Several weeks ago, a day’s journey north of Mulnirsheim...

Shadows stretched like creeping fingers across the swamp. The humid air clung to old Horge's skin as he swung his two-handed mallet, the echo of the strike reverberating through the thick muck. The post groaned as it settled into the soggy earth. Horge let out a breath, lowering the tool to the ground. His body, weathered by years of labor, ached in protest, and sweat trickled down his furrowed brow.

His younger brother Brim released his grip on the log protruding from the mire, giving it a firm shove. The post held firm. Brim nodded, satisfied. "It's holding."

Horge grunted in agreement, his gaze sweeping over the stakes they had driven into the mud. A rough square had taken shape, a patchwork of logs stubbornly jutting from the swamp’s grip. “That was the last one. Tomorrow, we start laying the foundation for the hut.”

“Went faster than I expected,” Brim said, his voice thick with the satisfaction of a job well done.

“The weather’s been kind. If nothing goes wrong, we’ll have the hut finished before my nephew’s wedding.”

Brim laughed, the sound cutting through the stillness. “We’d better. Don’t want him spending his wedding night with us in the family hut.” He paused, the laughter fading from his lips as his eyes scanned the surrounding swamp, the air suddenly heavy with tension.

Horge noticed the change immediately. “What is it?”

Brim’s eyes narrowed. “My danger sense skill... It’s kicking in. Strongly.”

Horge cursed under his breath and hefted the mallet once more, his own senses sharpening as he peered into the murky wilderness around them. The wind shifted, bringing with it a brief reprieve as it carried away the swamp's fetid stench. The willow trees rustled quietly, their long tendrils swaying lazily. Flying squirrels darted between branches, and dragonflies buzzed above the reeds, their wings catching the last rays of sunlight.

But there was nothing. No sign of the danger Brim felt so keenly.

“What exactly is your danger sense telling you?” Horge asked, his voice low.

Brim's brow furrowed deeper. “It’s getting worse. There’s nothing here, but the feeling’s stronger. Could it be a swarm of blood flies?”

“Danger sense doesn’t react to them, remember? You nearly walked right into one on the way to Mulnirsheim in your twenties.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Brim chuckled darkly. “That was my fault for straying off the protected trade route. I wanted to cut a mile off the journey. But this—this feels different. Maybe swamp worms?”

Both men instinctively glanced down at the treacherous ground beneath their feet. Brim’s face paled. “Don’t say that. It can’t be. Swamp worms don’t just appear out of nowhere. Their nests spread slowly. This has to be something faster.”

Before Horge could respond, one of the poles they had driven into the muck shuddered. A heartbeat later, it tilted and vanished beneath the swamp with a sickening squelch.

“Run!” Horge barked. He didn’t need danger sense to know that staying put was a death sentence.

Running through the swamp was a dangerous game, each step threatening to plunge them into the mire. Their escape was agonizingly slow, the swamp’s sticky grip dragging at their boots. “Head for that hill!” Horge shouted, pointing to a slight rise of solid ground not far away.

They reached the hill, breathless and covered in muck. The higher ground offered a brief sanctuary, the swamp sprawled out below them like a living thing, shifting and pulsing.

“Too bad we couldn’t build the hut here,” Brim muttered, still panting.

Horge shot him a look. “Now’s not the time.”

Brim shrugged, his eyes scanning the swamp. “I can’t see what’s moving under there yet.”

Another pole disappeared into the swamp. This time, a ripple of movement followed, and for a brief moment, a gray-green claw breached the surface before sinking back into the mire.

Horge swayed, clutching his chest. “I’m too old for this.”

Brim grabbed his arm. “What was that? Couldn’t see it clearly.”

Horge grimaced. “A shraal. It has to be.”

“There hasn’t been a shraal here in two centuries!”

“Gerdran heard rumors at the market about a new plague starting.”

Brim shuddered. “Well, it’s either that or we’ve angered Golgoroth.”

Horge shook his head: “I can’t think of anything we could have done to cause his ire.”

“Maybe we should build a shrine to the Father of Monsters, just in case?”

“Are you crazy? Start that, and next thing you know, someone’s sacrificing virgins. No, if it’s a plague, it’ll handle itself. Problems attract revenants. Or the other way around. The old stories were quite vague about which way it was.”

"You're not seriously suggesting we say the words, are you?"

"Why not? Revenants never stayed in the swamp for long. My grandfather used to tell me stories of the last plague when I was a child. Stories passed down through generations. Revenants hate the swamps. Once the local quests were done, they couldn't leave fast enough. Why do you think we settled here back then? Because of the few rare herbs and the low land prices?"

Horge remained silent and watched as another of the pillars sank into the water. Schraal hated artificial structures. They removed dead wood and were helpful in nature. Near settlements, they were a disaster. "You're right. Do it."

Brim straightened up and declaimed loudly, "Oh my! How are we supposed to defeat this beast? There's nothing we can do." He hesitated indecisively.

Horge sighed and finished the ritual: "If only some heroes would show up to help us."

A glowing red line appeared on Horge’s forehead, followed by a dot beneath it. The quest-givers mark bathed the willow trees in an eerie crimson light.

Brim glanced at his brother. “How long do you think it’ll take for someone to show up?”

Horge’s gaze lingered on the sinking posts. “A few days, at most. We’re only a day’s journey from Mulnirsheim.”

“Let’s get back to the village. We have to warn the others.”