The muck once again threatened to rip Magrus’ boot from his leg and swallow it.  Even for a thick and strong Dwarf, the Evernight swamp was a treacherous and difficult mixture of sticky mud and poisonous critters hidden in the black goo.  Evernight got its well deserved name from the curiously constant canopy of ominous grey clouds that prevented all but the most minuet traces of light from the shrouded sun somewhere above.  At night it was said that the darkness was similar to being under-ground without any source of light.  Magrus had no desire to find out the truth of that, night vision or no.

 

His ability to see in the dark had kicked in shortly after he and his three friends entered the swamp some six hours ago.  They had heard of the ruins and the hidden treasures there located to north and east, supposedly in the dead center of the cursed mire.  Adrenaline and greed had fueled them as they suffered the thick mud grabbing their feet at every step.  It was slow and tiring travel and the main reason they were unable to avoid the blood hunter.  They first spotted the cloaked figure off in the distance.  He was just sitting there upon his black steed watching, seemingly disinterested in the four adventurers.  He watched them for nearly and hour as they slowly made their way north.  Then without so much as a flick of the wrist, his mysterious black horse leaped forward and charged across the mud as if running on dry fields.Harkum pulled the claw on his large crossbow and with a steady hand and keen marksman’s eye, leveled it at the skeletal rider on the horse’s back.  There was the familiar thump as the large bolt streaked from the bow and struck the armored undead square in the chest.  There was the slightest motion at the impact but not the desired result of un-seating the foul being.  Shockingly, there seemed to have been little damage done to it at all.  Un-phased Harkum again set another bolt and in a well-trained rhythmic motion let another bolt fly, this time at the steed.  This bolt did not find a home and seemed to pass straight through the charging beast. 

 

Things went into fast motion after that.  Magrus, Brond Striker and his brother Londer braced themselves in the muddy soup, great axes on the ready in their war-worn hands.  Harkum again re-loaded, ignoring the sweat running from his forehead into his eyes.  Harkum was not a fearful Dwarf, if such a thing even exist, but the being’s unnatural toughness had clearly shaken him.  Just as the blood hunter came within twenty feet of the battle ready Dwarves the black horse like steed spewed forth a swath of green acid that threatened to cover them all.  The suction of the mud made rolling free of the acid nearly impossible and Harkum paid the biggest price.

 

Harkum screamed as the green fluid covered him from head to his thighs, the mud protecting his lower legs.  Despite the pain he released yet another bolt which struck true once again and once again seemed to have no affect on the undead warrior.  It would be Harkum’s last act in this world.  With amazing quickness the rider swung his black sword cutting through Harkum’s crossbow with ease and removing his head along with it.  Brond and Londer swung their massive axes and with years of experience on their side there was little doubt they would find their mark despite the affects of the acid on their faces, arms and hands.  Any other creature they may have come across in this cursed land would have been cut in two with the might of their blows.  The blood hunter’s tight skin pulled across his face revealing a grin of sharpened teeth clearly in defiance of their best efforts. 

 

Magrus had managed to dodge a good portion of the acid but this had also moved him out of position to strike.  He tried in vain to command his legs to pull free of the mud so he could charge the exposed back of the blood hunter.  Cruses flew from his lips as he could do little else but watch as first Brond and then his brother were murderously slashed with precise swings of the hunter’s black blade.  Brond seemed to stare at Magrus for an eternity as he cupped his stomach with both hands, his entrails seeping between his fingers and onto the ground below.  Blood gurgled from his mouth as he tried to speak, perhaps to cry out for Londer whose mud covered head lay at his feet.

 

Tears of anger weld up in Magrus’ eyes and the veins in his well muscled arms threatened to burst as he struggled to move the mere ten feet between himself and the blood hunter.  The evil creature simply sat on the back of that black horse-like creature, fanged grin stretched across his face as if waiting for one more slaughter.  Magrus would be more than happy to oblige the undead sword master as his rage left nothing else but hatred and a desire to avenge his friends.  No sense of survival no rational thoughts of the hopelessness of killing something so powerful and skilled.  One painfully slow plunge of his boot into the mud after another he made his way purposefully toward his doom.

 

The blood hunter leaned over and grabbed the still standing Brond, pulling him across the back of the black horse.  Brond’s eyes were still open but he was already dead even if his body didn’t know it just yet.  His hands never left his gut as if somehow what was left of them could be held in place.  NO!!! Magrus had screamed at the top of his lungs.  The undead hunter made his first and only sound as he gently laughed while turning his steed west and riding off.   Magrus fell to his knees, Londer and Harkum’s heads not three feet from him.  Their faces frozen in a look of surprise, acid bubbling on their skulls.  Magrus sobbed.

 

How long had he kneeled there?  Wanting to avenge his clan mates and lifelong friends but knowing full well it would be impossible.  The blood hunter had not left a trace, no way to follow.  Besides, his mind had returned at this point and the realization that even if he could find the foul creature he had no way to defeat it.  Then what remained was the question of why.  Why was he allowed to live when his friends had murdered in front of his eyes?  It was true evil that would let him live to carry on the memories of what had happened. 

