MIRE

Written on October 16, 2024 (♎︎)

Author's Notes: Written for Whumptober 2024 for prompt No. 16: Necrosis (Swamp).

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Mustadio never liked to think much about it beyond the mechanics of the device itself. He was a machinist, not a magician, and he did not much like tacking any "meta" onto the physical as he encountered it. The undead themselves had been a query beyond him until the discovery of the weapons and their arts.

As he rode through the swamp, as those jutting, clawed figures came into view, he told himself that they were easier to understand in this way. He told himself that stone had always been more real than spirit–that he himself would much rather be a statue than a ghost.

In the hours after midnight however, his mind grew heavy. They were still in fenlands. Although no encounter was had–although no specters beyond the rooted rocks haunted him–something in the place seemed to drift into him, just as he drifted out of waking thought. He could imagine himself, lost and wandering here for far longer than a two day’s march back to Goug. He could see in every shadow an accusation and reminder. When he caught himself dreaming, it was a dream of helplessness–of being immobile and voiceless as he sank into the endless mire.

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