The Forbidden Marsh

It was a shame that Barion hadn't allowed himself the pleasure of enjoying Gria's sights, and frankly, he would have liked to spend a little more time at Dorma's side. But with all that said, the threat of a Demon resurgence was enough to trump those desires completely. The very thought of it had him worrying deeply about something for the first time in centuries.

There was no need to purchase anything on his way out. Even in the world's largest city, there was such a thing as oversaturation, and so by the time of his leaving, there was still plenty of Elven silver in the back of the wagon. Distributing his goods over a variety of settlements would ensure the highest demand.

Along the snaking highways of Tor, bandits and highwaymen were quick to amass bounties, making thievery quite the dangerous prospect. Guardsmen and territory militias also contributed to a remarkably low rate of robberies within human lands, and as a side-effect conditioned local monster populations to avoid main roads. It was only natural that the homeland of the Merchant's Guild would be the safest place for traders to do their business.

Days and nights fell in a way that reminded Barion of the first 100-or-so years following the defeat of the Demon King, when he struggled to find a place for himself in the rapidly-evolving world. Indeed, it was as if a metamorphosis had occurred, and what was once a land of despair had flowered into a paradise of cooperation and harmony. The establishment of a coalition between the world's nations, who previously struggled to make any contact at all, convinced Barion that a long-standing and well-deserved peace was on its way. A peace that didn't deserve to be sullied by the homecoming of the legendary hero.

When the sweet smell of salt lingered in the air one afternoon, he knew that the coast wasn't far off. Settlements which had been founded on the country's wide-open rivers benefited from a direct connection to the ocean in the wake of the Demon King's defeat, and it wasn't long before the meagre fishing hamlets of Tor's southernmost shores found themselves with starry-eyed benefactors hoping to develop the villages into prosperous hubs of naval trade.

Indeed, it was quite a shock for Barion as he crested the hills overlooking that chilly coastline, to see the poor fishing village he and his comrades had once visited as adventurers transformed into a bustling port-town. Ships--some of which were sporting the traditional longboat designs expected of Fleecia vessels, were moored against a dock which seemed large enough to house some of the bulkiest trade ships in the world.

Barion was welcomed into the town as one who held membership among the Merchant's Guild often was--with great interest and authority. Declining a guard who offered to arrange a meeting with the harbourmaster, he prudently allowed his crates of Elven silver to be offloaded in exchange for a well-regulated spot to leave the wagon. Though the town was large enough to contain several warehouses, he owned none of them and had no contacts in the town besides, meaning the most he could glean about the market would arrive from public speculation.

Copper coins clattered onto the counter of that town's bustling pub. It was pleasant for Barion to taste a meal he hadn't caught and cooked himself over the past fortnight.

"A kraken's roostin' along the route 'tween here and Onaffor-Hen. Fleecia's lost a good part of their fleet to it, supposedly--a few merchant ships, too." The dockworker opposed to him stopped to swig his ale, "Spawning, probably. It'll take a few decades for it to piss off, but the southerners want it gone now."

"So they need lumber for new ships?"

"That's right. Gria's subsidising our exports to compensate for us having to take the scenic route around, but there ain't a lot of lumber yards nearby, so demand's still high. Need more salt and meat than we normally would for the voyages, too."

"And the swamp?"

"Swamps're nearby, sure. To the east." He crossed his arms, "Nothing there but frogs, though. Frogs and slimes."

"Thanks for the info."

It didn't seem as though the inhabitants of the town were aware of the swamp's history. 500 years ago, it gathered a mixture of reverence and fear thanks to the powerful witch who was said to reside deep within. It was seeming more and more likely by the hour that Yamora was no longer alive. It would be troublesome searching for Demons if Barion didn't find a way to detect them, so he had little choice in the matter.

Finishing his meal, he wasted no time plotting a route towards the swamp in question, using a combination of his own fading knowledge and tidbits he had learned from the town's residents to gauge where Yamora's hut would most likely be found. It wouldn't be practical to lead the wagon through such terrain, and so he decided to set off on foot.

