Oren checked her equipment for the hundredth time. It wasn’t much. There was the blue travelling cloak she’d bought secondhand. She'd had to patch it several times with squares of brown leather, but the effect wasn't awful. The weathering made her look like a veteran Adventurer - or so she thought.

Aside from the cloak, she had her scimitar. Whilst Oren wasn't an expert in swordfighting, and didn't plan to be, it was something she was grateful to have. She'd snapped it up from the market, mainly on account of the blue hilt that matched her cloak. It was lightweight, too, and the blade's curve made it more natural to swing. Even an ordinary shortsword was too heavy for her to use effectively.

But she wasn't completely unprepared.

Every Adventurer had to have a Class - it was listed on their license. It had cost the last of the money her father had left her to buy it, but Oren had bought herself the Blue Caster Class. She’d bought it initially because the name matched her azure cloak and sword, but it had come with two entry level Chronocastery spells and the basic Mimeocastery ability. From the stories her father had told her, these were uncommon skills and Oren figured they might be a gap in the armour of most Adventuring bands.

She tucked the scimitar into her belt and strapped the cloak over her shoulders. She took a quick look in the mirror. It was a little bare, sure, but she'd use Balhook's money to buy some new gear.

Outside the window, the lamps were being lit. It was time to go.

"Brightsail?" asked Palas. "What kind of name is that?

Oren slipped the knots off the little rowing boat and pushed away from the simple dock.

"It used to be called Dourbog, but the Fisherman's Guild - that's basically Balhook, by the way - petitioned for a name change. Said that Dourbog didn't best advertise the up-and-coming fortunes of the island."

"Was this a long time ago? I do not remember Dourbog Island," asked Serem.

Oren shrugged. "Like, I don’t know. Ten years ago, I guess. "

Serem nodded once again. "I see. I would have been the smallest youngling then."

Oren looked at the big, fully-grown Osgoth seated next to her.

"Just how young are you?" she asked.

"This is my thirteenth year."

"Wow," she replied. "You're basically a little kid."

The Osgoth shook his head. "I am no longer a child. I am on my maldospringa."

"It's an Osgoth thing," Palas cut in. "When they come of age, they spend at least a year in the outside world. Afterwards, they decide - in or out."

"Huh," Oren said. "That's cool. What do people get up to? Fighting dragons? Slaying cyclops?"

Serem thought for a moment. "Taverns, mostly."

Palas sniffed. "It stinks out here."

"It's a swamp," Oren said. "It's supposed to stink."

Keeping a wrinkled expression on his face, Palas looked out to the inlets and riverways. The light of the full moon wormed lazily across the water.

"So, any tricks to these frogmen?" he asked. "Not that I need the help--" he tapped his jewelled daggers "--but it'd be nice to know any weaknesses."

Oren couldn't help herself - she had to laugh.

"They’re just frogs but bigger. And stupider. My dad and I used to scoop them straight out of the water." She held her hands two feet apart. "Last time I went I caught one this big."

Palas glowered at her. "Why would you want to catch frogs?"

"Times were pretty hard until the fish came back," she said. "The legs were pretty good if you fried them."

The disgust on Palas's rose to new heights.

"Ew," he said simply.

"What is that smell?" asked Palas.

Oren gagged. It was foul - like the smell of fish on a hot day.

"I thought you said they were just frogs," hissed Palas.

Oren blinked, disbelieving. "I… they are-- were."

A dozen figures crouched around the fire. Each was about the size of a human child, but with spindly bodies and limbs, covered in blue scales. One perked up, revealing wide-set, amber eyes that shone in the moonlight, bulging out of a featureless face. A single fin flicked upwards from its head. It was hard to read an expression from the thing, but it seemed agitated.

Then, to Oren's further surprise, it opened its mouth and talked.

It wasn't words - at least, nothing like any tongue she'd heard before - but it was communicating, in some way. It was a strange, garbled range of noise halfway between a choke and a belch.

The other creatures stood up slowly and responded with more of those unpleasant noises. They started to fan out around the islet, taking up what could only be described as defensive positions - although they did not seem enthusiastic about the idea, and quickly plonked themselves down again, facing out to the swamp.

"They"ve… the swampers have evolved," she whispered.

"Good," said Palas. "Still pathetic, but at least we're not hunting frogs anymore. Take me over to that bank over there." He pointed to a muddy bank that joined the swampers' islet via a muddy ford.

Oren rowed the boat to the bank - how had she ended up rowing the damn thing? She was supposed to be the master of the Brightsail Adventurer's Guild! - without comment. Something about these new swampers made her feel uneasy. She felt her stomach churn as she remembered that she'd eaten them before.

