The following writing is derived from a playthrough of Gammlernoob's Maw of the Toad King.
Chap. 1
A lone oxcart trundled through the fog, the insistent squeak of its wheels cutting through spaces that had just been steeped in muffled silence. The old cart-driver held the reins with shaky hands, but the ox needed little guidance, for the cart moved at a ponderous pace, and the road was otherwise deserted. The driver’s bulbous nose and stalactical chin formed the shape of a half-moon and only one quivering eye was visible under a low-brimmed straw hat. He squinted over his shoulder to peer yet again at the three strange companions hunched in the back of his uncovered wagon.
“So”, he said slyly, as a puckered grin spread under his nose, “why abouts you be coming all this way, ay? Not many people venture down to the Bogs of Southern Rütne, these days.”
“Or any days,” muttered the very stocky man, who was actually only half a man. For this he was called halfling, though the other half was something of which the man was not sure. People most frequently assumed that he was half-gnome, but he had long felt that that was not the truth of it.
“We already told you cart-man, merchants are going missing,” said the tall human fighter wearing a patchwork cloak, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice. Sewn into the fabric of the fighter’s tunic were intricate stitchings of warriors and monsters. Each depiction was on a separate patch, and there were so many patches that it was impossible to tell if any one part was still of the original weave. In the dull light and the rattle of the cart, the forms on the cloak seemed to ripple and shift in their places.
“Oh?” wheedled the cart-driver, ignoring the road, “Just the merchants eh? I thought maybe you’d paid the fare to Steinau because of the people there, what with them all gone and whatnot. And only me, old Iren, left alone in the mists.”
“The people in Steinau have gone missing as well?” asked the halfling ruefully. He turned to the tall fighter. “Our benefactor didn’t mention anything about that.”
“No, I suppose they wouldn’t!” crowed Iren with glee, “the Lords of Rütne care not a feather for the whims and wailings of the poor people of the bogs, eh?” His unblinking eye was fixed on the travelers and seemed to demand answers for his rhetorical questions.
“But these bogs aren’t part of the Southern Reaches, are they?” continued the halfling with a frown, “I thought the Goat’s protection only extended as far as the Blue Hills.”
“Of course,” responded the cart-man with the immediacy of one whose answer was oft-rehearsed, “Everyone clamors about the Hills of Southern Rütne and frets about the Deadlands of Southern Rütne, but no one has mind for the Bogs of Southern Rütne, eh? And there are five! This is the least impressive or noteworthy of the five, I might add. But the land-merchants have to come this way anyhow!” He cackled and peered at the trio expectantly. It was a terrible thin sound and the fog seemed to shrink before it.
The cloaked fighter looked undaunted. “Steinau’s villagers aren’t our concern,” he stated flatly. “Just the merchants and their cargo. No more. Duke’s orders.”
This further animated the cart-driver. “Ah-ha!” he shrilled, “Funny you should mention our beloved Duke, do you know what stands in the swamps not three days coast-wards from here?” The passengers did not offer a guess, but Iren did not seem to need one, “The grand old castle of the Duke of Southern Rütne, see!” Iren spoke in the way of revealing the answer to a deeply satisfying joke or long-awaited riddle. “Back when the bogs were still part of the Reaches. You young whickersticks wouldn’t know anything about that would you? Well part of the Reaches indeed it was. And do you know what happened to the last Duke to ever reside in that castle?” Iren quivered with excitement and turned so far back over his shoulder that the companions winced, expecting his frail neck to snap from the endeavor. The ox produced a slight grunt of disapproval.
“No?” offered the halfling weakly.
Iren smiled with coiled incredulity. “No-o-o-o?” His voice was soft and drawn out so that the ‘o’ trilled into a high whine that disappeared in the fog. “Well it’s a very, very interesting tale. I suppose I might tell it to you now, I suppose. It’s a bit further to Steinau yet.” The fighter in the cloak winced and pulled out a wineskin, and the companions wordlessly started passing it, but they did not levy any objections. The cart rolled onwards at the speed of a mourning procession. Iren took a deep breath, reveling in the captivity of his audience, and began his story.
