I'd never skinned an animal before, but back home in Kentucky, I'd seen it done enough times to have a general idea. Plus, how hard could it be? Famous last words, I suppose. I took the spear I'd been using to navigate the swamp and started cutting into the snake's body. The skin was tough, unyielding, and I found myself muttering “fuckin’ hell,” and “I need a proper damn knife.”
After some struggle, I managed to carve through the thick hide, peeling back the snakeskin in a less than graceful manner. The meat underneath was an odd color, not like anything I'd seen before, but then again, I hadn't exactly been up close and personal with too many giant swamp serpents.
I continued the process, trying to remember the steps I'd seen hunters back home take with my very limited time spent around them. It was messy work, and I found myself wishing I had paid more attention during those few hunting trips. My progress was slow, and more than once, I had to stop and reassess what I was doing.
Finally, I reached the spine of the creature. It was a massive thing, the bones thick and sturdy. I stared at it for a moment, considering. My plan was crazy, maybe even a little macabre, but if it worked, it would be worth it.
I set to work, trying to figure out the best way to go about this. I needed a piece of the spine, something solid and strong to serve as the new haft for my club. The idea was simple: use what the swamp provided. And what better way to honor the spirit of this place than by turning one of its most fearsome creatures into a weapon?
I used the head of my old club to bash at the spine of the Gildrubatari. Each strike sent shards of bone scattering, owing to the creature's formidable structure. The process was laborious, and I had to be careful not to damage the pieces I needed.
After several tries, I managed to break off a suitable length of bone. It was rough and uneven, but it would do. I found a nearby stone with a rough surface and—just like with the chair leg spear—set to work, grinding down the edge of the bone. I knew from making my own tools in the past what would likely yield the best results, so therefore, I needed it to be smooth enough to grip without risking injury to my hands. The task was tedious, and my arms ached from the effort, but eventually, I had a piece that felt right in my hand.
I then turned my attention to the remnants of wire from the previous club. It was a stroke of luck that I still had them. Carefully, I wrapped the wire around the bone, using it to affix the club head securely. It took some time to get it right, with several adjustments needed to ensure the head wouldn't fly off mid-swing.
Once done, I held up my new weapon, admiring my handiwork. It was crude, but it felt solid and balanced in my hand. And a whole hell of a lot more efficient than the previous iteration of this mauler. Hell, I’d go so far as to say this was a mighty weapon. A swamp-serpent forged battle baton, who’d ever have thought? Apparently, just me. This thing needed a name. I contemplated calling it Stephanie, just because the idea tickled me, but after a little while of hemming and hawing, I ended up landing on ‘Chess.’ Get it? I’m terrible, I know.
But as I stood there, another idea struck me. One that struck too late to do me any immediate good, but struck me it did. The fangs of the creature. They were massive, intimidating, and, if I could fashion them right, potentially useful.
The task of removing the fangs was far more challenging than I had anticipated. They were deeply rooted, and it took a miserable amount of effort, elbow grease, and more than a few well-placed bashes with a rock to dislodge them. I managed to retrieve three of them before I thought I might die from exhaustion, each one as long as my forearm and as sharp as any blade.
My initial plan was to grind down the root-ends of the fangs against the rock to create handles, but it proved to be a fruitless endeavor. The material of the teeth was too hard, and I wasn't making much progress. Frustrated, I took a break, sitting back to assess the situation.
That's when the solution hit me. The vertebrae. I looked back at the spine of the snake, realizing that some of the smaller bones could serve as perfect handles for my monster concoction.
Excited by this new approach, I set to work, carefully removing the bones and then lashing the vertebrae to the bottoms of the fangs with some of the remaining wire. The process was intricate, requiring a lot of patience and precision, and honestly, a few bruises and blood when I pricked my thumb with the end of one of the wires, but eventually, I managed to create three formidable-looking daggers.
But I wasn't done yet. Oh lord, naw.
Inspired by my success with the daggers, I turned my attention to the snake's jaw. I mean, it would be a holy waste to just abandon it without attempting to do something with it. So, I meant to. Peeling back the skin, I found that I could split the jaw into two separate pieces. With a bit more work, I fashioned two additional clubs, about a foot long each—smaller than the first—but no less deadly.
Proud of my arsenal, I tucked the daggers and one of the clubs into the front of my bandolier, and the one remaining club in the back portion that went over my shoulder blades. I sighed contentedly, feeling a bit like a walking armory.
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I took a moment to take stock of my inventory:
* One large club, fashioned from the spine of the Gildrubatari, with the original club head affixed.
* One short spear, made from the leg of an office chair and sharpened to a deadly point.
* Three bone daggers, each made from a fang and vertebrae of the serpent.
* Two smaller clubs, created from the split jaw of the creature.
I stood there, surrounded by the remnants of my work, a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration coursing through me. In the midst of the swamp, I’d done it, dammit. I'd turned a deadly predator into a set of tools for survival.
The Boglands take note of your ingenuity and look upon your work favorably.
Hell yeah, ya do, Bog, I thought. I look good as shit.
