeper, the path splits between two options:
- A narrow, root-lined causeway that winds toward the left, shadowed under a canopy of low, knotted branches. It looks more sheltered but cramped and could hide ambushes or snares.
- A broader, waterlogged channel to the right that opens into a shallow lagoon dotted with stunted mangrove-like trees and floating mats of algae. It would be slower to traverse and might attract swamp predators, but it gives better visibility.
There's also the thin trail of footprints—half-sunken and recently made—leading off a little to the left-hand side of the causeway, heading deeper into the woods. They could belong to another traveler, a hunter, or something worse.
I crouch, tracing the half-sunken impressions with a careful eye. The footprints are humanoid but slightly wider in the heel than a normal human's—likely a stout form or someone wearing thick-soled boots. The stride length suggests whoever made them was moving cautiously rather than fleeing; the heel impressions are pressed firmly, while the toes are lighter, as if the walker was testing the ground as they went.
I also notice faint drag marks between a few prints, as if whatever they carried was heavy or awkward and occasionally brushed the marsh. The prints head toward the causeway, then veer off into a thicket where the mud is deeper and the canopy closes overhead. The impressions are fresh—no more than a few hours old—and there are small, irregular punctures in the nearby reeds, like talon marks or perhaps a pole pushed through in haste.
From the depth and spacing I infer the traveler is medium to medium-large in size, moving slowly and deliberately deeper into the swamp. There's no immediate sign of a struggle within the prints themselves.
I pick my way along the half-hidden trail, following the prints as they wind deeper beneath the drooping canopy. The mist clings to my robes and the swollen roots tug at my boots with each step. After several minutes the path narrows further; the trees press close, their trunks slick with algae and lichen. The air grows cooler and the chorus of swamp noises hushes to a low, expectant rustle.
The prints lead me into a small pocket of the swamp where the ground is notably softer and dotted with shallow, murky pools. Ahead, the trail ends at a small clearing roughly twenty feet across. In the center stands an overturned cart half-submerged in water, its broken wheel jutting upward like a tooth. Bits of splintered wood and a few scattered crates lie around it—one crate split open, revealing dull iron tools and a length of rope. The cart looks recent; fresh moss hasn't had time to grow on its exposed surfaces.
Near the cart, partially hidden by hanging moss, I see a human woman sitting slumped against the cart's frame. She's breathing but weak—matted hair, pale skin flecked with swamp grime. Her travel cloak is torn and soaked. Her hands are bound with a crude length of rope, and her eyes fly open when she senses me. A single, shallow wound lines her forearm where the rope chafed her skin. She looks up at me with a mixture of pleading and fear.
From the underbrush to my left, something shifts—a soft, wet rustling like something large moving through the ferns. There's also a low croak from somewhere above: a cluster of bulbous swamp frogs on a low branch watch the scene with glossy, unblinking eyes.
I approach but keep my posture relaxed and my senses sharp, making sure I don't surprise her or leave myself vulnerable.
I scan the clearing as I speak, eyes sweeping the edges and the overhead branches. I pick out more than just obvious movement: to my left, half-hidden beneath a curtain of moss, I spot the glint of something metallic—an axe head buried in the mud, likely fallen from the overturned cart. Beneath a low branch to the right, I detect a subtle dip in the reeds where something recently passed through—larger than a wolf, quieter than a boar. Above me, the frogs remain still and unthreatening, but the rustling I heard earlier has died down, as if whatever moved is holding position and waiting.
I kneel down close enough to be heard but keep my staff in one hand, the other relaxed but ready. I bend my head and say, in a measured tone, "Who put you in these bonds? What happened to your party, and where were you headed?"
The woman swallows hard, each breath a shallow rasp. Her eyes flick toward the mossy shadows where I indicated there might be movement, then back to me.
"My name's Elira," she says at last, voice thin. "We were a caravan—small group, carrying tools and herbs for Istegan. Ambushed... at the ford. Men in dark hoods, they—" She closes her eyes for a moment, teeth clenched. "They took the others. I managed to slip when they dragged a crate. Must've heard something... I don't know where they went. They dragged the wounded toward the deeper swamp, toward the old stone circle they call Ribcage Henge."
She shivers. "They speak oddly. Not like common brigands—they call each other 'wardens' and mutter names of dead things. If they find you, they'll ask questions. Please... my husband—Tomas—he's still missing. If you can help—"
Her voice trails off into a pleading look. Mud and tears streak her cheek. She shifts, showing how raw the rope has made her wrists. The wound is superficial but painful; she looks too weak to stand on her own.