 

Magrus is perhaps the strongest willed and most stout of heart Dwarf in all of the Blackstone clan and in short order he had set his mind right and his legs back in motion; once again headed towards the center of Evernight.  Warnings from others had said that his only hope was to arrive there before the total darkness of nightfall.  A haven of sorts was said to be there but he had no clue how far he had to travel and how long he had sat in the muck grieving.

 

True darkness was beginning to set in as Magrus purposely trudged on, his legs burning from the constant effort to power his way through the relentless muck.  He could sense creatures in the darkness, watching him, moving in slowly.  His pulse quickened and his eyes darted warily from side to side anticipating what he new would come next.  The first movement was little more than a blur and Magrus’ axe came up in a sweeping arc almost as if it had a mind of its own.  It was a large creature and it howled mightily as the axe drove into its crotch.  It wasn’t enough to kill the creature however and a second was rushing up from behind the battle hardened Dwarf.

 

Swamp Trolls are especially nasty.  They stand nearly ten feet tall and their arms are impossibly long and thick as oaks.  The first swing from the Troll behind Magrus hummed passed his ear as a well timed head dodge to the right kept him from being decapitated.  The first troll had recovered quickly however and his heavy fist slammed squarely into Magrus’ chest with amazing force.  This Dwarf however had seen many battles and withstood mighty blows in the past; the trolls would be disappointed this day. 

 

Magrus brought his axe up and around in a large sweeping motion blocking the next blow from the Troll that had come from behind.  His powerful arms continued the motion on around allowing him to complete the motion by slicing the blade into the first Troll’s neck.  Black blood shot forth as his head fell to one side, a few inches of black skin keeping it from falling off altogether.  The remaining Troll brought his fist down and slammed Magrus in the back immediately forcing the air from his lungs.  He went down into the muck with his hands bracing his fall still holding the axe.  Instinct took over and despite his desire to simply fall to his face and try to gulp air he spun to his back brining the axe to his chest.

 

The Troll was already in mid air, lunging for the downed Dwarf.  Magrus held the axe with all his strength as one side of the axe blade buried itself in the Troll’s face from the force of his body slamming into him.  The other side of the blade sunk into the Dwarf’s shoulder from the weight.  Searing pain shot through the dwarf and he knew right away that his collar bone had been sliced through cleanly and he would be lucky to retain the use of his right arm.  Both Trolls were down but Trolls have a bad habit of not staying that way, their regenerative powers would bring them back to full strength in no time.  Magrus had no time to waste he had to get out from underneath the Troll and move away as quickly as possible.

 

With one arm out of action and a 1,500 pound Troll laying on him Magrus was sure to drown in the mud.  Try as he might he could not budge the Troll even with his mighty strength.  That is when help arrived from an unnerving but no-less unwelcome source.  Long sickly leech like creatures had begun to scavenge at the first trace of blood hitting the swamp.  Luckily for Magrus the creatures seemed to prefer the black sticky goo that passed as Troll blood over the free flowing Dwarf blood from his shoulder.  The Leaches slowly pulled the Troll off of Magrus as they attempted to drag their find under the mud.  The Troll was already starting to come around however and the leaches would not find much of a meal when all was said and done.

 

Magrus climbed to his feet.  Blood rushed down his arm and pooled on the ground as he gathered up his axe with his good hand.  The first Troll’s neck and nearly grown back completely despite the large leach sucking black juice from the bottom of his head.  Magrus would need more time to get away so with his good hand his struck the axe again and again at the foul creatures neck until it separated from his body.  Still, it would grow back. 

 

Magrus began to work his way through the mud once again.  Still heading North and East towards the legendary ruins.  He had begun to wonder if the ruins of Evernight even existed when off in the distance he could see what appeared to be a stone tower or at least what was left of one from long ago.  His loss of blood was now making him dizzy and he stumbled often as he fought to keep moving.  “To what end?” He cursed out-loud as he once again picked himself up.  “I’m as good as dead and for a treasure I may very well never see or hold in my hand.”

 

Things were once again moving behind him, several things, following his trail of fresh blood like hungry wolves.  He was too tired to care, too tired to look behind him.  His axe hung up on a root of an old dead Cyprus tree and slipped from his hand as he dragged it carelessly behind him.  He did not stop; there was something ahead, something drawing him closer.  The ground beneath his feet began to become more solid, a mixture of dead grass and coble stones.  There was a strange light ahead, a patch of sunlight it appeared in the middle of the darkness.  Surely he was dying and headed home to be with his clan mates once again.

 

Magrus stumbled forward and fell on a patch of warm grass.  It smelled fresh and clean and brought a small grin to his haggard face.  He could barely open his eyes but he swore he could feel the warmth of the sun.  Surely he was dead.  A thought crossed his mind before he passed out, “You must get there before dark my good dwarves for there is a haven there and the only way to survive the night”.