Day One.
Today I went alone again. Not because I crave solitude—just habit. If someone else is breathing nearby, I get nervous. And I remember too well how "team quests" usually end.
This time: the swamps.
Yeah, don't make that face. I'm not thrilled either. Everything always reeks of rotten water and someone's unwashed boots. But it's not really an expedition—more like a foraging run. Specifically, I'm after a plant called "tea."
Yes, that's its real name.
No, not the tea they serve at the tavern with rum and jam. This one grows in the marsh, with gray-green leaves that look half-withered while still on the stem. But when you brew them, the decoction comes out cloudy-gold and tastes like dried apples, dust, and eucalyptus all at once. The effect, though, is almost magic: pain relief, calm, settles your stomach and headaches, and—most importantly—keeps evil spirits away. That's why the guild sends everyone out here—some with swords, some with scissors. I'm one of the scissor types.
Left early. The walk isn't short; the marsh is nearly half a day from the city edge. The weather's awful. Damp, but not so much that it feels like a frog is licking you from the outside. The forest on the way seemed grumpy, trees creaking with moisture, ground squelching, but passable. I walked slow, not from fatigue, just because I like to notice things.
There's a rotten stump with purple mushrooms—too round to be poisonous, just odd. A boar track, old but sure. A bush with berries that look harmless but will give you such a case of the runs you'll pass out in the latrine.
I made notes as I went. Just for myself, not for any report. Just to remember how the leaves smell underfoot. To remember the world is here. Alive. Even if I'd rather not see anyone right now.
I reached the swamp by lunchtime. Classic smell: water, rot, and something like old rags. But it's familiar. I know where the tea bushes grow—on higher ground, where moss gives way to firmer earth, but it's still damp. Found them. Picked for ages. Thanked each bush aloud—not that I think they'll answer, just… respect. Who am I to pick and stay silent?
Then I noticed something.
Some patches near the old grove had turned black. Not moss, not rot—burned from the inside. And all around: silence. No whispering grass, no sedge, not even the trees. Just the water, and even it seemed to hold its breath. I thought "swamp gas" at first—it happens. But by evening, as I made camp, I realized something was off. Tomorrow, I'll go deeper. Still have my scissors. Still one flask of potion left, if it comes to that. For now, all's quiet.
Didn't sleep well.
Swamp's quiet, but sleeping by water is always a bad idea. Everything bubbles, rustles—something's always splashing in the reeds. And the mosquitoes. I'm not one to complain, but if one more bug tries to suck me dry, I'll eat it first.
Day Two.
The morning started with a foul smell.
Not just swamp-stink. More like someone boiled rotten meat over wet wool. I thought, "dead animal," but then noticed: the water in one channel had gone dull gray, like something got mixed in. Went further west—thick sedge, lots of tea bushes, but most were dead. Leaves hanging limp. Stems snapping at a touch. In one spot, the earth was just a black, inky mush.
Marked the coordinates.
Sketched a map on a scrap of parchment. None of this showed up as blighted on old maps. Probably poisoned. But with what? No clue.
Later, down south, I stumbled on bunches of herbs hanging up to dry. Tied rough, but neat. So someone comes here regularly. In one spot: a skin stretched on stakes, coal remnants nearby, as if someone had cooked something on a fire. My first thought: a herbalist. But everything was too perfect—too tidy, not a speck out of place. A herbalist wouldn't bother. This felt like territory.
Got back to camp later than planned. Saw a hedgehog limping, paw half-rotted. Unusual. Noted it.
And another oddity: one of the plants I picked that morning had regrown by evening—from the same root. That's not normal. Noted it. Put it in a separate pouch.
Tomorrow I'll go deeper, to where the stumps are. I want to know who's running this place. Hope they don't eat me on sight.
If anyone suggests I "breathe swamp air" for my skin tomorrow, I'll spit in their face. No malice. Just on principle.
Today I went south. Where, according to my old notes, there used to be a moss-willow grove. It's gone. Now—stumps, cleanly cut. Some charred. And again, that smell—not smoke, but something rotting under cheap incense.
Under one stump I found… what looked like a mark? Three lines meeting at a point, small circles at the ends. Drawn in thick ochre. Not a guild mark. Noted it. Sketched it. Smells of beast, but set with precision.
