The Littlest Nymph- The Sultry Swamp

        The bogs of Lokus Liebe never seemed to end. Every mud filled creek and gnarled tree, every cloud of flies and hollow log looked the same. The bog was notorious as a place unwary travelers got lost in, a place where brigands, rogues and villains would hide from the law. Tales from woodsman were passed around of prodigies and horrid creatures that grew in the mud filled swamp, things with teeth and claws and flailing arms. In the cities neighboring the Lokus Liebe profiteering lowlifes made maps of the infamous swamp from scraps of cloth and charcoal, crafted completely from their imaginations and populated with false routes, hills, trails and rivers unique to the cartographer’s mind. Markers warning of trolls, dragons and wizards littered these maps, despite the few experienced denizens of the area never reporting such dangers.

 

        Fernweh gnawed on a stick of sweet bark while looking over one of these maps. If she was correct, she was in between “Poote’s Blacke Hille” and “Narow Streem”. She had only spent a few days in the town on the edge of the bog, and the promise of a land filled with trees, water and wildlife sounded perfect to her. The man in the tavern had described it like a good place to start her new home. Her magic kept the mud from sticking to her legs, and she could talk to the flies and mosquitoes and ask them not to bother her. They never listened. She didn’t want for food and shelter when the land’s magic sustained her, but she was still unsatisfied with her surroundings. She needed to find a place to shelter for winter, and despite the nice man at the tavern’s glowing description and affordable map, the bog wasn’t living up to her expectations.

 

        She decided find “Yea Other Blacke Hille” and summit it to catch her bearings. Fernweh was barefoot, but that had never bothered her. Thorns failed to scratch her, the sticks did not crack under her weight, and her magic kept her from sinking into the thick mud that surrounded her. She walked with an unearthly grace, the weight of her backpack seemed to do nothing to alter her pace. With each step her breasts gave a little jiggle, her full, round behind, her curvy hips and thighs all rose and fell in time. The short skirt and tube-top of verdant leaves and vines she wore out of modesty barely concealed her charms, and were she among civilized company she would have drawn eyes from far away. Fernweh was oblivious to this, concentrating on the wiggling, snakelike line on her map.

 

        The dark lord Lance Hammerbane, scourge of the elven lands, defiler of the shrine of Imog, lord of the darkling horde, stopped to think for a moment. He had been pursued into the Lokus Liebe by the heroes of the realm following the crushing defeat of his army. His mount had found it impossible to move through the muck, grime and sludge of the swamp, and had had killed it in his fury. Still clad in his cursed armor he was finding it just as difficult. From his minions he had heard tales of the strange swamp, of its strange creatures and impenetrable terrain and thought he, the terrible lord of darkness, would be able to navigate it with ease. He spat on the ground in rage, cursing how wrong he was. The damned paladins pursuing him had even destroyed his demonic mace, leaving him almost completely unarmed.

 

        Tearing off his skull-faced helmet in rage, Hammerbane felt his stomach grumble. Having fled his pursuers nonstop for at least two days, he had neglected to feed himself. Something inside the dark lord snapped, and his hands fell into his hands. All his life he had relied on his minions to bring him nourishment; his orcish scouts looting choice foodstuffs from the regions he raided. Hammerbane had never had to fend for himself, to live off the land, to live as a filthy peasant. Never before had the warlord felt so helpless, trapped at the mercy of the elements, without his army, magic weapon or the power of his dark steed to aid him. Hammerbane’s tired muscles sagged under the weight of his armor, the heavy plates only making his flight more difficult. Without so much as a feeble goblin to punish, he could feel his frustration, hunger and exhaustion tearing him down. The plates of his armor creaking in frustration, the dark lord collapsed on the ground in unconsciousness.

 

        Fernweh studied the boulder in her way with a puzzled eye. Her map, if she was reading it right, said she should be passing by a lake of pitch. Instead, the trail was winding down a hill until it terminated at pile of rocks. Fernweh sighed, and focused her magic outwardly. She mouthed a question she wanted to ask the earth, to learn what the soil had seen.

“Earth, who has made the trail I walk upon? It is Fernweh, daughter of the summer falls, child of spring, who has always been your friend who asks you.”

In her mind, she could hear the land’s gruff response.

“A herd of deer. They walk up this hill every day to eat some berries that grow up top.”

“Have men, or any creatures who’s feet are shaped like man’s trod this path?” the nymph asked.

“None but you. Rarely do I see the paws of man-things.”

“Thank you, o land who I trod. Take this as token of my thanks.” With that, Fernweh reached into her pack and retrieved a pinch of soil. Seemingly unimportant to the untrained eye, but to a creature of magic like Fernweh, the lump of dirt was alive with fertility magic, and whatever was planted in it would surely grow rich and full. The nymph delicately kissed it and placed it in one of her footsteps, an offering to the swamp and its occupants.

