“To love a swamp, however, is to love what is muted and marginal, what exists in the shadows, what shoulders its way out of mud and scurries along the damp edges of what is most commonly praised. And sometimes its invisibility is a blessing. Swamps and bogs are places of transition and wild growth, breeding grounds, experimental labs where organisms and ideas have the luxury of being out of the spotlight, where the imagination can mutate and mate, send tendrils into and out of the water.” - Barbara Hurd

After a day if travelling, the yellow grass disappears into dense green foliage. The shallow water becomes deeper, giving way to rivers covered with bright green moss. The open sky gets smothered by the lush canopy of trees until only shadows remain.

Having only ever heard of the marshes as a place of grass where the skados reside, I am amazed to discover a world so similar to the forest. There are differences too, but the similarities between the forest and the swamp are striking.

Age old trees wider than the span of my arms stand in clusters. Small roots descend from their bases, propping them up in the water – creating a spider of roots with a perfect shelter between them and the base of the trunks. Spiked roots grow from the water, their pores allowing the trees to breathe.

The smell of dead and decaying things hangs in the mist, pressing all life out. The rancid smell has permeated every fold of my clothes. O, how I long to smell fresh air again!

My boots have been rendered useless. The thick, caked mud has seeped into the leather making it flop against my calves with every step I take. Now they only serve one purpose: to prevent the horde of bugs from penetrating my flesh.

I swat at the pendular buzz of a mosquito near my ear as I search for a path to forge ahead on. The annoying insect is only deterred momentarily before it resumes its plight.

With no clear path of solid ground to follow, Rorith and I trudge on until the faint whisper of sunlight turns to a memory of moonlight.

Haunted by the unknown sounds of the animals around us, neither of us can sleep the first night. Although plagued by fatigue, we refuse to let our guard down for even a minute. Instead, I recite what knowledge regarding the marshes that I can remember.

A large area near Alesam was drained decades ago to prevent the people from getting disease from the bugs and to make more room for farming in the area. The remaining wetlands in the area are an abundant source of fish, giving Alesam what no other city has: markets of both fresh and saltwater fish species.

But here, nature remains untouched by forced change. It could be easy to believe that no civilisation exists here, but the skados, greater in number than the elves and even comparable to that of humans, have whole cities concealed in the silence of the swamps.

That even the most trustworthy of history and geography books I have read merely describes the area as a grassy bog, testifies to the fact that there are more secrets to be uncovered here that anyone could ever fathom. The reality we are facing currently is so far from a grassland.

It takes me three days of being miserable before I can see the beauty surrounding me. As we push forward through the water, countless fish and frog species splash in the water nearby. Salamanders and other amphibians scurry out of our way if we dare disturb their peaceful slumber in the patches of sunlight.

The trees around us are ageless, passing the test of time with the knowledge that they would still stand long after the intruders have passed through.

Night after night the chorus of croaking frogs and creaking insects fill the silent night. Rorith and I soon take turns to sleep – the one standing guard with a clutched dagger wary of every snapping twig.

One night, after Rorith shot some waterfowl, we dare to light a fire. After enjoying the heat of the fire and the comfort of a cooked meal, we bury the feathers and bones and press on for the night. Having no idea of the kinds if predators residing here and fearing that the fire would have attracted them, we cannot dare to gamble with our lives.

Once, after loosing my footing when crossing a stream, I fall into an underwater world of wonder. Tangled between the network of roots, is a field of colourful grasses and flowers. Their long, thin stems and colourful crowns frown at the intrusion as Rorith pulls me out of the water.

That night I dig out insect larvae from a scratch obtained when going under. Clenching my teeth as I scrape my arm until it bleeds, I concede to Rorith’s offer to help when the pain blurs the edges of my consciousness. Soon the insect larvae popped from the wound and Rorith dresses it.

After that I am careful to ensure that I don’t get any more wounds. However, the treacherous terrain makes it impossible not to pick up bruises and scrapes.

The birds perched on their twig like legs in the water watch our progress with wary eyes.

The second time Rorith shoots a waterfowl, unfortunately does not go as smoothly as the first. While picking the last meat from the bones and recounting a story from his youth, Rorith stops midsentence.

Initially barely audible, the rustle of leaves grow louder.

Rorith reaches for his sword, but I shake my head.

“We are surrounded. That we have become aware of their presence has been merely a courtesy. It would be rude to draw our weapons.”