Day Three.
If tomorrow someone tells me to "breathe swamp air" for my skin, I'll spit in their face. No offense. Just principle.
Went south again, where the moss willows used to be. Now—stumps, some scorched, the rest slick with rot and incense. Under one, that same mark—three lines, a dot, ochre. Not a guild symbol. Noted. Sketched. Smells of beast, but arranged just so.
Midday.
A little later.
I saw her. First, just a shape—in the water, ankle-deep, with a basket. Slow, moving through the reeds, like she was searching for the right stalk. Baggy clothes, swamp-colored, headscarf. Not a skeleton. Not an illusion. Not undead. Just an old woman.
I didn't hide. She saw me and… just sighed. Like I'd tracked mud onto her clean floor.
— Another one, she said. Not a question—a diagnosis.
— For tea, I answered.
She snorted.
— All for tea. Or my mushrooms. Or poisonous toad-heads. Then they use them to poison rats in their pretty little towns.
— I don't poison rats, I muttered.
She came closer. Studied me. I hate being stared at, but I didn't look away.
— You don't. But you're carrying a fever potion, a silver knife, and in your pack—judging by the sound—a jar of dried galangal and a couple coins.
— …yeah.
— Smart. Still wandered in here.
I didn't know what to say. She wasn't threatening—just talking. Like wind moaning in a pipe: annoying, but not hostile.
I asked what she was doing to the swamp. She shrugged.
— Cleansing. These places were tainted long before me. People cut down the groves. Spirits got angry. First they asked, then they bit, then they started dying.
— You help?
— I do what I can. But if water's to be clean, something's got to die in it.
I said I could hear echoes of voices in the ground. She smiled.
— Hearing's not the same as understanding.
I don't know who she is. Not evil, but… too certain she's right. And that's scarier than malice.
Heading back to camp. Tomorrow I'll return—from the far edge of the swamp. I want to map where the tea no longer grows, and count how many voices are left.
P.S.
Note to self: DO NOT touch strange white mushrooms, even if they move. Especially if they smile.
Day Four.
Yesterday I decided the old woman was just odd.
Today… I'm not so sure.
Took a new route. Normally, no one goes that way—mud too soft, ground sucks at your boots. I wore tighter boots, poncho cinched to my chin, and went anyway. If I'm going to die, may as well make it count.
Where the grove used to be is now just a mess of slime, water, and gray scraps. There were once willows here, thin and supple. I saw one as a kid—touch the bark and it felt warm. Now—wet, charred stumps. One cracked, hollow, something… pulsing inside?
First I circled the perimeter, then returned. Loitered twenty minutes, listening. Nothing. No wind, no old woman, no frogs. Then I sat—right on a fallen trunk. Pulled out my knife, stuck it in the ground beside me.
— I know you're here. And you know I'm listening.
Silence. Long. Not even a drop fell. Then—
Something nudged my ear—not a sound, not a word. More like someone pressed a palm to my head from the inside.
"You are an outsider."
— I know.
"You burned."
— No.
"You listen."
— Always.
"You leave."
— Not yet.
I can't explain it. It's not a voice. It's a feeling, weight, questions that just arrive in my head. Like thoughts that aren't mine. Like waking up in a stranger's house—everything familiar, but not quite right.
"She… cuts us."
— The old woman?
"With roots. With mud. With words."
"We… barely remember. Only pain."
I asked—soft, aloud:
— What's poisoning you?
And in my mind, the answer came:
Human pride. The woman who boils death, too long, too close. We can't hear the water anymore. Only rot.
I asked if I could help. The answer wasn't yes or no.
Remember. As long as someone remembers, we're not gone.
I've been sitting here an hour. Dampness in my skin, ache in my bones. But I don't want to leave. For the first time, I understand what it means—the "spirit of a place." Not a legend. Not a phrase. Just… the life that's not ready to be forgotten.
Heading back. Tomorrow I'll find out where the old woman draws her water. If she's really "healing" the swamp, she's doing it like chopping off fingers to cure a splinter. Maybe it hurts her, too. Maybe she's right. But that doesn't mean she should burn everything to the ground.