As they delved deeper into the petrified wilderness, the torch's fiery glow illuminated their path, transforming the silent trees into looming silhouettes.

Sporadic attacks from the bergelmirs occasionally punctuated their journey, but nothing that the group wasn't equipped to handle. They were merely skirting the outskirts of the Milling Logs, so the threats were still relatively manageable. And with an unseen guardian subtly influencing their encounters to ensure their challenges were within their capabilities, they were doing well.

Eventually, the sun began its climb, drenching the world in a blanket of light and warmth. Those bergelmirs who failed to find sanctuary within the logs stood immobilized under the sun's glare, their petrified bodies locked in rigid stillness. Their brethren, who had sought shelter within the logs, could only gaze helplessly as the group strolled past, powerless to break their sunlight-induced paralysis.

Indulging his mischievous streak, Preston taunted the frozen creatures, "Come on, bite me! You know you want to!" He jutted butt toward the inert bergelmirs, slapping it provocatively in a jestful dare.

Unsurprisingly, the petrified beasts remained unresponsive.

Shaking her head in mild exasperation, Hilda chastised, "Honestly, Preston. You're such a child."

Undeterred, Preston quipped, "Hey, Hilda, do you think they're scared of my mesmerizing charm? Or perhaps they just can't resist my irresistible scent?" He chuckled, aiming to elicit a reaction from the paralyzed creatures.

Rolling her eyes in amused resignation, Hilda retorted, "Oh definitely, Preston. Your scent is simply irresistible, especially after two weeks without a bath." Her jest elicited a round of laughter from Preston.

Glucia interjected, "We've only been out here for two days, you know."

Hilda just smiled.

“Heyyyy!” Preston protested, just figuring out the jest.

Cain chided Preston, trying to maintain some semblance of seriousness. "Preston, stop trying to make them bite you. We're here on a mission, not goading petrified monsters. Besides, I'm not sure we want to witness what happens when they unfreeze."

Meanwhile, Glucia was nursing her own grievances. The stony ground had made every step a challenge, and she yearned for the soft give of earth under her feet. "Who would've thought I'd miss the feeling of mud squelching between my toes," she complained good-naturedly.

Hilda couldn't help but agree with Glucia's sentiment. "I know how you feel, Glucia. This rigid, stone-like ground isn't exactly comfortable. Didn't get a decent wink of sleep, and my back's been aching."

Osric, meanwhile, found his attention drawn to the intriguing scent of blood that he had picked up earlier. It was growing stronger, tempting him to investigate.

Gradually, the terrain shifted. The calcified trees gave way to living ones, shedding their stony exteriors like discarded shells. Life returned to the landscape as vibrant shades of green and brown replaced the monochromatic white. The air carried the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the earthy fragrance of damp soil, replacing the stagnant stillness that had pervaded the petrified forest.

Preston couldn't help but rejoice at their return to living nature. He flung his arms around a tree in a spontaneous embrace, joyous to be amongst the living greenery once more. Seized by a sudden impulse, he clambered up its branches, eager to get a better view of their surroundings. "We're nearing the Misty Swamp," he reported, noting the characteristic foggy expanse in the distance.

As they readied themselves to traverse the swamp, Glucia reiterated a fundamental rule of survival. Her voice cut through the air with an authority that commanded attention, “Everyone remember, while in the swamp, what’s the most important thing?”

Without missing a beat, Osric responded, "Stick together like a pack. Never stray from the group, no matter what you see or hear,"

“Exactly,” Glucia affirmed, her gaze sweeping over the group to ensure the rule was seared into their minds. She emphasized each word, "Stay close, and whatever happens. DO NOT let your curiosity lead you off our chosen path."

They trailed along the squelching path, a winding serpent of mud and wet reeds that delved deeper into the heart of the swamp, the fog parting reluctantly before them.

The scent of blood, intoxicating in its metallic sweetness, began to intensify as they neared the entrance of the Misty Swamp. The aroma hung heavy in the air, akin to an unseen marker of the grim realities hidden within the swamp's murkiness. But then, as sudden as a gust of wind, the trail of the scent swerved. It twisted and turned away from the path they had carved through the swamp, weaving its way into the deep recesses of the woods. Like a wisp of smoke carried off on the breeze, the scent began to fade, luring the curious away from the well-trodden path and into the mysterious shadows of the woodland. Osric found himself fixated on this receding trail, his eyes locked onto the seemingly invisible path. His gaze bore into the dense foliage where the scent had dissipated, eyes narrowed, scanning for signs of what lay hidden within the verdant depths. A spark of curiosity replaced the usual stoicism on his face.

With every step, the air grew heavier with humidity, the path muddier, and the visibility progressively obscured by a misty veil.

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"We're only on the fringe now," Cain advised, his tone cautionary, "but as we go deeper, visibility will reduce, so be cautious." He retrieved a seed from his pocket, earning him a snide comment from Preston.

"Really, Cain? You've been lugging that thing around the entire time? What are you, a gardener?" Preston ribbed.

The group looked at him with questionable gazes.

Preston was quick to clarify, rolling his eyes dramatically, "Relax, guys. I know what it is. I was joking. I'm not that clueless."

Amused by Preston's antics, Cain retorted, "Your humor leaves much to be desired, Preston." Without further ado, he began tending to the seed, delicately rubbing it before planting it in the ground and spitting on it.

Intrigued, Hilda asked, "What strain is it?"

"I have all four types on me, but given our current location, I chose the southern one," Cain replied.

