Stories end in the Mire.

I had no true hope of making the crossing, but capture would have been certain on any other route. Better I be lost to the mud and the papers lost with me, and if my City never learns their secrets then neither will our enemies. In truth I fear we are not fit for such knowledge; it is meant for a time when none will make wonders into weapons.

So when the mud grasps me I give no cry for help, fearing what "rescue" would come. I stand silent while the birds chatter in the great trees and the cold daylight gleams on the mud and water and the Mire takes me inch by inch. I make no struggle: I must sink quietly, leave no lasting mark on the surface. The Mire will only slow them at best; they will come searching, and nothing must draw their attention. I am not safely gone until I am sunk beyond the reach of their poles and hooks.

So many come here: fugitives, emperors, soldiers, paladins, wizards, wanderers. They come to escape pursuit, undo curses, recover lost crowns, find routes for trade or conquest. Some win against the Mire, find what they seek, leave to continue their stories. Others go down into the dark and silence, and their book is closed. My fate is as I expected; I had no illusions on the shape of my tale.

As my head slips under I yearn to lift my muzzle in a lonely howl of farewell, all my regrets and yearnings set free in a single last utterance. I can not permit myself this. I keep my silence, and the mud flows in over me and I am gone.

The Mire has a thousand treasures and secrets, held tighter than by any dragon. Jewels, swords, coins, rings of power, bones of forgotten beasts. Lost by chance or mishap, or thrown in to rid the world of them. The document canister on the drowned messenger's leg is one more acquisition. It may be found some day, if the world changes and the Mire drains. Its contents may be old news then, or a strange text in a language nobody remembers. Or just rotten scraps if the seal fails. Or else the Mire itself may be buried under the mud and silt of new seas, and changed by time and pressure until message and messenger are bound forever in hard rock.