Squib Ep.27 - The Old Spirit
(Start at the beginning here)
Dawn came early, dark with cloud, foreboding from the green haze that permeated the air. The rain still fell causing the spirits of the three would-be companions to descend with it. Maybe not Herule, who forged a path through the swamp and the wet as though it were any other day regardless of season or sun. It was good that he was on this journey he had decided. Despite his protests, despite his ire for the Swamp Mother and her chiding ways, if there was a quest to be had he was glad he was on it. The Goblin was undoubtedly a sneak and up to no good, as Goblins were want to do, and that aside it was ever questionable that a Goblin could be trusted to succeed at their task. It was more than likely their pathetic lives would be cut short, eaten by some unruly swamp terror, flayed alive by a superior combatant, or more than likely captured and enslaved by Orcs at least once in their lives. Not that the same couldn't be said for him in one such regard but then Herule had been taken, in particular, for his strength, and elevated quickly even in his standing as a slave shortly after. Clearly there was no comparing the two. What was important was that where the Goblin was set to fail, Herule would ensure he endured.
‘Herule has the eyes of a spear tip’
The Witch had sat them down over a meal the night prior. No stranger company of creatures ever to assembled under one canopy, Herule had thought. Much information was exchanged with many high ideas that felt far outside the realm of a brutal Lizardman warrior. Notions of magic, mentions of Gods beyond the Lizard King himself, mysterious portents, and the ever elusive mutterings of the Goblin Squib himself. There were a few things the Lizardman had found pertinent, those key points that found their way past the channels of his ears to take up residence in his mind. What mattered to Herule were the clear distinctions of his enemies, where they were going, and what if anything might get in their way. The Witch had a way of weaving wonders, and from what Herule could tell she’d been working her powers with forbearance for a long time.
A powerful force was rising, an ancient foe from a time before the Lizardmen tribes, a time before even the swamp itself. Herule knew the swamp to have a history as his kin resided in the runes of a long forgotten people, still it was hard to imagine anything but the murky, muddy waters with it’s drooping solemn trees stretching out in every which direction. The force was a threat to Herule’s way of life, this much the Witch had made clear, and despite their strength and number, insisted the Lizardmen could not stand against it. Herule begged to differ, but where the Witch passed a ruling, Herule was in no place to contend. What seemed important was that the Human girl, the wounded and near worthless human girl as far as Herule could tell, had in her possession some trinket that was central to all their trouble. It was impressed upon him that she also be kept alive, which Herule realised seemed to be a growing theme of late, and that the trio make their way to an ancient depth of the Swamp that even Herule had never had reason in going.
“Squib,” The Witch had blathered, “Is the key, such is his business with the Ancient One, and the girl, blessed as she is, is the map.”
Then like the intoning of a spell, something having happened with nothing to be seen, the girl had fallen forward in a fit of writhing agony. Her jerkin was shrugged away, the shirt drawn loose by the witches claw, and an unfurling map of coloured topography revealed itself upon her flesh. The Witch had cooed, her eyes set to sparkling at the disturbing display, and all seemed set in stone.
Herule was anything but happy about the sorcery but even his people had their shamen. What self-respecting Lizardman didn't appreciate a good warding to protect himself against such troubles as magic and sorcery. Sadly, where the wise thought it good to stop at a preventative step, others thought to bend the world in an unnatural way. At least in this case it had the Swamp Mother’s blessing, but that didn't mean Herule had to like it, nor her for that matter.
More interesting was mention of the Ancient One. Herule had heard tale of the old spirit of which the swamp derived it’s life. Ssable was what the Lizardfolk called her but she had many names in many tongues. It meant Bringer of Life, and as far as Lizardfolk lore was concerned all threads of life in the swamp could be traced back to her. It was a wonder and a worry that the Goblin should be set on seeking her out, with unknown cause, and ample resource to make it worth his while. Herule did not fully comprehend the purpose of the purple power but it was established that it was a method of payment. To what end the Goblin would not say, which was ample reason for suspicion, and justification for Herule to maintain his possession over the tiny package until he had ascertained why. Squib had not been pleased by it, but given they were all heading in the same direction, he’d quietened in his descent. Herule assumed that descent was now a veiled dagger dangling limply in the dark, but what else should he expect from a Goblin.
The trio reached the edge of a shore where the narrow pathways of land grew spars and a disjointed scattering of island motes floated sporadically. Herule looked at his companions who looked back wearily.
“Now what?” Bandana asked.
Herule shook his head.
“She wants to know how you’re going to scout your way through this?” Squib translated bitterly.
Herule hissed at Squib in return. He tried not to dwell on the Goblins condescension and instead directed his attention at Bandana. “You, girl, climb on to my back,” And he took a knee. “Now we sswim.”
Bandana took a moment to consider her options. Finding none she complied, wrapping her arms and linking them around Herule’s thick neck.
“What about me?” Squib protested.
“You swim too,” and Herule waded out into the water.
(Continue to Ep.28)
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