Wayward Seed. A quick-growing seed sprouted a single leaf that always pointed towards one of the four cardinal directions from the moment it germinated until it withered. The leaf would adjust if the plant was moved, ensuring the direction remained consistent. This made it an invaluable tool for hunters and explorers to stay on course.

No sooner had the seed been sown than it burst through the soil, sprouting a single leaf that pointed southwards, deeper into the mist. "Time to move on," Cain announced, pulling out the plant and gripping it by its stem. "Stay close and mind your footing."

While Cain handled the plant, Glucia fetched a robust red yarn from her bag. She secured it to everyone's backpacks. "If you feel a pull, it means the person behind you has stopped. Don't proceed. Use the yarn to find them."

Their journey further into the swamp was met with an engulfing fog that diminished visibility to a handful of feet. The mist shrouded the trees, casting their shadows into eerie, skeletal forms.

The swamp's terrain also made progress difficult. The ground squelched and shifted underfoot, each step becoming an effort. Moisture hung heavy in the air, dampening their clothes and permeating their bones with a cold heaviness.

Amid the all-encompassing fog, Preston grumbled. His voice barely cut through the dense mist. "Why even call this a 'Misty Swamp'? 'Foggy Swamp' seems more appropriate."

"In truth, the accurate name for this place is Lasbtriurese Bog," Glucia explained in hushed tones, her voice like a soft breeze rustling through the moss-covered trees. "But we find 'Misty Swamp' sits better on our tongues. The locals say it evokes an image more in line with the haunting fog that forever clings to this place like a shroud," she added, her eyes reflecting the dim light that managed to break through the thick canopy of intertwined branches and leaves above.

Holding the wayward plant in one hand, Cain expressed his relief, "I'm glad there are no creatures around. With our vision so limited, a fight would be detrimental."

Cain gingerly held a wayward plant in his large hand. He expressed his relief, "I'm glad there are no creatures around. With our vision so limited, a skirmish would be disastrous at best."

Hilda, chimed in with a playful tone. "I've heard whispers that the local folk chased the Guliena crocodiles into the depth of the Lasbtri..." she stumbled over the native name, deciding to abandon the linguistic hurdle for convenience's sake. "... uhh, Misty Swamp," she corrected, causing laughter to ripple through the group.

As they pressed forward, Cain stumbled but quickly righted himself. "Watch out, there's a root here," he warned the group. The forest floor was a minefield of hidden obstacles, from protruding roots to concealed stumps and precarious sinkholes. They had to be on constant guard to prevent accidental trips and falls.

Glucia's voice sliced through the silence, tinged with revulsion. "I swear if a Waterglade leech gets its slime on me, I'll..." She let the threat hang in the air, her eyes wide with disgust. Even in the dim light, one could see her cheeks flushing with dread at the thought.

Their ongoing chatter provided a welcome distraction from the uncertain terrain. Osric, trailing at the end of the group, kept to himself. Clutched tightly in one hand was a jagged rock, its sharp edge glinting in the sparse light. On the other, a piece of red yarn, the lifeline that connected him to the group. He was waiting for the right moment.

Preston's voice filled the air, "And then it was on me!" he exclaimed, his words echoing throughout the swamp, providing the cover for Osric. With a swift, practiced movement, Osric severed the yarn with the rock, his action undetected amidst Preston's dramatic storytelling.

Without a backward glance, Osric turned on his heel and retraced his steps. Each footfall was precise, leading him back to the entrance of the swamp.

He was wasting his time.

The battles they had fought so far were meticulously controlled and monitored. It was an utter waste of time for him. It was as if a group of children were pretending to be adults, obliviously chattering and playing around with no awareness of the protective net enveloping them. While they did exhibit some potential and demonstrated some level of preparedness, such experiences were far too common and mundane for Osric, something he had done thousand times folded over—his Osric's pretense of camaraderie done for now.

Osric had found himself on this team, not out of choice but necessity. The village mandated they had to take an outside mission before the tournament. And that missions had to be undertaken by teams of five. Bound by these rules, he found himself amongst a team, even though they interfered with his more individualistic and independent approach toward hunting and combat.

Osric was primarily hunting for ingredients. Following the village's standard traplines would yield little, as they were often stripped bare. He needed to take a different route.

Osric's purpose for being here was primarily of a more practical nature: he was on a quest for rare and potent ingredients. The village's traditional traplines were often over-trodden, picked clean by the numerous hunters who frequented them. The fauna had grown wise to these habitual traps, leading to ever-dwindling yields. He needed to take a different route.

As he neared the swamp's entrance, he observed the obscuring veil of fog gradually thinning.

Before leaving, he submerged himself fully in the murky waters, allowing the thick mud to seep into every crevice to envelop every inch of his muscular frame. The cold slime seemed to seep into his very pores, stinging his senses yet offering a primal form of camouflage. As he re-emerged, Osric looked foreign, a figure cloaked head to toe in the dark kiss of the swamp.

Turning his back on the swamp, he made for the ominous shadow of the forest. Delving deeper than any of them had dared to before, Osric moved with the quiet finesse of a predator on the hunt. His steps were feather-light, designed to ensure he remained an unnoticed phantom amidst the foliage. Each step, each breath, was measured, calculated to avoid making unnecessary noise or stirring the rich life that surrounded him.

His senses came alive, tuning into the natural symphony of the wilderness, resonating with the rhythm of the forest. He could feel the subtle vibrations under his bare feet, hear the rustling of leaves betraying unseen creatures, and taste the raw earthiness in the air.

He moved inwards towards the receding path. A peculiar aroma had been teasing his nostrils ever since they had ventured into the forest. It was the metallic tang of blood, a scent that sent an exhilarating rush through his veins.