Mosquitoes. Swarms of them.
In fact, this deep in the bog it was impossible to take as much as a single breath without accidentally swallowing a few of them. Their buzzing was so constant that one could hear it in the short periods of silence and even now, as Aghir and Gylas were gazing upon the slowly bubbling mud in dismay, hundreds of those little bastards were crawling under their armors and helmets.
They had tracked the troll for three days now, Sir Wyheart and his two squires. Three days of wading in waist-deep waters and sleeping in the few dry spots they could find. Three days of poorly dried rations and hopeful talks about the treasure the beast had allegedly hidden in its lair.
All of that just to have the troll lunging from the swamp and dragging poor Sir Wyheart under the crimson mud in a blink of an eye.
“I hope, it doesn’t come back” said Gylas, gripping his spear.
“They always do”, answered Aghir. Continue reading “The Red Swamp”