Shining Reunion; Voyage to the Kingdom of the Western Star
Posted: Wed Aug 20, 2025 11:52 am
The dusk was beginning to settle in, a stark reminder of the coming of night, and the things that go bump within it. Yet despite the many horrors of the unknown chittering around in the veil of nighttime, Shabuto traversed the blackened land unabated. The murk of the swamp hindered him not in the slightest as the very gales circulating him, humid though they may be, answered his beck, centering themselves under the ball of his heel, allowing him to float through. He did not soar, however, even now he could feel the stirring breath of the many living things that called the swamps home, and though he could not see them with his eyes, he perceived enough to know that rushing through these lands could prove far more perilous.
"She once told me about this place...Mara." The words were a soft murmur, swallowed instantly by the oppressive humidity. He wasn't speaking to the swamp, but to the faint, dormant warmth that pulsed in time with his own heart. Red. The creature was a low thrum in his blood, a silent passenger that rarely stirred unless provoked by imminent danger or profound curiosity. Tonight, it was still, leaving Shabuto alone with his thoughts.
He remembered Mara's voice, bright and sharp as a bird's call, telling the story around a flickering campfire on Rudral. She had a way of painting pictures with her words, making even the most terrifying tales sound like wondrous adventures. Zane had scoffed, ever the pragmatist, but Shabuto had listened, filing away the details.
It was his native tongue. The air carried scents—the pungent musk of a salt-deer's trail, the sweet decay of a fallen cycad. It carried vibrations—the heavy, rhythmic displacement of a large reptile sinking into the depths, the frantic, buzzing hum of an insect swarm. He navigated this invisible tapestry, deciphering its warnings and its promises. A sharp gust from the left warned of a narrow passage between mangrove trunks. A sudden stillness ahead spoke of a wider, more open bog, perhaps a part of the old Otter's Paw where the water was deeper and more treacherous.
He drifted through a grove of skeletal trees, their bark encrusted with salt-loving lichen that glowed with a faint, sickly phosphorescence. It was in this eerie grove that the wind's language changed. A new current joined the symphony, one that was not natural. It was too smooth, too melodic. It carried a sound, a faint, ethereal chiming that seemed to dance just on the edge of his hearing.
He slowed, his focus narrowing. The chiming grew clearer, resolving into a soft, sorrowful melody. It was a song of loss, of longing, a tune that pulled at a place deep within his chest. It promised comfort, an end to the weary journey. A soft, blue-green light began to pulse in the fog ahead, keeping time with the music.
A trick. Mara's voice echoed in his memory.
Despite the warning, he felt the pull. The melody was insidious, weaving itself into the tapestry of his own grief, plucking the strings of his memory of Mara, of Zane, of the life he'd lost to the storm on Rudral. The light beckoned, a safe harbor in the suffocating gloom. His control over the gales under his feet softened, and he drifted lower, the toes of his boots nearly skimming the water's surface. He could feel the cold breath of the swamp reaching for him.
A sudden, jarring heat flared in his veins. Red.
The monster within him stirred, roused not by curiosity but by a primal, predatory instinct. The warmth spread from his core, a surge of raw, untamable energy that burned away the song's cloying sweetness like fire to fog. The illusion shattered.
Shabuto's eyes snapped wide, his will hardening. He commanded the winds, not with the gentle persuasion he used for flight, but with a sharp, violent authority. A gale erupted from him, a focused blast that tore through the mist.
The fog ripped apart, revealing the source of the light and the song. It was not a will-o'-the-wisp or a friendly sprite. Clinging to the pale, dying trees was a cluster of insects, each the size of his hand. Their membranous wings, patterned with hypnotic, bioluminescent spirals, vibrated to create the enchanting tune. Their heads were a nightmarish collection of needle-like mouthparts and multi-faceted eyes that glowed with a cold, hungry intelligence—the Glimmerwings of Mara's stories.
They scattered before his gale, their song turning into a discordant shriek of frustration. Shabuto didn't linger. He pushed a steady, powerful current behind him, propelling himself forward and away from the grove of death. The thrum of Red in his blood slowly subsided, leaving behind a lingering warmth and the metallic taste of adrenaline.
He was deeper in the Vaeroth now. The air was heavier, the unseen life more dense. But his resolve was forged anew. Mara hadn't just been telling a story to pass the time. She had been giving him a map, a guide. He remembered another piece of her tale, something she'd spoken of in a hushed, reverent tone. A flower that bloomed only in the heart of the saltiest bogs, an orchid that fed on the rich alluvium and glowed with the light of a captured star. The Sunken Orchid. Once she'd never seen herself but always dreamed of. He took one with him; it would make a great gift when they reunited.
"She always did like a challenge," he whispered to the darkness. His journey was far from over. The horrors of the unknown were not just chittering around him; they were singing, and he had a promise to keep. With renewed purpose, Shabuto pressed on, a solitary figure borne upon the wind, disappearing into the vast, breathing blackness of the swamp.
