Waverider Expedition - Mire of Vines
The swamp swallowed the sound of their oars.
The water was thick and black, broken only by the silver flash of insects and the soft ripple of roots rising from below. Vines hung in curtains, heavy with moss. Every breath felt wet.
The guide, an elf from Sylvaranith named Serithil, sat at the bow of the canoe, her voice low and even as she sang into the mist. The melody was strange, winding, like something older than language. Each note lingered on the water, then spread outward in soft ripples.
Severin sat just behind her, listening. Gato crouched near the middle of the canoe, bow across his knees, eyes scanning the murk. Arven sat at the stern, oar in hand, keeping the craft steady. Venera watched the trees, hand near her sword, her expression tight.
“They hear,” Serithil murmured between verses. “Now we wait.”
The air seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere nearby, a frog croaked, then stopped. The silence deepened until even their own movements felt intrusive.
Then the water moved.
Shapes rose from beneath the vines, pale forms, sleek and silent. At first they seemed like drifting weeds, but then eyes opened, wide and luminous, reflecting the lantern light. The Lutharil.
One glided closer, long hair flowing like river moss. Her voice came soft and liquid. “You are not the elf. You bring strangers.”
Serithil bowed her head. “They are traders. They mean no harm. They carry iron, glass, and dye.”
The merfolk circled, watching. Their tails flicked gently, stirring the water but never breaking its surface.
Severin met the gaze of the one who had spoken. “We come with respect,” he said, his tone measured. “And payment first, if you wish it. We have no nets, no fire, and no lies.”
The merwoman tilted her head. “Words sink easily here.”
Severin smiled faintly. “Then we’ll see if ours float.”
A pause. Then she drifted closer until her hands touched the edge of the canoe. “Show me.”
Gato opened one of the chests, careful not to startle her. Inside lay small mirrors, metal tools, colored beads. The merwoman reached in, her webbed fingers brushing the surface of a mirror. Her eyes widened.
“Light that does not die.”
Severin nodded. “Yours, if you’ll trade fish-oil and swamp amber.”
She conferred in soft tones with the others, their voices blending into a hum that seemed to move through the water itself. Finally, she looked up again. “Agreed.”
They disappeared beneath the surface, reappearing minutes later with jars of oil and lumps of golden resin. The exchange was wordless, efficient, almost ritual.
When it was done, the merwoman lingered. “Few strangers come here without taking. You give and go. That is good.”
Severin inclined his head. “We try to leave the water calm.”
Her gaze lingered a heartbeat longer. “Do not return soon,” she said. “The swamp remembers faces.” Then she was gone, sinking into the dark like a reflection swallowed by its own mirror.
Serithil exhaled slowly. “You did well,” she said. “They liked your voice.”
Severin smiled, tired but genuine. “It’s usually my second-best feature.”
Venera shook her head. “Let’s leave before they change their minds.”
The swamp receded behind them, the water giving way to clearer current and pale sky. The smell of rot faded, replaced by the clean salt of the outer river.
“They weren’t what I expected,” Gato said.
Arven grunted. “You expected fish. They were people.”
“Not people,” Venera said softly. “Something older.”
Severin leaned back in the boat, eyes half-closed. “Old or not, they understood fairness. That’s enough.”
Gato looked back toward the wall of vines. “You think they’ll remember us?”
Severin smiled faintly. “If the swamp remembers faces,” he said, “then I hope it remembers ours kindly.”
No one spoke after that. The river carried them onward, leaving the Mire behind, still, watchful, and full of quiet songs that no wind could carry.