A moment later, a huge bubble broke the surface of the water, carrying within it one mildly confused rock giant (I say mildly confused because Borg had yet to evince any particularly strong emotion, save for urgency, and that only happened twice per day when he needed to find a bathroom). The bubble floated over to the little patch of ground on which we stood and popped, depositing a muck-covered Borg right at Nadi’s feet. “You’re welcome,” said Whiska.
“Oh, well…that was, uh, that was well done, Whiska,” said Nadi. “Nice work.”
“Have to…poop,” said Borg urgently and with strong emotion.
“Gonna have to hold it for a bit, big guy—our friend is back,” said Rummy, not even bothering to hold his mace up as the creature burst back out of the water.
“Heloise—can you do anything?” asked Nadi, moving to stand in front of me with her sword held in a defensive position.
I shook my head. “Undead creatures aren’t affected by my music magic. I mean, I could try to bash the thing with my lute, but I’m pretty sure skelegator’s going to win that battle.”
“All right—you and Rummy to the rear.”
“Whose rear?” I asked innocently.
“Just move, Heloise!” replied a now flustered Nadi.
“Borg—you’re the front line.” The rock giant grabbed his club and stood up, prepared to swing it at the gator. “Whiska—any spells that might help?”
Borg connected with the creature’s head, a solid blow that sent it splashing back into the water, but didn’t do any serious damage.
“I’ve got one thing I can try,” replied Whiska. She closed her eyes and whispered words of magic. She pointed to the surface of the water and an amber-colored circle appeared. A few seconds later, the skelegator popped up again, right through the circle, and took on the amber hue of the spell.
“Hit it again, Borg—hard!” Whiska cried.
Borg brought his club around with particular gusto; when it smashed into the beast this time, its bones shattered, floating through the murky light of the swamp like glitter at a Barvindian dressing club. (Fun fact: Barvindians generally wear little to no clothing, so unlike in other cultures with more provocative flesh-based entertainment, they derive excitement from watching attractive dancers put clothing on; yes, it’s as weird as it sounds, especially by the end of a routine, particularly the ones that conclude with the donning of parkas and snow pants.)
We all looked around anxiously, waiting for another threat to emerge, but silence reigned. Finally, Nadi sheathed her sword. “That was really great teamwork,” she said, nodding appreciatively toward Whiska and Borg.
“I…pooped,” said Borg, pointing toward his bulging backside.
“Well,” said Rummy, “before choosing the exciting life of epic adventure, I always did wonder whether that happened in the middle of a battle. Now I guess I know the answer.”
“It’s not like the smell’s going to get any worse,” I noted.
Dangerous words, Heloise. Dangerous, and portentous, words.
Have you ever smelled a dead poleranka?
Let me back up: do you have any idea what a poleranka is? It’s probably the ugliest thing in existence—if a deformed gopher had revenge sex with a particularly fertile giant spider…well, their offspring would be about one hundred times prettier to look at than a poleranka.
And it turns out dead polerankas smell even worse than they look.
We stumbled across the corpse on what turned out to be our last morning in the swamp. It was sprawled on top of a mossy group of rocks, half-submerged in the water and partially ripped open, though whether that ghastly wound caused its death or was a result of swamp creatures trying to eat its insides afterward is a mystery I couldn’t care less about finding the answer to.
Regardless of how it met its untimely demise, passing within ten feet of the creature caused each and every one of us to vomit. Multiple times. Well, there was one exception: rock giant physiology doesn’t allow them to vomit. Instead, they get explosive diarrhea (the smell of which, I might add, resulted in at least two additional rounds of heaving for most of us).
I hate swamps.
Finally—finally—we emerged from the swamp, with our lives, but none of our dignity, intact. And, thankfully, blessedly, within an hour of clearing the last of the marshy ground, not only did the air begin to clear and the glorious scents of flowers and things that didn’t smell like decaying skunks restore some semblance of joy to the act of breathing, but we found a small, pristine spring in which we submerged ourselves completely. We burned every article of clothing, modesty be damned, and sat around naked for about an hour afterward (incidentally, it is not true what they say about rock giants, at least based on the single specimen I happen to have seen in the buff…they do only have one butt).
It occurred to me somewhat belatedly that in burning all of our clothes, we had, you know, burned all of our clothes. Look, you can sit there in your warm house with your mulled wine and your fluffy robe and judge us for making a decision that showed maybe just a slight lack of foresight. Until you’ve spent multiple weeks wandering a swamp that smells like a dying ogre’s taint and fending off everything from shambling bog men (people) to undead alligators, you can just choke on your wine.
Nonetheless, I decided that one of us needed to broach the issue. “So,” I began nonchalantly, “not that any of you are hard on the eyes sans clothing, but I’m wondering if maybe—just maybe—we might have considered washing at least one set of clothes instead of burning them all, given our need to wear clothing for the next step of our journey. And everything that will come after.” I looked at the smoldering fire pit where scraps of fabric still burned. “I’m thinking that ship has probably sailed, and, as far as I’m aware, there are no clothing stores, reputable or otherwise, in the area—if there are, those shambling bog people would apparently rather be naked than shop there, which doesn’t suggest a particularly great selection of garments.” I shrugged. “Any thoughts on how we deal with this little problem?”
“Well,” said Nadi, looking around in an effort to not look at anything in particular, and blushing when she looked at me, “I’m hoping that Whiska might have a magical solution. Whiska?”
“What?” snapped Whiska defensively as she popped a rather large beetle into her mouth.
“Can you help?” asked Nadi.
“No! I saw it first!” Whiska crunched loudly on the bug. “Get your own.”
“I meant with clothes,” said Nadi, exasperated.
“Who needs ‘em?” countered our furry friend. “Human weakness, if you ask me.”
“None of us is actually human,” interjected Rummy.
“Well, I’m half-human,” I replied.
“Fine,” said Whiska. “Bipedal weakness.”
“You’re bipedal,” I noted.
“Fine,” growled Whiska. “Weakness of those who don’t have tails or fur.”
“That may be true,” said Nadi, “but the fact remains that we still need clothes.”
Whiska mumbled something that sounded a little bit like “snucking gorons,” but I didn’t quite catch it. (Snucking gorons are gentle, frog-like creatures found in lakes and rivers around Norindia, named for the cute, snuffling “snuck” sound they make when they get excited. Given that I didn’t think Whiska was comparing us to adorable, runny-nosed amphibians, I might have misheard her.) “I can do it. But, I need time to rest and study my spells.”