Rolling hills and sunshine gave way to the flat and stagnant bog of the Midgewater. No pleasure could be found in the weather here, and the damp and dreariness threatened to steal any joy folk would bring with them to these parts. Bledigg’s stern gaze looked out over the marsh with scrutiny, only clouds of hungry midges could be seen, and the constant neek-breeking of insects could be heard.
To Bledigg, a place like this was a welcome home. In ages passed his folk came to know these places as sacred. The varying hues of the moss and heather contrasted like a masterfully woven tapestry, bog cranberries fruited here and there, bog myrtle spread its stunted branches and its green leaves stood out from the dimmed purples of the heather. Bledigg stooped to tease a small plant with a twig, placing it in the mouth of its little fly trap. The sundew closed its trap quietly and slowly, and Bledigg’s sun beaten features twisted into a smile, he took great pleasure in nature’s little gifts.
After asking in the bustling town of Bree, Bledigg had noted the Sunken Stones down on his makeshift map, it would take some finding in the marsh, but his feet were aching for a task, and his pocket was in dire need of coin.
When in the marshes, it was difficult to tell how much time had passed, the constant mists hid away the sun and no shadows were cast, just a constant gloom. The sounds were easier to follow than the stones were to spot. Bledigg paused mid stride and that usual alertness brought shivers to his spine and a deep and quickened beating in his chest. “Reeeec!” The fowl tongue of goblins pierced through the mist. He knew that to fight could mean death. Then again, so too could a flawed plan.
Bledigg crept closer, his bow strung in one hand and an arrow in the other. He reached a slight raise where the moss had gathered and formed a long mound of sorts, he lay still. The damp of the marsh crept into his clothes and the cold came with it, still, he waited. Four of the black blooded goblins sat in the dark, speaking of things only their kind would. Chittering and screeching, the sound alone caused a chill up the hunter’s spine. Darkness fell quickly, and there was smoke in the air.
The odorous tang of bog myrtle swam through the mist and a low light grew in the distance, a relief flooded through Bledigg’s body. In this damp he wasn’t sure if his plan would bear fruit, a slow growing fire let embers into the sky and the goblins looked on in wonder. “Reeeeeeeec what iiis it?” one goblin cried into the night, the others took up their crudely forged blades and scuttled off to the bonfire in the bog. One notched arrow, and loosed. A gurgling came from the hunched silhouette and it dropped. The hunter crept on into the camp, littered with cast offs and stolen trinkets.