"She once told me about this place...Mara." The words were a soft murmur, swallowed instantly by the oppressive humidity. He wasn't speaking to the swamp, but to the faint, dormant warmth that pulsed in time with his own heart. Red. The creature was a low thrum in his blood, a silent passenger that rarely stirred unless provoked by imminent danger or profound curiosity. Tonight, it was still, leaving Shabuto alone with his thoughts.
He remembered Mara's voice, bright and sharp as a bird's call, telling the story around a flickering campfire on Rudral. She had a way of painting pictures with her words, making even the most terrifying tales sound like wondrous adventures. Zane had scoffed, ever the pragmatist, but Shabuto had listened, filing away the details.
His eyes peeled, but sight was a luxury here. The fog, a constant companion in Vaeroth, was beginning to thicken with the fall of dusk, turning the world into a monochrome ghost of itself. Shapes resolved and dissolved within feet of him. A moss-covered log could be a submerged crocodile; a cluster of ferns, a crouching predator. He didn't trust his eyes. He trusted the wind."These swamps are home to some pretty nasty bugs," she had said, her eyes wide for dramatic effect. "Not just the biting kind. Things that like to play tricks and lure people to their deaths..."
It was his native tongue. The air carried scents—the pungent musk of a salt-deer's trail, the sweet decay of a fallen cycad. It carried vibrations—the heavy, rhythmic displacement of a large reptile sinking into the depths, the frantic, buzzing hum of an insect swarm. He navigated this invisible tapestry, deciphering its warnings and its promises. A sharp gust from the left warned of a narrow passage between mangrove trunks. A sudden stillness ahead spoke of a wider, more open bog, perhaps a part of the old Otter's Paw where the water was deeper and more treacherous.
He drifted through a grove of skeletal trees, their bark encrusted with salt-loving lichen that glowed with a faint, sickly phosphorescence. It was in this eerie grove that the wind's language changed. A new current joined the symphony, one that was not natural. It was too smooth, too melodic. It carried a sound, a faint, ethereal chiming that seemed to dance just on the edge of his hearing.
He slowed, his focus narrowing. The chiming grew clearer, resolving into a soft, sorrowful melody. It was a song of loss, of longing, a tune that pulled at a place deep within his chest. It promised comfort, an end to the weary journey. A soft, blue-green light began to pulse in the fog ahead, keeping time with the music.
A trick. Mara's voice echoed in his memory.
Despite the warning, he felt the pull. The melody was insidious, weaving itself into the tapestry of his own grief, plucking the strings of his memory of Mara, of Zane, of the life he'd lost to the storm on Rudral. The light beckoned, a safe harbor in the suffocating gloom. His control over the gales under his feet softened, and he drifted lower, the toes of his boots nearly skimming the water's surface. He could feel the cold breath of the swamp reaching for him.
A sudden, jarring heat flared in his veins. Red.
The monster within him stirred, roused not by curiosity but by a primal, predatory instinct. The warmth spread from his core, a surge of raw, untamable energy that burned away the song's cloying sweetness like fire to fog. The illusion shattered.
Shabuto's eyes snapped wide, his will hardening. He commanded the winds, not with the gentle persuasion he used for flight, but with a sharp, violent authority. A gale erupted from him, a focused blast that tore through the mist.
The fog ripped apart, revealing the source of the light and the song. It was not a will-o'-the-wisp or a friendly sprite. Clinging to the pale, dying trees was a cluster of insects, each the size of his hand. Their membranous wings, patterned with hypnotic, bioluminescent spirals, vibrated to create the enchanting tune. Their heads were a nightmarish collection of needle-like mouthparts and multi-faceted eyes that glowed with a cold, hungry intelligence—the Glimmerwings of Mara's stories.
They scattered before his gale, their song turning into a discordant shriek of frustration. Shabuto didn't linger. He pushed a steady, powerful current behind him, propelling himself forward and away from the grove of death. The thrum of Red in his blood slowly subsided, leaving behind a lingering warmth and the metallic taste of adrenaline.
He was deeper in the Vaeroth now. The air was heavier, the unseen life more dense. But his resolve was forged anew. Mara hadn't just been telling a story to pass the time. She had been giving him a map, a guide. He remembered another piece of her tale, something she'd spoken of in a hushed, reverent tone. A flower that bloomed only in the heart of the saltiest bogs, an orchid that fed on the rich alluvium and glowed with the light of a captured star. The Sunken Orchid. Once she'd never seen herself but always dreamed of. He took one with him; it would make a great gift when they reunited.
"She always did like a challenge," he whispered to the darkness. His journey was far from over. The horrors of the unknown were not just chittering around him; they were singing, and he had a promise to keep. With renewed purpose, Shabuto pressed on, a solitary figure borne upon the wind, disappearing into the vast, breathing blackness of the swamp.