Role

Chapter 3

Srathil awoke suddenly, clutching the tainted wound at his side, his
breathing labored and heavy. A vision in his sleep of a terrible
creature in the marsh - a maw with a thousand gnashing teeth. He stood
at the ready, a spear clutched in his hand prepared to defend himself
from whatever this beast was.

He had been exploring the marshes of his former home in Ysigrath -
harvesting marshweed and looking for signs of game. It was a relatively
normal day, as far as the marshes go. Nothing seemed out of place or odd
about his surroundings and so he wasn't feeling particularly cautious or
on edge as he went about his tasks. He was collecting sprigs of the
plain green marshweed, a cure for poison in the swamps of his home - but
easily confused with other varieties that were not so beneficial. So
engrossed was he in his task that he failed to see the movement in the
waters of the marsh behind him. Bubbles broaching the surface at first,
and then ripples as something slid silently through the water behind him.

Srathil tucked a few sprigs of the plain green marshweed into his
belt-pouch and whipped about on his heels as an enormous creature
broached the surface. A maw with a thousand teeth gnashing, is all that
Srathil could recognize of the beast, it's bulks obscured by the waters
of the marsh. Srathil barely had time to ready his spear to defend
himself. The scent of the swamp had turned foul, rot and decay and death
hung thick on the air of the marsh. Srathil muttered to himself 'Weh.'
This was no natural inhabitant of these swamps, he had never seen it's
like before.

The ravenous maw lurched forward, gnashing it's teeth and spittle flying
from it's moving jaws. Drops of the substance landed on reeds and peat
around Srathil and in his periphery he noticed where they landed, the
life began to wither immediately. This was indeed a dangerous foe, and
Srathil wondered if he dared to face it, or flee in response to the
imminent threat. He supposed he did not have much of a choice in the
matter.

He lunged at the beast, his spear dancing into the creature's horrible
maw. A loud crunch reverberates through the swamp as the beasts jaws
clamp down around the spear and Srathil is left holding only a short haft
of wood. He bounded backwards from the beasts jaws as the creature
advanced in one fluid moment. He stumbles on a submerged root, and
tumbled backwards, catching himself with his hands in the muck. The maw
of the beast opens again, and a whiplike tongue springs forth a mouthlike
appendage with sharp teeth encircling it's opening latches on to
Srathil's side and pulses with a discernable hunger on the inflicted
wound.

Srathil awakens and out of the corner of his eye he glimpses a black owl
flit off into the night sky from his cabin window.