A worried frown crossed her flawless brow, and Fernweh pursed her lips in worry. She had trusted the man in town, and even paid him with what little coin she had. The idea that someone would deceive her, would lie and trick her was alien. That someone would do it all for a meager metal coin was even stranger. She wasn’t even sure what humans did with all those coins. When she was younger she saw one with dozens of them in a sack tied to his waist and asked him what they were for. He laughed and told her “Anything! Food, shelter, company, whatever I want! But today, their for my landlord.” For years she was convinced humans ate them and made houses out of them, and maybe could use them in magic like she could with leaves and berries. But as she met more people that idea vanished, only to be replaced with the same mystery. She considered asking the animals around her, but paused when she sensed an emptiness within her. It was not unlike feeling hungry, or tired, but it was a fatigue of her soul, not her body. Speaking to the swamp had taken more of her magic then she had anticipated, and with winter approaching she would need to ration it carefully.  

She had not taken a partner in some time, and would need one to help her recover her lost magic, especially if she wanted to maintain her power through the cold. Shaking he head and mumbling in frustration, she decided to walk in the direction she thought was the exit of the bogs.

 

        Dark Lord Hammerbane had woken to his stomach turning. Half his armor was encrusted with mud, and feared that his wounds may be infected. It was impractical to wear his heavy armor, but he stubbornly refused to take it off. He sacrificed a dozen virgins to enchant it, he had butchered the army of Barro the Elder in this armor, the blood of his sphinx-knights staining it bright red. This was the armor he wore to the throne of Kaloc when he stole king’s crown, and it was in these plates he had wrestled his rival warlord Keigo to the ground and beat the life out of him with his bear hands. Without his demonic mace, his black steed and the dark banner he rode under, this set of armor was the last thing he had that marked him as Dark Lord Hammerbane.

        Struggling to move under his treasured armor, Hammerbane dragged himself through the mud, urging himself to get away from his pursuers. The effort of simply moving through the sludge felt harder than any conquest. Every fly and mosquito was a greater foe than any knight, every plant a greater obstacle then a fortress. It had been hours, but the wounded warrior had only managed to march about a mile. He needed to find a place to rest. It took some time, but he managed to locate a tree with a large hollow at it’s base, and with a grimace, he dragged himself into it. His face locked in a grimace, Hammerbane began to clean off his armor until he passed into sleep.

 

        Fernweh must have walked at least eight miles, and it was beginning to get dark. At the height of spring and close to the summer equinox she could walk for days without a rest, and spend every night dancing and laughing. But in this late season she needed to rest, and was starting to feel exhaustion in her long, lissome legs. Cursing how easily she could be fooled, she looked for a place to rest. It didn’t need to be comfortable, her enchanted form could lay in a pile of sharp sticks and have it feel like a bed of feathers, as long as she was in the wild. Anything could suffice, but she wanted something out of the way, where the swamp’s animal inhabitants, and any human travelers, wouldn’t bother her while she slept. Eyeing a stable branch above her, she decided to curl up on it and relax. It was large enough that she could stretch out without fear of falling, but about twenty feet above her. She stood on the tips of her toes and wrapped her fingers around a smaller branch to pull herself up. It was about the length of her arm and a bit thicker. She didn’t notice, however, the ring of rot where the branch connected to the tree’s trunk. She was halfway up when she felt the branch bend, and a half second later, it snapped.

 

        Hammerbane was woken with a start. He had heard a loud snap, and a moment later something heavy had hit the ground. In his life as a warrior he had seen many ambushes start in just the same way, and he was not about to fall prey to one. Pulling himself to his legs, he grabbed a rock from the ground and made his best effort to move soundlessly. The sound had come from the other side of the tree, so he peaked his head around the trunk and raised the stone in his hand, ready to strike with it. He expected a bandit, a monster, a warrior come to find and slay him. Instead he saw a woman. Young, perhaps in her late teens, with light skin and auburn hair that reached to shoulders. She had long, pointed ears, longer even than an elf’s. Her figure was impossibly perfect, a smooth, curvy hourglass with legs that tapered to fine, bare feet. Despite her surroundings her hair was silky and shiny, her skin glistening and perfectly clean. The woman, who was wearing a scandalously short skirt made of leaves and a revealing undergarment of the same material over her perky, smooth breasts, was facing away from him, dusting herself off. She reached down to pick up a plain, burlap pack, which offered Hammerbane a peak at her rump. He lowered his weapon arm, which caused the mail and plate to give a metallic rustle. The beautiful woman turned with a start, her eyes wide with fright.

 

        Hammerbane stood up, holding the rock above his head.

“Have you come to harm me wench? If you have you will fail, for you stand before Hammerbane, defiler of Imog, scourge of the elves, slayer of Keigo!”

Fernweh stood in silence, looking at the massive warrior in his dirty, spike-studded black armor. He had a handsome face, and dark hair slicked back with sweat. Fernweh could sense, however, the numerous wounds, bruises and injuries his metallic shell contained.

“I would never hurt you” Fernweh said, extending her hand “but it looks like someone has. I’m Fernweh, a nymph. I can heal you, but you need to trust me.”

Hammerbane looked from the nymph’s endearing, honest face, to her hand, to his stone, then back to Fernweh. This harlot was likely trying to get him to lower his guard, to disarm himself, so she could move in and bring him down. But, something about her, maybe her face, maybe how she stands, maybe some indistinguishable aura around her, made him want to trust her. What could this waif, this child, clearly unarmed, do to him, the terrible Dark Lord Hammerbane? If she could heal him, he might as well utilize her offer. And if it was a trap? He had destroyed cities in his grasp! Whole nations had fallen before him! He could do away with one treacherous forest girl.