Sweat trickled down the side of Ehrwin’s forehead as he walked along the winding pathway of a lush green forest.

Twisting trees towered around him, fighting for the sun, with foliage so thick that the ground beneath barely saw any sunlight.

Ehrwin trekked through, panting, feet brushing past heaps of dry leaves. He’d been hiking for hours now; every inch of his body screamed for a break.

The ground called to him. Laying down on the dirt path had never been more tempting. Still, he held out and continued.

Six months he’d traveled with a band of hardened killers; he could afford to carry on for a couple more steps. Especially now that he was so close to the Murky Mire, so close to the witch, so close to attaining the knowledge he'd been craving for so long.

Straw houses with thatched roofs began to come into view, blessedly.

Along with it came the sound of trees rattling as a body of scantily clad, dark-skinned woodcutters chucked at them, grip firm on the handle of their axes. Children ran around, jumping, laughing, shouting. Women danced around a large clay mortar, pounding into it over and over with a pestle the size of a spear, presumably husking paddy.

Both men and women wore the same cloth—longyi for bottom and multiple, colorful beaded necklaces, covering the entirety of their necks, leaving the chest bare.

What’s most striking about them was the dark, moldy carapaces on their backs, covered in scutes—the shell people, they were called. They would become his passport to the Mire. That is, if he played his cards right.

The pounding of paddy halted, children stopped dead in their tracks, and the woodcutters paused upon seeing Ehrwin. They weren’t quite expecting a visitor it seemed.

Ehrwin was not one for negotiations. He mostly let Dolly handle that. But she’d insisted he take the lead on this one. What’d work with these folks was a nobleman, she had said, and nobody could impersonate one well enough. Besides, they had a real noble with them. So, why bother?

One of the woodcutters—a young man with beady eyes, loosened the grip on the handle of his ax, letting it drop to the ground. He strode toward Ehrwin, colorful beaded necklaces jangling around his neck.

“Can I help you?” The man had a distinct accent. Thick but understandable. Better than he expected.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you all.”

“Ain’t a problem,” he said with a wave of the hand. “Don’t be bothered by the stares. We don’t get too many visitors round here, especially ones in clothes like yours,” said the man, looking at him up and down.

Ehrwin furrowed his brow, unsure of what was so remarkable about his clothing; just a hooded tunic, leather trousers and a belt with a sheath for his sword.

“Uh huh.”

Silence. There were so many things Ehrwin wanted to ask but for the life of him, he couldn’t get the words out of his throat. He was too damned exhausted.

“You seem tired. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“A glass of water, if you don’t mind.”

“Aye, follow me,” the man said, nodding at one of the straw houses.

Ehrwin could feel all eyes bore into them as he tailed after the man, didn’t need to look around to know. He kept his sight on the moldy carapace on the back of the man he followed.

One of the women who had been pounding paddy loudly said something to the young man that he couldn’t comprehend. But he could guess from the tone that it had to do with letting him inside their homes. The young man said something back to her with a similar accent, unlike the one he used earlier to speak to Ehrwin.

They spoke common from what he knew, but their accent was so strong that it sounded like an entirely different language.

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Inside, the house was sparsely furnished. Two quaint cots lined the side of a wall. A crude, rectangular wooden table in the center. A jug, two mugs, and a plate full of exotic fruits atop it. The most intriguing pieces of furniture were the cone-shaped stools around the table.

Ehrwin studied the stool while the woodcutter poured water into a mug. It seemed to be made of bamboo; its multicolored surface was fascinating.

The woodcutter proffered the mug. Bless the man. He took the mug, thanked him, and downed it in one gulp. A droplet leaked and streamed down from one corner of his mouth. He sighed in satisfaction.

The woodcutter sat on one of the stools and gestured for Ehrwin to do the same.

The surface of the stool was hard, clearly not meant for sitting for long periods. Still, it felt relieving to finally get to sit.

“Must’ve been a long trip.”

“It was, it was.”

“I’m Chet. Was a carpenter, now a regular old lumberman,” he said, scratching his cheek.

“Ehrwin Bargunri. A traveler of sorts.”

“Bargunri?” the man raised a brow. “Sounds like the name of a noble house.”

No shit.

“Runaway nobles are fashionable nowadays," he said, smiling wryly.

“’Splains the clothes.”

Before Ehrwin could say another word, the door creaked open and a woman sauntered in. Unlike other tribal women, she was wearing a tunic and her skin wasn't as dark as the others.

