In The Muck

In the land of Tolria there resides a Bard and a Guard, two traveling companions who seek to see the world, giving performances and engaging in heroics wherever they find themselves. The two have spread their names far and wide as a pair of mischievous do-gooders, who are always ready to take up arms against the evils of oppression and hopelessness. A duo so dauntless that in some places of the land their names are synonymous with bravery and heroism. With chilling might and wondrous talent they brave their adversaries, bringing steel and song down upon their dastardly victims. The pair that is so grand, so fierce tha-

"Can you please stop with your boasting, sire." protested the Guard, more commonly known as Royal Protector Xantumal Chorster, actively hacking through the underbrush in a fussy sort of way, fit with many grumblings and shakes of the head to emphasize his dislike of the situation.

"Excuse me for trying to think of ways to market us to the masses in these dismal backwater places!" came huffy reply from the Bard following behind, whose full title was Prince Xerseine Thornbush Drestar, the Glamorous and Most Elegant, Second in Line of the Throne of Drestar and Duke of Drent, Illusionist Extraordinaire, Daring Magician, and most importantly an Elf of the Common Folk. A humble title for one so narcissistic. Xerseine will suffice, however, for purposes of this story. "Ugh! My boots keep sinking into the bog and I have the constant presence of a sneeze I am right on the verge of, but it won't seem to tip!"

The elf vigorously scratched his nose in a manner befitting that of his aristocratic heritage and let out a frustrated groan, very clearly an indication of his noble distaste of the fetid swamp they found themselves trudging through, which was nothing if not insistent on dragging the two down inside. Both of them had ample amounts of filth clinging to their clothes and flowing into their boots, something that Xerseine often mentioned in a manner that shows his dignified restraint against complaining about issues he nor anyone else has control over, that being not very much. Xantumal, meanwhile, was at this point accustomed to his companion's cries of disgust with their situation, as he had only been already dealing with them for five shards (months) at this point.

"It's probably the stardust geysers. A local from town told me that they were more active this time of year. Apparently it's a common side effect for elves and other magical beings that get too close. Something about arcane particles or whatever."

"Well, it's all just dreadful if you ask me. You're so lucky that you humans have no natural sense of the Ley as we elves do, otherwise your eyes would be watering just as bad as mine are."

"First of all, saying "you humans" like that is..." Xantumal started, but halted his words midway. Scolding his charge went against his training and place, he knew that much. He caught himself on more than one occasion on this journey nearly speaking out of line, and it had only gotten more frequent as the two spent more time together. Xantumal took a deep breath, steadied his emotions, and respectfully turned towards his prince.

"Apologies, your highness. What I meant to say was that I think the water in your eyes is more likely from the multiple bouts of sobbing when you and your cape fell in the muck. Sire." He ended his helpful retort with a sharp jab on that last word.

Xerseine beheld the bundled up silk he clutched between his fingers. This fine fabric was imported from the distant shores of the islands of Caerdonel and was worth many weights of gold. Well, it was when it wasn't sopping wet and riddled with the essence of the swamp. It was completely ruined, no hope of recovery whatsoever.

"Oh. I suppose you're right." That was Xerseine's favorite cape. He only donned it because he didn't have another one that matched his outfit for today. His "arcane allergies" once again began to act up, as he instinctively rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, spreading more of the swamp's mess upon his pale face.