I'd spent the better part of the morning saying my goodbyes to the ruins, the sitfriga, Myri, and, reluctantly, to Sav—who, as it turned out, was just going to hang out at Riddara until his own Trial started. Seemed like a waste of a perfectly good giant to me, but what did I know?

Myri had indicated I had to find something called…Fierce Tea Buyer—which gave me all sorts of ideas of some overly aggressive Karen. Then, o’ course, I learned that it was actually ‘Fyrstibaer.’ Though, what Fyrstibaer was, I hadn’t any clue. So, with a head full of more questions than answers, I set out for my next Trial. I had no idea what to expect, but if it was anything like my last couple of days, I was in for a treat.

First things first, though: I needed a new club. My trusty old one had met its untimely demise in the jaws of that giant serpent—what was it called? Gildrubatari? Yeah, that thing. So, off I went, picking my way through the swamp, carefully following the subtle hints from Marshlore on which direction to take. It was a bit like having a really quiet GPS in my head, one that only spoke in feelings and vague notions.

After a good long while of trudging through mud and grasses taller than they had any right to be, I found myself back at the ravine from the day before. From there, I followed the stream’s direction until I was fairly certain the bootprints I was noticing belonged to me, and followed them up and over into the open area where my climactic battle had ended so unfortunately. The place still gave me the heebie-jeebies, but I had to admit, there was a certain satisfaction in seeing the scene of my near-demise again. It was like looking at a scar and remembering how you got it—only this scar was a big-ass dead snake and a whole lot of blood.

I stood there for a moment, just taking it all in. The mangled body of the Gildrubatari lay where I'd left it, a gruesome monument to the indomitable spirit of one Leo Trask. Blood, ichor, and all manner of other fluids I didn't want to think about stained the water and the ground around it. It was a hell of a sight, like something outta one o’ them B-rank horror movies. I wondered if I should feel bad about it, but then I remembered the whole 'it tried to eat me' part and decided I was okay with how things turned out.

As I stood there, lost in thought, I couldn't help but reflect on everything that had happened. It all seemed so surreal, like I was walking through someone else's dream. I'd come to this strange, twisted version of a swamp, been chosen by a Verndari I'd never met, and had my life saved by the same. And now, here I was, about to head off to who knows where for who knows what. The life of Leo Trask, folks—a real page-turner.

Of course, the voiceless voice that had been pretty quiet for a while sprung up right then and there.

Lo, the second toll of the Trial has been observed.

The Boglands takes note of your willingness to vanquish your foes.

To which domain would you like to dedicate your kill?

The Bog?

Yourself?

To none at all?

But there was a new, entirely less wholesome option sitting at the bottom of the list, and I had to stare at it for a moment, trying to decide how pissed off I needed to be.

Or to your Verndari, Jotufinn?

I don’t think I’d ever deliberated less over something. I chose ‘myself,’ and felt the shift as something within me accessed the…Stig, right? Yeah. That uncomfortable zapping sensation that reminded me of a hypnic jerk.

The son of the bog has chosen himself to receive the bounty. What would he advance?

I also had to consider how odd it was that this hadn’t happened until I’d stumbled back upon the serpent corpse. Which stood to reason that…well, if I wanted to keep gaining these Stig—and I had reason to believe I should—I’d need to make sure I gathered ‘em up before I moved on, otherwise I’d be required to double back, like in this instance.

That was interesting, though.

Well, maybe ‘interesting’ was too charitable of a word. ‘Inconvenient’ might’ve been a better one. I still wasn’t sure how I’d even ended up back at the ruins when I’d faded from consciousness before—which was another mystery. Myri seemed hesitant to reveal the source, so I had to assume it was just…one o’ those things, you know? Something I’d be left in the dark about…until I wasn’t. Man, I really missed out not having the Apocrypha thing everybody was mentioning.

Wonder if there’s an Apocrypha outlet mall or something ‘round here?