"OK," said Palas. "I'm gonna go and clear those little freaks out. You can sit here and watch."

Before either of them could reply, Palas had leapt out the boat with surprising agility and was sneaking across the fjord, a black silhouette on a bright night. There was the slightest sncckt as the jewelled daggers slid out of their scabbards.

The swamper nearest to the ford looked up in time to catch sight of the shadowy figure barrelling towards him - and to see him slip, planting face first into the mud. The swamper began to shout, an insistent garbled noise that raised the alarm across the islet. The other swampers shouted back incomprehensible, skin-crawling responses and dashed towards them.

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"Let's go!" said Serem, hopping off the boat and charging into the scene.

"I was supposed to say that," snapped Oren, pressing her hands together. "Quicken!"

A silvery cloud spread out from her hands as the world slowed around them. It enveloped Palas and Serem and vanished, the world returning to it's ordinary rhythm.

Palas was back on his feet, wiping mud from his eyes.

"What was that?"

"Quicken," Oren said, appearing beside him. "It'll make our reactions quicker!"

"Great, a Chronocaster. I thought you were a useful kind of mage." Palas groaned, and then groaned further at seeing the mud on his daggers. "Can't you Cast a fireball and nuke these things?"

The swampers had surrounded them now, and were pointing crude spears whilst screaming their garbled words at them.

"Me next," said Serem. He cracked his knuckles and jumped forward, slamming a fierce punch into the face of the nearest swamper - before leaping neatly backwards, landing in a low stance, fists raised. The creature reeled and stumbled backwards, a thick tongue lolling from its mouth. It hit the floor with a thud and twitched once, before falling still.

Palas let out a low whistle. "Lucky shot."

A swamper dashed forward, sticking its spear madly. It struck Serem on the shoulder, digging a deep gash into the Osgoth's unarmoured flesh. The Osgoth flinched, then grabbed hold of the spear's pole and gave it a hard yank, sending the unsuspecting swamper flying towards him. Serem fed him a swift, sharp kick to the mouth. The swamper was knocked backwards and scrabbled a safe distance away, bleeding freely from its mouth.

Another two dove forward. The first aimed for Oren, its spear flailing wildly. Oren ducked, thanking her hastened reactions, and the spear passed harmlessly overhead. The second went for Palas and somehow stuck his spear into the ground, sending itself vaulting off and landing with a thump before crouching behind its hissing fellows.

Quick as a snake, Palas was up by one of the remaining swampers, his daggers slashing with a butcher's precision. Before the swamper could even react, its entrails were spilling out. Palas finished the attack with a frontal stab to the thing's head. The swamper looked at the knife dripping its brains with a glazed expression. Palas kicked the body and the thing fell back into its screaming fellows.

The three remaining swampers steeled themselves, raising their spears.

Three on three, thought Oren. Much better odds.

With that thought in mind, Oren decided to attack. She drew the scimitar from her belt and charged the middle swamper - it was the one who"d sniffed them out originally, with the fin on its head.

"Be careful!" cried Palas. "That one's a--"

With a resounding battle cry, she slashed at the swamper.

The swamper raised its spear - this one was bigger than others and in addition to having the fin, its scales had a slight purple hue - and managed to block the attack, but only just. It trembled under the weight of Oren's attack.

She slipped the blade back and dashed it forward, achieving a glancing slice across the swamper's shoulder before it could react.

"Aha!" she cried. "Take that!"

Oren was too elated with the mild success of her onslaught to notice the swamper drawing back and puffing out his chest.

"Did you see that?" she said to Serem. "That's why I'm master of the guil--"

Oren didn't see the swamper vomit the lurid green paste, but she felt something wet and slimy hit the back of her head. Even worse, she smelt it. Immediately she fell to her knees, retching.

She didn't even notice the other swamper. She felt excruciating pain as the spear dug painfully into her thigh. Oren screamed more as Serem tore the spear free and pulled her back.

"She's been poisoned," Serem said.

"I'm OK," she said, rising on an unsteady knee. The world swam slightly, and she felt incredibly sick. "Urgh…"

"I tried to warn you," Palas said. "That one's dangerous. He's the big one - the boss."

Seemingly without effort, Serem delivered a powerful roundhouse kick to the head of the swamper who had speared Oren. There was an agonised gargle, but the thing kept on its feet, swaying slightly.

Palas dashed into the Osgoth's wake, his dagger making a swift line to the stupefied swamper's throat. The swamper stood stock still and gargled as the blood began to spray out of the hole in his throat.

