Dawn of the Nephilim

12. The test part I

Ooooooh, 't is early in the morning the crickets still creek.

I feel like I could sleep for another week.

My bed pleads every morning if I please want to stay.

But my wife's morning mood is what helps me on my way.

Ronan grimaced as Utgard hit an especially false note, but could not suppress a smile at the song the man apparently made up on the spot. Utgard fell to a more pleasant sounding humming, like a fork scratching a plate. Ronan heaved a sigh and turned towards him. The big man was standing straight up in the back of the swamp skimmer, using a pole at the moment to guide the boat along the stream, past any obstacles. He would switch to a paddle would the stream become too deep.

He looked the same as always: A chest like a barrel, blond wiffle cut hair, blazing blue eyes, a jaw like a rock, and a smile that could melt an ice-berg. Not that he had ever seen an ice-berg. But he was pretty sure these mountains of ice existed somewhere near the sea of the great snakes, wherever that was.

"It's a miracle a guy like you ever got a wife in the first place Utgard."

At these words Utgard energetically looked to the left, to one of the other swamp-skimmers, that was gliding on besides them. He was always in for a little sparring with words. "I'm sorry Arya, I know you still mourn the fact that I've been taken. I would offer you a shoulder to cry on, but it being my shoulder, it probably wouldn't give you much comfort."

Arya offered a haughty snort. "Don't give yourself too much credit Utgard. First off, you could have been my father..." That had to sting a little. Utgard was only twelve years her senior. "... And secondly; If ever, I were to give myself to a man, it would never be a man that lives only to pump up his ego."

Utgard didn't seem to be insulted at all. "Nonsense, there are only a few things in this world worth living for. The love of your wife, a good pint of ale, a nice morning in the swamp, a roof above your head on a cold winter night... Actually, that's quite a lot of things. You see how I can be so content with myself, as opposed to you, a young flower watering herself with acid. Grown sour and wilting far before her time. You give my wrinkles, wrinkles with your doom and gloom." Ronan turned away from the jabbering behind his back to have a look at his surroundings.

A cool fog still clung to the water surface, parting and twirling in intricate patterns as he extended his hand into the milky white shards. Gliding past them, they seemed to try to repel the sun's light in glistening defiance. The morning turned the swamp's beautiful into astounding. The fog lend an almost solemn aspect to the swamp-skimmers as they quietly navigated the stream. The perfect red circle of the sun heaved its bulk above the distant horizon, and had started chasing away the lingering pockets of mist. Soon, there would be none left. It was as if there could only be so much beauty in this world. At some point, new beauty had to chase away old beauty before it could show itself.

The swamp didn't mind either way. Around him, the animals that actively inhabited the broader wetlands during the day, started to wake up. Some early birds were hellbent on catching that salamander, flowers opened in response to the call of the sun. They flavored the morning with a variety of smells, defiantly battling and chasing away the faint smell of swamp gas. Some parts of the swamp had a nasty, acrid smell, but out here on the streams, it was all pleasant enough. Frogs climbed onto lily leaves to warm themselves, and they too looked content. They remained so besides the few that got a little too relaxed, and got gobbled up by a swampbird. There was a darker side to every pleasure.

Ronan looked at all this beauty and was almost happy for a while. Then the gloomy reality of nasty swamp women and black roses on his chest came crashing down on him again, and he fell to brooding, now blind to any and all worldly temptations. The mark on his chest had actually reappeared, but the color of the rose was now a bright blue. It looked astoundingly beautiful, but he could well have done without it. The only one with tattoos he knew was Windar, and he would be hard pressed to explain where and why he suddenly had one too. He was happy the morning cool gave him a good excuse to keep his shirt on, and fervently hoped the rose would soon sink beneath his skin once again, where it could be dealt with by his intestines for all he cared. Stretching his legs and arms to prevent them from stiffening up, he folded his hands behind his head. There was nothing to be done about all of it right now. Eyes on the green they were gliding past, he attempted to pleasantly think of nothing.

The only thing that disturbed the peace was the continued bickering behind him. Ayra had kind of whipped herself up into a frenzy. "...That can only be said by a man that gave up on thinking the first time he developed a headache. Besides..." "Be quiet for a second." Olaf, who was paddling the swamp-skimmer in front of Ronan, and who didn't have a passenger, was standing motionless, his paddle lifted out of the water. His stance suggested his attention was turned somewhere in the distance. He seemed to be listening intently. The word-skirmish behind Ronan dropped dead and an eerie quiet fell over the group. Olaf was a bit of a stick-in-the-mud, but nobody messed around when he got truly serious.

Ronan intently tried to listen and peered into the general direction Olaf was facing. He couldn't discern anything. The swamp-skimmers were still quietly gliding forward atop the water. A small gust of wind drove away the final patches of mist. The water looked empty and smooth. Yet the atmosphere seemed to have changed somehow. The air felt threatening, dangerous. It felt as if the little hairs in his neck were standing on end. He still didn't have a clue what was going on.

Olaf sank into a squatting position, and straightened himself again ever so slowly. In his hands was a big fishing spear, with a large barbed blade. The kind they used to catch bigger fish and to fend off things that had other ideas about who the hunted were. It was a nasty weapon, designed to hold on to whatever it bit into. Olaf slowly arched the blade of the spear down, as if he was going to try and catch a fish. But it was unlikely Olaf would have stirred up trouble for something that trivial. Looking at the place where Olaf pointed the spear, Ronan still couldn't discern anything. Olaf stood motionless for several seconds, all the while peering intently at the water. Ronan noticed he was holding his breath. He dared not let it go.