"Sir," Chet said, eyeing the newcomer. "Meet my wife Hasiba. Hasiba, this is Sir Bargunri.”

“Please, call me Ehrwin.”

“I came here soon as I got the news,” Hasiba said, beaming with enthusiasm. No lump on her back, Ehrwin noted.

“Hope my husband has treated you well.”

“I couldn’t have asked for a better host,” Ehrwin said with a smile, mentally noting that Hasiba also lacked the accent unlike the others.

“I’m surprised both of you speak so clearly,” he continued. “I was told I would have trouble communicating because of the dialect.”

“We lived in the town for a while,” Hasiba said.

“Used to be a carpenter there,” Chet interjected. “Made good money before the newly elected mayor kicked out anyone who don’t fit his image of what a human should look like.”

“They lost a good carpenter, then.”

“And I am the town girl who got swooped up by this exotic lumberman,” Hasiba said, smiling at Chet. Acted like newlyweds, these two.

“’Splains the clothes.” He looked at Hasiba, then shrugged his brows at Chet.

Chet guffawed while Ehrwin smiled at Hasiba. She normally wouldn’t be his type, but he couldn’t help but admit that the idea of shagging a married woman was arousing.

The next quarter of an hour or so, he engaged in a good-natured small talk with them. He was offered fruits he’d never seen before; they tasted as exotic as they looked. Chet answered all his questions about the shell people’s way of life. Apparently, the lumpy carapaces on their backs changed color with seasons—brownish in fall, dark red in winter.

“So, I’m supposin’ you’re here for a purpose?”

“Why yes, I guess you already know,” Ehrwin said, biting into the last bit of the pear-shaped fruit.

“I think we do,” Hasiba said, smiling, sitting cross-legged on the cot. “you made the right choice in coming here.”

“Did I now?” He spat out the seeds on the floor, following Chet’s example.

“Of course.” Chet tapped twice on the table. “Won’t find black rice so aromatic as the ones made here anywhere else.”

Hasiba got up. “If you could wait a while, good sir, I could cook you a sample.”

Ehrwin gestured at Hasiba to stop. “I think we have a misunderstanding here.” That drew frowns from them. He realized why they had been so nice to him.

“I have no doubt the rice tastes great and all, but that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here because I need your help getting to the Murky Mire.”

Silence. Chet and Hasiba stared at him. Like he was crazy.

“Y’know, lad, if thrill is what you look for, there is plenty ways to get it without getting yourself dusted. The Mire is cursed. Nobody who's gone there ever returned.”

“I understand the risks—”

“Sorry, don’t think none here can be of any help. Only boat we have has a hole in it. And no one’s gotten ‘round to fix it.”

Ehrwin paused to consider what to say next. The otherwise Jolly Hasiba had her eyes on the ground, biting into her left gum, looking visibly disappointed. Words would have been futile at that point.

“Of course, I don’t expect you to help me for free.”

“No ‘mount of coins convincing anyone here to risk their lives.” That’s a lie, of course. Everyone had a price.

“Not like I got too much left on me anyways." Fund for the expedition was nearly exhausted.

“But I got something better,” Ehrwin said, reaching into his trouser pocket.

A pouch dropped on the table, its drawstring loosed, chunks of red and black solids leaking.

Chet frowned.

“What is that?” Hasiba said, face scrunched up.

Ehrwin leaned forward. “Snarpee’s feces,” he said with an effect.

Chet stared at him, mouth agape.

“No fuckin’ way.”

“You may fetch an expert to check.”

“Where did you find them?,” Hasiba asked.

“They real?” Chet asked, stupefied. Hasiba nodded.

“Who cares how I got them?” It involved robbing the wealthiest landowner at Prasthun.

“All that matters is that it’s real. You have enough here to triple your yield for this year and next.” You can never have too much of that sweet, sweet black rice, eh, Chet?

“So, can you help me or not?”

Chet crossed his arms and deliberated. Pretense, no doubt. The glitter in his and Hasiba's eyes were unmistakeable.

Didn't need Dolly whispering into his ear to know the deal was done.

“Aye,” Chet finally said as he nonchalantly plucked the pieces of feces and put it back into the pouch, drawing the strings shut. “Know just the man who can help,” he said, handing the pouch to Hasiba.

Everyone had a price. Ehrwin internally grinned in self-satisfaction.