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Chapter 6 - Bog Standard

The remainder of the descent was done in muted silence, as the damp, moldy-earth scent of the bog below increased in nasal volume. Even Fernando, who baulked for nothing, seemed to soften his footfalls as the rock of the mountain turned to thick gravel, and then to damp grassland as the encroaching bog drew nearer and less appealing.

Thankfully, any remaining crankiness that Percy had been filled with like a stout jug, had now poured forth and his usual hapless nature (as billed) settled into the vessel. He had taken to making notes of one of the files of paper that he insisted on carrying around - as Goreblaster baulked away like a vampire accosted by tax forms written on garlic. Not that the meandering jostles of the mule’s steps did much to assist with the penmanship of the balled-up manager.

“Reckon we will find it easily?” Goreblaster asked idly, more just to break the silence than to seek an answer.

Percy shrugged, not looking away from his wild scrawls. “Do we ever have trouble with finding… trouble?”

Goreblaster stumbled over a hidden root of some mushy-looking vegetation; the foul greenery of the bog - occasional tree included, began filling into the background of their conversation. “There was the Ghost Elk of Khervay. Also, Jarl Spikebottom - but that was his own fault I suppose.”

“Well, the troll is neither undead, nor in orbit - so it should be fine.”

The fur boot of the barbarian squelched into a puddle of muck that was deceptively deep - splashing mud up his leg. Ground that withheld its true intentions was some of his least favourite types of terrain. Probably right after lava/magma (depending on whether he was underground or not).

“Next time, let’s kill something in a more hospitable environment.”

“I did try to ask him to relocate, but he didn’t respond to my mail,” Percy rolled his eyes. “It’s on the way to the gateway to hell.”

Goreblaster scowled as an uncomfortable damp tree brushed against his unprepared head, rubbing foul dew through his dark hair. For a brief moment, he considered skipping the job altogether - he didn’t want to turn up to hell all stinky and covered in filth. Not of his own accord, anyway. However, the draw of that thin golden thread of praise dangled over him like the clutches of a slovenly marionette, and he found himself dancing awkwardly in the direction they guided.

By ‘dancing’, he was at least managing to find each and every small muck-filled divot along this path - in comparison to the near high and dry (and definitely smug about it) mule. Nary five minutes had passed, and his thick leather boots were caked in the foulest recipe of standing water, slick mud, and rotting vegetation (five parts per). Each pratfall increased the spark of frustration within him by a mote, a beguiling bonfire in his midsection that you wouldn’t want to linger by for too long, lest you get burnt.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

If there were any other inhabitants in the bog at this moment, they had better be hoping that they were not bog-troll shaped. The area was instead, very quiet. Not even the extraverted croak of a frog, or the high-pitched whine of some soul-sucking bug.

“Could you at least try to keep up, Gore?” Percy whined, like a high-pitched soul-sucking bug.

“What happened to the elevation-mood thing?”

“I think it’s just the bad dream I had, has put me off for the day.”

Goreblaster scratched his head, getting the musty tree juice on his hand. “The Dream Eater didn’t consume your dream?”

“There was no Dream Eater, Goreblaster,” the manager turned slowly to face the barbarian, the greenish hue of the light here reflecting brightly across his round spectacles.

A silence followed between the pair, as Goreblaster bit his lip and frowned. He definitely killed something though, right? Or was that actually the dream? No- wait. Was he actually dreaming now, under the spell of the nefarious Dream Eater, only being fooled into having defeated the monster when instead it was still feeding on him? The sweat running down his back felt real enough, and he licked his dry lips in contemplation on how to fix this. Probably by stabbing something he hoped… maybe Percy.

Pureheart slid a couple of inches out of the sheathe as the barbarian continued to stare at the circular assistant. But then he stopped, and shortly after so did Fernando, as they both listened out.

Bubbles.

Not even the fun kind - it was the low wet slap of bog bubbles, thick brackish water reluctantly allowing air to surface from some hidden source submerged. Goreblaster turned his head in the direction of the noise, a wider pool of the foul filth about a dozen feet from their (mostly) solid path. The bubbles were visible, of modestly large size, too. Not that he was anyone to judge.

As the mysterious emanations expelled themselves in brief continuity, drawing the attention of the trio - a sudden splash from a rise in water shook them, as from behind them a large figure exploded wetly from another bog standard pool of muck.

“Oh,” Goreblaster stated, as he was pelted by droplets of the smelly water, gravity reluctantly accepting back the detritus thrown into the air from the appearance of what was now quite clearly a bog troll. Hopefully the bog troll. A ten-foot-tall gangly mess of taut iron-strong muscles and greyish skin dripping with green-brown bog refuse. Behind a goofy grin of stubby teeth, pale green eyes belied the malicious - or at least hungry, intentions of the surprise-monster.

The troll withdrew a club from the bog, a rotted and hollow tree then spewed out the filthy water like a drunkard with no clue of his limits, and with immense strength swung it out at the stunned assistant/manager and mule.

With a rush of displaced air, the pair opened their eyes to find they had not been crushed like muddy floor pancakes - instead, Goreblaster stood before them, Pureheart blazing blue energy as the tree club had been lopped in half.

As Goreblaster smiled, a spark in his eye shimmering as he was about to deliver one of his famous one-liners, the phrase caught in his throat like an introverted frog, as a second and third splash came from behind him.

Slow, moist chuckles of two more bog trolls echoed around the fetid pools.