the Things the Marsh Remembers ((Closed to Archanex))

[DarkDelights]

“Why sir, are you making fun of me?” she asked, tittering with laughter. “Are you telling me that you are the man in the moon? Sir Mage, you didn't even try, and sure as day is day and night is night, you are from this world and that is your lie. Do you think me a silly young thing to believe just any old fanciful tale?”

She thought a moment about the things he had said, and the assumptions he made. There was a curious, flat change to her tone of voice.

“I was born into a wealthy family, my father was a lawyer and my mother dealt in antiquities. I attended the Greenmire Girl's School, where I learned arithmetic, and poetry, and science, and dance. And what's more, sir mage, my father fell deeply in love with his aide, and the two were a scandal, but I gave him my blessing, as my mother was a shrew. They left together, after being wed in secret, and I alone knew where they went. I loved him so, and missed him dearly. Then, my mother remarried. So you see, in the end, I had three fathers. That's right, all three of my statements were the truth!”

She veered unexpectedly and turned her back from the man she was with. The girl slowly traipsed down the side of the causeway which was becoming more and more overrun by foliage. Her eyes flared a nasty yellow in color.

“Who are you to presume so much!?” she shouted over her shoulder, her mood taking an abrupt change for the worst. “I give you my trust and faith, and you accuse me of crime, and nefarious intention? WHO are you to presume so MUCH!?” she screeched, sobbing hysterically, and crocodile tears ran down her cheeks.

She spun on her heel, now very near the water's edge. She glared up at the Overmage, still standing at the top of the causeway.

“I had one desire, and that was to lead you to what you sought, and help you in turn as you helped me. Well I guess you are not the gentleman I thought you to be, with all your, your abruptness! Well know this, Sir Mage. Follow the road until dark when there is no more road to follow. Point yourself east, and continue through the swamp for another half of a day, and there you will find a forgotten building of ancient make, half sunk into the bog. Inside its walls, I am certain you will find what you seek. But I will not lead you to it. Our time has passed.”

She took a step backwards, into the marsh. And another. She walked backwards a short way, until her form was completely hidden by a stubby, but thick-trunked dead tree. Her natural affiliation with the swamp would conceal her from sight from there.

There was a few rapid footfalls, splashing through water, and a voice called on the winds, already sounding quite far away.

“I never lied to you sir mage. I have lived in this swamp all my life. My truths were three, and it was only the game that was a lie, to grow closer to you, but now you have decreed by your unfairness, that it is not to be. So I leave you my brave Sir Mage. Good-bye.”

More distant footsteps through the swamp.

-

She rejoined the road more than a mile ahead, certain she had made better time than Archanex, even off the battered road. It was thick with mud and there were no more stones to guarantee good footing. The witch had long ago abandoned her glamor in her anger. Her bare skin was exposed to the hot, humid afternoon air, and mosquitos buzzed near her in a swarm. She didn't bother to swat them from her back, and just itched her scalp absently. She picked a path through the muddy road with her bare feet, then stopped as quickly as she began. She smiled.

Wagon tracks...

Two deep ruts were carved into the mud. She followed them for many minutes. Not far up ahead, she saw a large object blocking the road. The witch crept up alongside. She peered in the back, but there was no one. All things were in place, and the entire lives of two humble farmers, at the height of their love, was filed neatly there. Next she peered onto the cracked and splintered wood of the drivers bench. There was blood, and lice wriggled in it.

She maneuvered out front of the wagon, and still yolked securely to it were the withered husks of two immense draft horses, seemingly mummified alive. They both lay on their sides, one propped up on the other. She placed her hand on one of the dead beast's noses, and there was a crack from her light touch. It was as if something drank the meat from the miserable things and left behind naught but brittle bones and papery skin from which the horse's fur fell away easily.

She covered her mouth with one hand as she explored the carnage. Not far away, a skeleton wearing a full body covering of distinct brassy scales lie face down in the muck. She gently turned it over and heard the ribcage creak and crack like the opening of an ancient wooden door. The once handsome face was emaciated and hollow. Gazing into the empty black sockets where only a crusted white puss remained, a pink tongue snaked from between the witch's black lips and into the husk's mouth as she planted a passionate kiss on the corpse. She groped the scaled head, and they crunched as she pressed her hands into it. A trickle of saliva bridged the gap between the two mouths as the witch pulled away, and she placed her stained index and thumb around one of Harchibald's sharper incisors and pulled. The tooth came free without any resistance.

And from there, not far again was a once-white dress, now brown with distinct patterns of black spray. The dress was pocked with circular holes, the dried flesh beneath wrent. The corpse was impossibly thin. It still had its bonnet laced below the jaw, which was open wide in a final, lasting scream.

She threw herself away from the scene, and brought her trembling hands to her face. They trembled with excitement.

“Oh but my knight should see! See what the Kotaj takes for its tax! Hehehe! What will he say? What will he think? Will he know that I did it for him, so that he may pass this way unmolested by the Kotaj and it's hunger? Will he appreciate that it now slumbers in the bog, and the Great Sleeping Thing will now bother him not?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“No... no, he'll say 'she did this!' and point his finger. 'She is responsible!' he'll curse, but he will never even stop to think that it was all so he could pass safely.”

He DESERVES what is coming to him.

“Yes, my lord, he does. He does indeed. The Kotaj was too good of a fate for him. Let him find his trinket in your swamp. He'll never leave it alive!” She cackled, and the sound carried through the marsh. Then, calmed, she slid on her behind back into the swampwater and drew her body in so that only here eyes were visible above the surface, coming up occasionally for air. She drifted into an overhang of briars near the scene of the slaughter on the road, and waited for the Overmage to stumble on the scene of horror.