"Two more to go," he said, as coolly as if he'd been ordering dinner.

Meanwhile, Oren fought down the urge to vomit as a wave of pain racked her body.

The bigger swamper - the one she was thinking of as a king swamper now - dived for her again, spear aimed for her heart. Her body kicked into a reaction before she could stop it and protest that she was about to be sick.

Oren ducked to the left of the incoming spear. She watched as it flowed past her at a trickle - the uneven Castof her hasten spell burning more forcefully now. She spun her scimitar in her hand and delivered the killing slash she had missed earlier. She felt the drag of her blade across the king swamper's scaly skin. She pressed the blade deeper and felt less resistance, slicing freely through organs inside. She spun backwards and held her blade aloft in a duelling stance, pointed at the remaining swampers.

Then she was violently ill.

The final swamper, perhaps driven mad by the slaughter of his companions, charged at Palas, twice cracking him on the head with his spear in two frenzied motions. Palas cried out in pain and was knocked down, wherein the swamper dived on him and tried to gouge his eyes out with its webbed hands.

Palas wrestled with the monster, and managed to force both his daggers into the thing's ribs, but still it scrambled on, wildly grabbing and screaming incomprehensibly at him. Serem grabbed the swamper from behind and pulled it away from Palas, its hands flapping harmlessly in the night.

The Osgoth let out a powerful cry of effort and began to crush the swamper inside of his strong arms. The swamper thrashed against Serem's vice-like grip, but it was no use. Serem continued to pull him into a tighter bear hug. Oren winced at the sound of the swamper's bones audibly breaking. It let out a final gasp and slumped into death. Serem dropped the thing and doubled over with exertion. He took a series of deep, hard breaths.

"Thanks," said Palas. "But I had him on my own."

Serem said nothing - and shared a look with Oren, who rolled her eyes back at him. He laughed a breathless chuckle.

"That's it, huh. Feels like seven gold a head - that's forty-two in total - was a little low for… for that," Oren said.

"Good price for frogs," said Palas, climbing to his feet and holding his head delicately. "But they weren't frogs. Those were frogmen. Emphasis on the men part."

Serem nodded. "Those were somewhat more than I was expecting. I could see how they could pose a serious threat to fishing boats."

"But nothing I couldn't handle," Palas added. "I could have taken all six on my own."

"Sure. That sneak attack you opened with, the one where you kissed the swamp, that was real pro stuff," Oren said. "I think I've been poisoned. We should probably get back to town.``

Oren was to start a slow, painful clamber back to the boat when she heard a scuttling noise.

"What the hell is that?" she said, rounding on the source of the sound.

One of the swampers was still alive and crawling across the muddy ground.

Palas made a noise of disgust. "Should we just put it out of its misery?"

"Where's it going?" asked Oren.

The broken swamper dragged its broken body across the body, heading towards the remains of the crude fire.

"I can't believe these things make fires now," Oren said. "Let's leave it and go. It"ll die on its own." She turned away with tremendous effort.

"Look," said Serem.

"What the heck is that?" Palas said.

"It's some sort of icon," said the Osgoth.

Oren turned back with great difficulty.

The crawling swamper wasn't grasping for the fire - but instead was prostrating itself in front of something. Oren squinted at the something. It was a skull resting on a stick. It was missing its jawbone. Instead, the swampers seemed to have attached dozens of vines to it, forming an absurd snake's nest of a beard. The blank eye sockets seemed to stare at them. The remaining swamper was beneath it now, making more of the alarming gurgling noises and slapping its hands into the mud. Oren shivered.

"Is… is the frogman praying to that thing, or am I just mad?" Palas said.

In her role as a human being, Oren thought it was creepy. However, she figured that as the master of an Adventurer's Guild, this was par the course. She shrugged.

"Sure. I guess. Let's kill it, mop up the heads and head… sail on home," she said.

"He appears to be engaged in fervent prayer, to whatever that is," said Serem. "I did not realise the swampers were spiritual beings."

Palas knelt down and regarded the swamper for a moment, before whipping a knife into its brain. The swamper stilled.

"Why does it matter?" Palas said. "They were monsters trying to kill us, and now they're dead."

Serem sighed. "I hope they find their maker, whoever he is. It was not long ago that Osgoths were seen as monsters too, slain in their own cradles."

Neither Palas nor Oren said anything. Oren made her way back to the boat, throwing up en route, whilst Palas took trophies as proof of the kills. After some debate, they settled on the heads and stuffed them in a rank-smelling sack that had lain at the bottom of the boat.