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# Waverider Expedition - Murkwater

Swamp encounter

The swamp began before they saw it.

The air grew thick, the river slowed, and the trees rose from the water on roots like gnarled claws. Mist clung to everything, heavy as cloth, carrying the smell of rot and wet bark. Dragonflies buzzed lazily in the gray light.

The Waverider’s skiff moved forward one slow push at a time. In it sat Venera, Eira, Otto the Dwarf, and Arwen, their eyes scanning the reeds. The silence pressed close, broken only by the creak of oars and the distant croak of unseen things.

“This place feels wrong,” Arwen murmured.

“Wrong?” Otto the Dwarf grunted. “Smells like home. If home had been drowned and left to stew a few centuries.”

Venera smiled faintly, though her hand never left the tiller. “Keep watch. The Fibians don’t like visitors.”

They had gone perhaps another hundred paces when the reeds ahead parted with a hiss.

A shape rose from the water, man-sized, slick and green-black, its eyes two golden lamps in the mist. A Fibian. It stood half-submerged, webbed hands gripping a spear carved from bone and coral. Its throat pulsed as it spoke, the words bubbling from its wide mouth in broken, croaking common.

“Go... no... further.”

The crew froze.

Venera lifted her hand slowly. “We mean no harm,” she said. “We only wish to trade. Iron. Glass. Cloth.”

The Fibian blinked. Its throat bulged again. “No trade. No... come.”

It tilted its head, staring with unsettling stillness. Then it croaked softly, almost curious: “Turn. Back. Go.”

Eira whispered, “It understands us.”

“More than we understand it,” Venera replied quietly.

The Fibian didn’t move. Its golden eyes never blinked. Around it, the swamp seemed to hold its breath.

Finally, Venera nodded. “Very well,” she said. “We go.”

The Fibian inclined its head in what might have been thanks, or warning, and sank slowly back beneath the surface without a ripple.

They rowed in silence for a long while, until the mist began to thin and the smell of the sea returned.

When the skiff finally scraped against sand, Otto the Dwarf jumped out first, stretching with a groan. “Well, that was friendly. No arrows, no curses, no missing limbs.”

Eira was checking their pack. She frowned. “Wait. Where’s the rope? The knives? And the bottle of brandy?”

Arwen blinked. “Gone?”

“Not gone,” Eira said slowly, lifting a handful of pale shapes. “Replaced.”

Inside the pack lay pearls, spiral shells, bundles of fragrant herbs, and one stoppered gourd of cloudy liquid that smelled like fermented swamp gas.

Venera stared at it, then laughed softly. “Looks like we got our trade after all.”

Otto the Dwarf grinned, snatched up the gourd, and yanked the cork free. The smell hit them like a punch.

“No,” Eira warned. “Don’t...”

He already had. He drank deep, wiped his mouth, and grimaced. “Gods,” he wheezed. “Tastes like frog piss... and victory.”

Venera shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Then it’s all yours, Dwarf.”

Otto the Dwarf raised the gourd in salute. “To the Fibians, best traders I ever didn’t meet!”

The others laughed softly, the sound carrying over the water until the mist swallowed it again.

Behind them, somewhere far within the swamp, a single deep croak answered, low, slow, and amused.

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