The ghostly outline of my body appeared in front of me, just like the last time I’d dedicated to myself, and I leaned forward to take a gander at what awaited me for my Stig allocation. I looked over the details, not quite sure what I was supposed to be doing.

The son of the bog has two Stig with which to redeem to his Sönnun.

ACCUITY - BASE

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

VITALITY - BASE

GALDUR - 5 S

MIGHT - BASE

DEFTNESS - 1 S

Well, huh. Only two Stig this time? Guess the method with which I dispatched ol’ danger worm over there wasn’t as impressive to the Bog. That was fine, two was better than zero and whatever the tabulation methodology was for these things didn’t really make sense to me anyhow. I ain’t gonna look a gift snake in the Stig, that’s for sure.

Because, I am, above all things, cautious, I decided to get some help with my placement. So, I picked up the attavita—the weighty compass tucked into my bandolier—and tried to summon Otho.

“Hey, uh, Otho…” I said aloud. “Got another set of Stig to parcel out. Any chance you’re free to help?”

It only took a moment for the specter to come fluttering to life in front of me, and just like the outline of myself, he was still bathed in hues of white and blue like he was one of the ghosts in the 90’s Casper the Friendly Ghost flick.

“Howdy,” I said to him, noticing he was blinking around like he’d just woken up. “Were you busy?”

The big bearded specter laughed, and it was big and loud.

“Bog, no, boy!” he declared, shaking his head. “Was sitting around waiting for ye, if I’m being true. Powerfully dull, the attavita. Not much to do except loiter, hoping to be summoned for assistance. Now, let’s not waste any time—my mind’s starved for stimulation, so let’s see what ye’ve got available to ye.”

He turned to the look at my little paper doll doppelganger and harumphed.

“Only two, eh? Bad break, that,” he said. “Still, better than none at all.”

“That’s what I said!” I exclaimed. “We’re on the same wavelength, Otho—I like it.”

“Eh?” he turned to look at me with a raised eyebrow, then shrugged. “Nevermind, probably some Utvandring phrasing, eh? Let’s see…”

He examined the version of me floating in front of him for a moment longer and then cracked a wide grin.

“Only got one question for ye, boy—to help me in my measure.”

“Shoot,” I said, then realizing he might not know what that would mean, I corrected course. “Uh, I mean, ‘go ahead.’”

“Where ye off to?”

“To something called the Fyrstibaer?” I said, trying to make sure I pronounced it correctly—which I most likely did not.

“Ah…” Otho said, nodding. “Fyrstibaer. Supposin’ ye don’t know what that is, then?”

“Not a clue,” I said. “Do you?”

“Aye, boy,” he said, nodding sagely. “Fyrstibaer is a village.”

“Huh…” I mused. “Didn’t really think there’d be anything like that here.”

“And why not?” Otho wondered. “They don’t have villages from whence ye came?”

“Oh, no, there’s definitely…well, we’ve got things the size of villages, I suppose,” I said. “We just don’t usually call ‘em that unless there’s like…a touristy reason for it. We just tend to call ‘em ‘towns.’ Small towns, specifically. But, I’m sure they’re quite a bit different, regardless.”

“Right, so…ye know what a village is, then,” he said, almost disbelieving. “That’s good, will take less time to explain. Though, ye may be right on one front: Fyrstibaer is likely unnatural to yer reckoning.”

“Unnatural? Like…haunted?”

“Mayhap, boy,” he said, his tone taking on a deadly seriousness. “It’s where the Trask Clan laid claim. Where they raised them up, ye see.”

“The ol’ stomping grounds, huh?” I nodded. “I get that. So…if they’re all gone, save for me, does that mean it’s abandoned?”

“Portions, I’d imagine,” Otho said. “Though unlikely to be fully fled, if ye understand my meaning. Going to have some of them who would be still living there that weren’t Trask—retainers, workers, the like. Stands to reason it would be a different place, though, than any might recognize. And if yer being sent there…well, then that answers the question on where to place the Stig.”