“A long time ago, back when the bogs were not so boggy as they were today, these lands were the heart of power for the Southern Dukes.” The halfling looked skeptically at sodden hummocks and tussocks passing by. “The heart of power I say! The Dukes of old were stern and noble, their strongholds were sturdy and often dry, and their families grew numerous and hale. The last Duke had but a single son; Nillem was his name. Nillem was a lad full of verve, grateful to all, and skilled at every nobleman’s practice to which he took his hand. Alas, perhaps he shone too brightly. One ill-fated day, the Duke’s son was out muck-clamming with his retainers, when he was accosted by a coven of witches.”
“Witches,” interjected the third companion, the strangest of the three. The creature’s face was an ivory mask, and the emotions communicated in its tone existed partially on planes inaccessible to the others, so determining the creatures’ implications was often difficult for its companions. The creature was elven in nature, and dressed in the fine silvery cloak only worn by eccentric sages living in the mountainous lands far to the north. The elf proceeded at a measured pace, “In your lands people refer to many things as witches, and in most instances they are wrong. What type of ‘witches’ do you mean, Master Iren?”
“How should I know?” retorted the cart-driver, “Does it look like I’m one to have anything in common with a witch?” The elven sage took a long, hard look at the old man, but didn't respond. Iren let out a bark of laughter and continued.
“Well as it were, the witches took poor Nillem to their underground lair and bound him with their tortuous magicks. On dark wings they sent ransom demands to the heartbroken Duke. When he heard that Nillem had been taken, the Duke gnashed his teeth and paced in circles for all hours of the night, but did he acquiesce? No, he didn’t, he was far too noble for that. Instead he sent his best swordsman and Nillem’s warden, Heinoch the Hilt, to go retrieve the captured boy. And what do you think happened then, ay? Did our good Heinoch save the boy and bring him home?”
The passengers looked up from their imaginings. “Yes?” chanced the halfling, cracking a nervous smile.
“No,” the cart-man spat, with surprisingly bitter force. The word seemed to bounce off fog, ringing back and forth in the passengers’ ears. Iren’s grimace loomed over the companions and flickered in the half-light, as if he spoke above some invisible fire. “No. I never saw him again. And just a lad I was.” The cart-driver turned back to face the road, and the halfling thought he looked to sit a bit straighter than before.
“Anyway!” the driver cackled, “Look now, there’s our destination.” Iren pointed with a spotted finger into the fog, through which emerged a dozen low dwellings huddled together on a mudflat by the road. “The place which once held the village of Steinau. Now only the buildings are left. The builders have up and ran away.”
The ox-cart wheels clacked loudly as Iren steered them lurchingly across an arched wooden bridge. The halfling peered over the edge to gaze with dismay at the churning water below. The river had overflowed in certain places on either bank, and the muddy water roared impatiently as it battered against the thin wooden beams under the bridge. “Have the rains been bad here too?”, he asked, trying to keep the alarm from creeping into his voice. “Up north we’ve had torrents for weeks.”
“Even worse!” hooted Iren. “The ground is bloated with water. I hope the floods didn’t wash all the merchants away! You’d’nt have much luck in that case.” The fighting man made a sound somewhere between a groan and a plea, and the halfling looked pale. The elf felt its own version of these emotions, but they did not appear across its face. As cart rolled into the village, the silence amongst them grew so heavy that the trio was almost relieved when at last Iren spoke again.
“Now as me old Gam would say, a story’s no good without an end. I might as well give you one, since you asked. Well, the lad Nillem was never found. The Duke went mad with grief, abandoning the Southern Reaches to take his family to the Wilds of Torst, where he searched fruitlessly for his son for years until he was slain by marauding barbarians. In these parts, the fields went untended and the muck crept in. When the King of Rütne finally proclaimed a new Duchess, she regrettably took a more northerly roost, and these lands faded in the collective memory of the Rütneans. It’s all very sad.”
Throughout this recountment, Iren’s voice gradually lessened in its volume, until it barely crested above whisper. The companions leaned forward on the cart’s bench despite themselves.
“Except there’s one thing I forgot,” intoned the ox-man, slowly. “Right before Heinoch the Hilt disappeared, he proclaimed that he’d discovered the place where poor Nillem had been hid. And where, good sirs, do you think that might have been?”
“Steinau,” grunted the cloaked man flatly.
“The very same,” murmured Iren, “the very same.” The cart-driver trailed off and gazed into the fog, searching for things that only he could see. The cart rolled slowly into the village square and came to a halt. “Well look at that,” said Iren, brightening, “We’ve made it to your stop. And not a moment too late.”