Swamp Gas & Tree Frogs (Closed to DD)

Moss clung along the exposed roots of an ancient hardwood; every inch was dandy, like a springy, verdant carpet. The primitive plant drank the dripping morning dew; condensed by the night's push for dawn, water trickled down from the cool tree bark and dampened the moss. Between the exposed roots and the lowest branches, the master shaman roamed. He stooped down, without slowing his steady march, and ran his stiff fingers over the sprawling greenery. Its life spoke to him, telling hushed secrets about the far beyond—troubling word about Dheathain's foulest swamp.

"The rumours might be true," he conceded to the spirits of the undergrowth.

Those Dheathain trees, with Suthainn oak the tallest of the exotics; they were worlds within a world. Together, they rolled across the continent like moss to the giants; but, alone, each tree was a living anchor, flourishing in a sea of life. For the fibrous moss was home to bugs, slugs, frogs, and snails. Along the tough trunk travelled ants as big as your eyeball. And the birds in the branches cheeped like a chorus of schoolyard snitches.

"A wretched witch?" the shaman asked of the canopy's flutterers.

Hundreds of years made the oak strong. Strong enough to endure its duty: to be the centre of a universe populated by creatures large, medium, and small. But even the mightiest among the the towering trees could be taken by imbalance. If the jungle creepers, the devil's ivy, grew greedy then, not only would the oak fall, but life itself would fall. The choking grip of tangling vines rode the trunk and branches to the bounty of vital sunlight soaking the canopy. There, dressed in trumpet flowers, its parasitic endeavour could be forgiven as the blooming ivy offered nectar for the butterflies.

Do Mugu stopped and sat, cross-legged, beneath the Suthainn oak. "The vines are growing too strong?" he asked. His vision was absorbed by the branches, stems, roots, and leaves of the forest. Hints and hearsay flowed like sap from all creation and into a river of knowledge. Through his sacred vision, the shaman dared to peek on the foul swamp.

"I cannot see," he said to the rainforest.

The forest answered its human steward. "Death," they said through a chorus of a million spirits.

Like the unfettered vines choked the oak, an unfettered witch had choked the swamp.

(Several days earlier...)

With a strained grunt, she pulled the makeshift litter the last few yards to the edge of the calm, black waters. She wiped the sweat from her brow, but took no rest. Not there, on the bank of that particular pond. The stunted trees, twisted and gnarled, bore no leaves – they derived their nourishment from the mineral rich rot hidden by the topsoil. Bleached bones of humanoids and animals littered the banks, and not so much as a toad croaked. The obese creature on the witch's stretcher moaned, and she patted its pale belly reassuringly. It was not dying, only paralysed by the insidious poison she laced its bait with. Its eyes were wide, and its breath was ragged. Its tusked snout flared in fear, and every so often, one of its cloven feet twitched spasmodically.

“Now now, it'll all be over soon. Have patience my pet. I'll move you closer to the water so it can catch wind of your scent quicker,” she said soothingly, stroking the boar's coarse fur. She grabbed the animal by its back legs which kicked once, then offered no resistance. Through the soft mud, she slid the creature so that its hind quarters were submerged in murky, black pond.

For many moments, nothing happened. The witch crept away along the water's edge.

The poison, though potent, seemed as if it were being defeated by the pig's impressive constitution. Its forepaws began to stir the mud, as it lamely tried to stand. Its rear legs kicked and splashed.

She leered from her vantage point, and reminded herself that she wouldn't have much time once it began. A crude pitcher fashioned from a hollowed gourd was clutched in her left hand.

Like a periscope, the tip of a suckered tentacle rose from the glassy surface of the pond. Several more followed. They crept up the muddy bank on either side of the helpless creature, like living tree roots. They hedged in the prey, and the animal that was beginning to regain its senses, squealed in panic, but failed again at coordinating all four of its limbs, and crashed back into the muck.

The water surged up in a column of spray as a bloated black form, like a ten-foot wide inky bubble with countless long rubbery pseudopods, lifted itself directly above the helpless warthog, and loomed for a moment.

Only a moment. It crashed down, completely enveloping the warm-blooded thing, which squealed terribly as the black mass thrashed and writhed its alien anatomy. Despite the sheer overwhelming size of the monster and all its powerful constricting limbs, the boar struggled for what seemed like an eternity underneath its slimy doom, as if the predator was allowing it to suffer before ending the ordeal. It was a primal maliciousness that transcended hunger.

The witch, not so far from the grotesque event, crept near the water's edge, and scanned it with her emerald green eyes.

“Aha!”

She dipped her gourd vessel into the water and scooped up a cluster of little onyx bubbles, maybe twenty or thirty, along with a generous amount of the swamp water. The squeals of the boar ceased, replaced by a sloppy gurgling noise. How she longed to watch...

But it would have been foolish to tarry about with a hungry Grolluk near by, especially when it was only distracted by a proportionately small snack! She slinked up the slope of the bank, eager to be away with her prize.