“Yeah?”

“Ye’ll need yer wits about ye,” Otho said. “For safety’s sake, I’d suggest adding them to Nákvæmni.”

He gestured to the one that was now labeled ‘ACCUITY.’ I nodded.

“You’re the boss, Otho,” I said. Then I confirmed the designation.

“Oh, before I forget,” I said. “You heard of Clan Sav?”

Otho did something strange, he spat in one direction, his demeanor suddenly shifting into one of disgust.

“Woah!” I exclaimed. “Watch the specter phlegm…or would that be ‘ectoplasm?’ Nevermind, what’s the deal? You don’t like them?”

“They’re scoundrels,” Otho said, biting off the word like a curse. “Why do ye curse me with their moniker?”

“Curse…what?” I asked. “I don’t know what that means. But…what makes them…scoundrels?”

“Horse thieves, brigands, murderers, ye name it, they’re at the head of it,” Otho said. “Best to steer clear of any ye meet—and kill the one’s ye can’t give a wide berth to—before they kill you.”

This was shocking, and I thought back to how Sav, before I’d even discovered his existence, had tried to attack me. I figured it was just some dumb greeting, considering how it ended with us sharing a bowl of gruel, but…well, maybe there was more to that?

“Well,” I said, trying to act casual. “It turns out, I might not be able to do that.”

“What? Boy, ye best start making sense! Yer turning my stomach here.”

“Because a member of Clan Sav turned up at Riddara just today and he’s going to be participating in his own Trial to become my Squire.”

Otho gaped at me.

“Wh…no!” He shouted, and I winced. “Ye can’t allow that! Vile creatures, the Sav! Stab ye in the back before you can even see it coming. A Sav has never been a Squire before, and there’s reason for that! Ye need to kill him!”

My anxiety had spiked, and now my mind was running a mile a minute. His arrival had been strange, even the weird aggression notwithstanding. He was really cagey about his origins as well. But…well, wouldn’t Myri have mentioned something like that?

“If they’re not allowed to be Squires, then how come Myri didn’t say anything, or warn me, or anything?”

Otho scowled.

“The Steward of the Bog follows the rules to the letter,” he said. “Isn’t a matter of law, that, it’s a matter of common sense. The tenets of the Trial state any born to the Bog can take their chance. But, it’s always been understood by the rest of the Boglands that Sav was a clan not worth considering. Aye, even strongly dissuaded might be a better term for ye. Yer ancestors knew not to allow the Sav to try their hand, because they ain’t the type to have yer back. As I mentioned, they’ll likely stick a knife between yer teeth and fish it out the hard way.”

Well, this was bad. Like, really bad. I hadn’t known any of this, and Myri hadn’t seemed interested in sharing those details. Though…I suppose it had been acting a little odd. I had just assumed it was about the curious circumstances of the muscular tight-lip’s appearance, but maybe…

Well, I couldn’t do anything about that at the moment. Fortunately, Sav wouldn’t be able to participate in his Trial until I got further along in mine—which, according to Myri, was still a ways off. So, I had time to plan around this. Thank goodness Otho was in the know about this sort of stuff, or I might’ve been walking back to Riddara unprepared for an attack.

“Well, that’s tomorrow Leo’s problem,” I said. “Currently, I’ve got a bigger one on deck.”

“Aye?” Otho asked, looking around as if suspecting we were suddenly in danger. “What’s that then, boy?”

“I need a weapon,” I said, glancing around the area to try and locate my…

That’s when I saw it: my beautiful first-born—the bore club. Pieces of it, anyway. Not far from the corpse of the snake it say and…boy, it sure was shattered all to shit. Well, the haft of the thing was. The head piece seemed mostly alright and seemed like it might be salvageable. Then I looked back at the torn-open remains of the snake, then back to the club.

“Actually…” I said, a smile working its way across my face. “I might have an idea.”