I lean in, gaze steady. "If you were bound, how did you escape, and how did they not notice you?" you ask.
Elira swallows, glancing again at the mossy treeline. "I didn't really escape—at first, I pretended to be unconscious," she says in a low voice. "They dragged me when they were moving the crates and arguing about where to take the stolen goods. One of them—tall, with a voice like gravel—struck a blow to Tomas when he tried to stop them. They left me with a wound so they could move faster. When they carried the heavier things, they tied my hands and left me near the cart to make it look like we were all down. I saw them from under the moss when they passed. They were more interested in the crates than in a single bound woman who looked ruined."
She coughs, a wet sound, and continues, "Later, the rain loosened the rope a little—mud and water helped—and I worked at the knots until I could push one hand free. I kept quiet, kept my head down, until they had gone deeper into the swamp. I couldn't stand then; if I'd tried to follow, they'd have seen me. I waited until they were out of sight, then crawled to the cart and hid until I could drag myself here."
Elira's eyes narrow slightly as she thinks. "They moved toward Ribcage Henge. They looked like they knew the place—muttering names, like I told you. I overheard one say they were bringing something for the 'warden' of the circle. There was chanting, and a smell—like old herbs and oil. I don't know what they plan, but whatever it is, it's dangerous."
She pauses, wringing her hands. "If you want to help Tomas... please hurry. They won't be gentle." She looks at me with a mix of fear and grim determination.
I stare at Elira without softening my expression. My voice is cold, measured, and devoid of sympathy as I say, "I do not care for your husband. What matters is what those 'wardens' are doing at Ribcage Henge. Tell me precisely what you heard—words, rituals, anything—and where they went from the ford."
Elira flinches at my tone, and her lower lip trembles. She swallows and presses her hands together as if to still them. "They spoke of—of feeding the circle," she says haltingly. "Names I recognized... one kept saying 'bind the rib, bind the blood,' another spoke of 'nightseed' and 'hallow the bone.' They chanted in a low voice, like a rhythm, a few words repeated… I couldn't make out all of it, but they used a language I don't know—old names, maybe. They said the wardens would 'meet the bone-keeper' at the Henge."
She draws a breath. "From the ford they took the narrower path that runs along the eastern marsh—past the sunken willow that leans into the water, then toward the stone markers that rise like ribs in the deeper brackish pools. If you're heading there, you'll cross a shallow channel with a half-submerged log that serves as a crossing. After that, the ground gets softer and the mist grows thick. They went in single file, I think—careful, like they were trying to avoid drawing attention."
Her eyes flick to my staff, then back to my face. "That's all I heard. Please—if you go, be careful. The chants were old and hungry-sounding. They called out for 'the bone-keeper' as if summoning something." She looks at me, awaiting my next move.
I push away from the sodden clearing and set my staff before me, moving with quiet, purposeful steps toward the eastern marsh Elira described. The swamp closes around me: gnarled roots, hanging moss that brushes my shoulders, the air heavy with the scent of rot and herbs. The rain eases to a drizzle; droplets bead along the brim of my hood.
The path grows muddier and more treacherous as I move. Progress is slow. After about an hour of careful walking I come to the sunken willow Elira mentioned: its trunk leans low over a shallow channel, its roots like exposed fingers. Beyond it a half-submerged log forms a narrow, unstable crossing. The fog thickens noticeably past the log; shapes blur and sound becomes muffled.
As I near the crossing, I hear faint, rhythmic chanting ahead—low voices in a language not wholly human; the cadence matches Elira's description. The sound comes from slightly to the right where the ground opens into a series of low stone markers jutting from the muck—the Ribcage Henge. Pale stones, curved and rib-like, ring a pool thick with algae. Within the circle, shadowy figures move around something central: a low mound of earth and bone littered with herbs and strips of cloth. Torchlight—smeared and guttering—casts long, twitching shadows across the henge.
I count five figures in dark hoods standing in a loose formation around the mound. Their motions are deliberate; two seem to be chanting, one holds a curved blade dripping a dark liquid, and another cradles what looks like a wicker cage. The final figure stands slightly apart, hood thrown back—tall, with gaunt features and a pallid face that seems older than its years. At its feet, bound in ropes and gagged, is a man—Tomas—he looks alive but pale and weak. Around the edge of the henge, half-submerged in the water, I make out shapes that could be stakes or the tips of ritual implements.
This is clearly a ritual in progress, and the wardens haven't noticed me yet. I are approximately 60 feet from the nearest hooded figure, with sparse reeds and a few low stone ribs between me.