An hour or so into his travels, the land began to sink and become one with the coast, and his boots would occasionally become stuck in the swallowing mud belts. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead as the midday sun creeped through the treeline, low-hanging leaves drooping towards brackish pools of scum-water where clusters of algae bobbed freely on the surface.

Yamora's hut was squarely in the centre of that inhospitable land, where few men looked and even fewer bothered to tread. It was not a particularly dangerous area despite its historical name--slimes, endeared to the damp environment, were the most dangerous monsters one could hope to encounter.

Barion had fetched a compass from his pouch to aid him while circling around bodies of water and collapsed treetops. As the air around him grew humid and clammy, the terrain became altogether inaccessible, and soon he was hobbling over the husks of fallen trees and wading through waist-height scum just to move forward.

The drooping fog had led him there--to that hut which appeared frozen in time, unchanged even after 500 years. Behind it stood a gargantuan willow, hidden from sight by the gloam which had descended upon the swamp. Trapped within that perpetual twilight, it could not be said with any certainty that the sight was indeed real. It appeared as something out of a dream.

Stepping up to the wooden platform upon which the hut stood, Barion could notice the low light of a fire poking through its shimmering windows. The thick oaken door made a low sound as he rapped his knuckles against it, but there was no immediate answer from within.

"Yamora?" He called, "It's Barion."

Going to knock a second time, he noticed the comforting light filtering through a gap in the door, and realised at once that it had never been closed. Hesitantly, he pushed his hand against it, and a smell which reminded him of Gria's apothecaries gripped his senses as the single room revealed itself completely.

It was most certainly the personal environment of an alchemist, decorated front-to-back with tools of glass and copper, esoteric in both form and function. Herbs of the world's myriad forests remained half-crushed in mortars upon tables carved amateurishly from aged wood, and potions, of which there were many, rested upon countless shelves and seemed to be arranged in no sensible order. There was very little about the room that Barion understood, beside Yamora's absence from it.

Nevertheless, an alcoved cauldron spewed colourful gases plentifully into the chimney. Whether Yamora or not, it was evident that someone had been there recently. Taking care not to bump against any of the room's alembics or distilleries, Barion found himself a splintered chair to rest upon, and wondered how to track down the hut's occupant.

"Ba… Ba-" From above his head, a slithering voice spoke, "Barion…"

Creeping shadows--a feeling which seemed much like the very personification of disturbance, like insects crawling across his skin. Yes, it was a sensation he was quite familiar with, but one he had not experienced in many a century.

The unmistakable presence of that which was known as a Demon.

Vessels, vials and empty flasks clattered noisily to the floor as Barion flew out of the chair. A shattering sound was followed by the sensation of glass cracking beneath his boots. His eyes followed up to the ceiling, where, though he had not noticed it before, a shape of sorts had begun to roil amidst the darkness, something which took the form of no particular creature.

Like tar, the monster dripped from the ceiling, collecting like a shadow upon the ground. But rather than lunge or dart away, it instead sprouted like a tree, taking form as a cohesive entity. Once a few seconds had passed, there was something distinctly human about its shadowy form. Beneath its fabricated and pitch-black hat, reminiscent of a wizard's, two beady yellow points glowed from atop a featureless face, arms and legs sprouting from the darkness of its amorphous body. Indeed, it was as if a shadow had 'stood up', so to speak. Tilting its head in a manner that gave Barion pause, the same slithering, but feminine, voice emerged from where its mouth would be situated.

"Ba- Barion…" It repeated, "Master is not here."

"A Demon…?" He muttered, taking a fighting stance.

"Yamora is not here."

"Where is she, then? What have you done with her?"

"Yamora…" The shadow paused, "Yamora is gone."

"Gone?" He relented for a moment, "You mean-"

"311 years ago." It answered, "Master passed away."