Selltiriand

The Swamps

The evening twilight was receding, giving its shadows to the approaching night. Eisteld lay weary in the thicket of the shrubbery, which the people here called the shrubbery. In its prickly embrace the wanderer tried to get some shelter from the drizzling rain, but the greenish haze still patiently made its way to him and unpleasantly settled on his skin.

The cool breeze dragged with it the putrid smell of the failed river, which could not be confused with anything else. The marshes... These wild places were desolate and dangerous, as were all those that strayed away from the ancient tracts and paths.

Eisteld could not understand what inner feeling prompted him to turn aside, to an unfamiliar path. Or it wasn't intuition, but his unsteady feet from a bucket of choice booze the night before... But the wanderer didn't like to reproach himself for what he had done, and he saw no obvious benefit in doing so. So now, in his drenched cloak and bale at his back, Eisteld surveyed the branching half-flooded trail with the swollen, unkempt hills above it.

He had been in the swampy marshes more often than he cared to remember, but, despite the constant volatility of the mossy world, Eisteld had a knack for finding his bearings. His youth in the Grey Woods and his long wanderings in the Brown Frontier had not only left a mark on his appearance, but also rewarded him with a lifetime of difficult experiences and trailblazing skills.

But now, lying in the thicket, he could not give up the obsessive thought that he had lost his way. Tightening the cords of his soaking sack, he reluctantly climbed out of his hiding place. There was nothing to be done, for going back and looking for other paths was out of the question. He knew all too well: the marshes are too deceptive, especially after dusk, even for Grey Wanderers.

- These hills don't look like harmless strata of rock to me... May the Eternal One tear me to pieces if I ever climb their slopes! - Eistedd muttered, tracing his hand along the hilt of his blade. The half sword was older than the wanderer, and had been bound to Eisteld for years.

Cautiously, ducking slightly and trying to keep to the elongated shadows that resembled the black veils that fell from the sloping, overgrown shoulders of the trail's new owners, Eisteld moved toward the gloomy hills. He'd heard all the tales he loved to tell over a mug of beer in the taverns... Especially the one where yesterday he'd tried to out-drink, and perhaps out-sing the local bard. A little more and he would have won, but along with "The Disappeared First Peoples," a very moving and lyrical song, his purse disappeared.

Casting aside the sad memories, the wanderer began to recall the whispers of the three kzhiniks, who spoke of the marshes, the too long nights, and the faint fog that would not bring back the stranded travelers. "The locals are warming up over a mug or two," was what Eisteld decided at the time, but reality was not far from fiction.

Much has changed in the centuries since the Silver War. Alliances have faded, the Order of the Silver Guardians has fallen into oblivion. Those few who still carried a spark of moonlight in their blood hid in the shadows, passing down ancient knowledge and keeping alive the memory of the history and art of the once great brotherhood. They now called themselves the Grey Wanderers, and the remnants of their caste the Grey Order. Those who survived to old age bore the title of Guardians. In the Council of the Grey Order, they were given the right to make their own independent judgment. The rest of the Grey Wanderers were mostly wanderers, around whom Eisteld grew up, guarding the borders of the Grey Frontier with them.

It wasn't just drunken fists in roadside taverns that he'd encountered. He'd had encounters with many faces of darkness. Though he'd barely encountered any post-punishment beings in his long years on patrol, their presence was felt everywhere. There was talk, but only while sitting by the warm fireplace, and only after the fourth mug, of awakening from the old tombs. There were witnesses who allegedly saw the shadows of high kings in the mist. Whispers of these tales filled every corner of the house and the tavern, until finally they reached the Grey Sanctuary, which was three hundred and fifty leagues in a straight line to the northwest.