As I’d been working, Otho had been yammering on about everything and nothing. He’d drifted into tales of people he missed, types of food he liked, or set himself to wondering if they still had issues with someone or something called Perry Gar ‘over in Ecklyre.’ To be honest, I wasn't paying much attention. My focus was on the weapons in my hands, the weight of them, the feel of them. They felt right, you know? Like extensions of my own self.
Finally, as I finished up my work, Otho seemed to snap back to the present. He let out a chuckle, eyeing my makeshift armaments with a…what we can call ‘respectful amusement.’
"Well, I'll be," he said. "Ye look rightly fearsome, boy. Ready to take on whatever Fyrstibaer might throw yer way."
I nodded, feeling a surge of confidence. "I reckon I am, Otho. I reckon I am."
With that, I set off, leaving the swampy battlefield behind. The further I went, the more the swamp began to change. The trees, still massive and imposing, started to spread out more, creating gaps of open air that felt almost unnatural after the dense foliage I'd grown accustomed to.
As I moved through this new, unsettling landscape, a creeping sensation of familiarity washed over me. But it wasn't a comforting familiarity. There was something about this place, something oppressive and heavy. The air felt thicker, the light dimmer. I couldn't help but wonder why my ancestors had chosen to settle in such a place. It seemed like the sort of spot you'd pass through quickly, not somewhere you'd plant roots and call home. If given the choice, I felt like most people would have just packed up all their shit and moved. More so, I had the distinct impression that I was being watched. But, because of the nature of the place, I just decided to carry on—I didn’t disregard it, but I figured there weren’t much use in worrying about it until I had to.
Eventually, though, I found myself at the edge of another expanse of water, not unlike the one when I’d first arrived. Here it was markedly quieter than in the previous stretches, and if I hadn’t had that burning feeling of…discomfort, I’d have called it placid. I could tell the water was deep, and disappeared off a ways from me, so I had to wonder if it was connected to some larger tributary of some such like a river. The mud around here was thick, and it became much more difficult to navigate, so I stopped and took a moment to just appreciate the scenery—as much as I could for the heavy spook-factor that was still forcing its way into my consciousness.
In the distance, I could see a long-ruined tower, jutting out over the ghostland-like environment like a withered old finger. I couldn’t help but focus on it, though. There was something about it that just drew the eye.
“Otho,” I said, gesturing to the structure. “Any idea what that thing’s deal is?”
“Ruins?” he shrugged. “There’s plenty of them around here—many generations, hundreds of generations of history, boy. Things forgotten before they were even keeping track of remembrance. Nothing but ghosts, likely.”
“Yeesh,” I said. “Like…real ghosts? Or are you being poetic?”
“Aye,” was all he said.
“...okay, then,” I sighed.
The silence of the swamp was eerie, the usual sounds of wildlife almost entirely absent. The only noise was the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of an unseen bird. I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, of being not quite alone.
That's when I heard it: movement, just beyond my line of sight. My heart rate spiked, and I instinctively lifted the club, gripping it tightly. It was a sort of sloshing—so I figured it was likely from the water, but…hell, there was a lot of it, so I didn’t know where to begin. I strained my ears, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound, but it was elusive, always just out of reach.
The sense of dread grew stronger with each step, the swamp closing in around me like a living thing. I reminded myself to stay calm, to keep my wits about me. But it was hard to do, wrestling with yourself like that—hard not to let the fear take over.
I paused, listening, waiting.
The chirps of insects dwindled, the croaks and calls of distant creatures fell silent, and even the gentle rustle of the trees seemed to hold its breath. It felt like the swamp itself was anticipating something, and that something was definitely not good. In my experience, when nature goes quiet like that, it's rarely a sign of anything pleasant. I gripped Chess a little tighter, my eyes scanning the murky landscape.
Then I saw it. A ripple in the water, subtle but unmistakable, and at first I thought it might be one of the ‘ripple’ ripples that granted me Galdur—until I realized it was heading my way. My next thought was another serpent, maybe a mate to the one I'd just turned into my personal armory—you know, out for revenge. That seemed like something a snake would do. But as the ripples grew closer, larger, I realized this was something else. Something bigger.
“Ah, I see,” Otho said. “I’ll speak with ye shortly, boy.”
Then, without any further prompting or explanation, he dispersed back into the attavita, leaving me alone.
“Aww, goddammit,” I hissed. That meant this would be part of the Trial—I think.
The water in front of me suddenly swelled and then burst outward as a massive shape heaved itself from the depths. A colossal toad, the size of a small house, emerged, its bulging, bloodshot eyes fixing on me with an unsettling intelligence. Its skin was a mottled green and brown, almost perfectly camouflaged against the swamp, but there was nothing natural about this beast. Its hide was covered in pulsating boils and growths, some of which were emitting a faint, sickly green vapor.
“Shit!”
I took a step back. This weren’t no ordinary swamp denizen. This was something out of a nightmare, a creature twisted and corrupted, possibly with evil in its heart.
As the giant toad inched closer, the air around it seemed to thicken with some kind of flurry of mist—the vapor from the boils growing into a small cloud. I could feel them, tiny particles that made my skin crawl and my throat itch just by being near them. Then the toad croaked, and the sound moved through me like a jet engine being turned on.
CRRRRRRRROOOOOAKKKK!
“Ah, hell, here we go,” I said.
The fight, it seemed, was on.