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To Maester Jamis,
I, Acolyte Aerwyn, submit to you something truly bewildering within the midst of my dissertation regarding the people and culture of Crackclaw Point, a pursuit I have taken for the copper link in my chain. During my studies, I endeavored with a group of men who pursued what appeared to be nought but superstition. A group of knights and men-at-arms, eight men strong, embarked on a mission into the Pyne's Swamp in response to the reports of children in distress.
The man of prominence leading this endeavor was none other than Ser Raegan Celtigar, esteemed knight and dragonrider, who would be in charge of protection and accompanying the investigation. Many local villagers described what they perceived as the cries of children deep within the shaded bogs. While the cause for the screams and the disappearance of a local busking destitute was disputed, I decided to lend my pen, my books, and my mind. I hoped that this would be an insight into the minds and beliefs of the people that the honored Maester Gyldayn described as "half-wild", But what we found in those swamps was something quite disturbing.
With respects,
Acolyte Aerwyn, 135 AC
☆☆~*~☆☆
The planks creaked under the acolyte’s footsteps while he wobbled along the bog bridge. Gripping his staff like a rope over a cliff’s edge, Aerwyn tried not to preoccupy himself with swatting his hand about and ducking under the buzzing dragonflies, lest he risk falling into the swampy water below. His chains rattled and he cursed, his knuckles turning white from clenching his hands around the knobby head of his staff again; the bog bridge teetered, the dark water beneath them churning like a witch's brew. Whether it was from the exertion of their trek or the deceptively cool humidity of the fen, Aerwyn periodically wiped his brow and neck with his sleeve.
“Ser Raegan, how far must we traverse into this bog?” Aerwyn, acolyte of the Citadel, asked in a trembling voice that seemed almost whiny.
The Celtigar knight, a man who stood a head taller than most of his compatriots, most remembered by his black hair streaked with platinum white across his head, looked over his shoulder. His voice a firm croon as he explained, “We will continue till Ser Rickard and goodfellow Edgetho find us the solid ground needed to go deeper into the bog. Rest assured, acolyte Aerwyn.”
The Crackclaws chuckled amongst themselves, the butts of their staves and spears thudding against the bridge in an almost-rhythmic march, pushing deeper into the bog. Aerwyn grumbled exasperatedly, swatting away insects and watching them get picked off by the dragonflies that hovered and darted about. The maester-to-be began to feel nostalgic for the scent of parchment and burnt wax in place of the musty stench of wet soil, peat, and sulfuric decay.
Ser Rickard the Dart, a wiry hedge knight five-years past his prime, led alongside the local ranger scouting ahead, Sure-toed Edgetho. Both men were proficient hunters and trackers, according to Lord Pyne. Suddenly, Ser Rickard raised his spear above his head. The whole group stopped to scan the area before letting out collective grumbles and laughs, watching as he had simply stopped to scratch his armpit.
Aerwyn tilted his head for a better glimpse at Sure-toed Edgetho, who strode along the bog bridge planks like a cat, despite the squeaky squish-squish of his boots. Aerwyn made a mental note with a small mumble of intrigue, noting that the uneven terrain was a part of the natural gait of the Crackclaws, in comparison to his toddling wobbles to avoid getting bog water and mud onto his borrowed boots. It took him time, around an hour and a half, of walking in the middle of the group to appreciate the strange beauty of the temperate wetlands. Around them were patches of grass and tall reeds scattered around ponds of groundwater, stones blanketed in moss and surrounded by birch, alder, and birch.
A small splash sputtered fifty paces to the company’s right, though only Aerywn turned to where the sound came from. Ser Belim Boggs’ burly hand patted the acolyte’s shoulder, less a shove forward and more a reassuring gesture. The stout knight, a man of thirty with brown eyes and wavy hazel hair shook his head with his dismissive scoff, “It’s probably just a small fish hungry for one of them dragonflies. No need to fear, little maester.”
The young acolyte sighed and nodded, pushing forward, wishing he had a mule to ride rather than trudging on ungainly planks connected from one small island of solid ground to the next. His eyes kept on darting about, occasionally hearing the occasional splashes of jumping fish, though he did not see any. The group finally settled at a hammock, a patch of dry ground edged by morass around twenty feet from edge to edge.
Aerwyn sighed and slowly crouched to the ground and sat on a mossy rock, looking up at the cloudy sky and the sparse trees. Belim grunted, sitting down on the ground and setting down his billhook on his lap while the ranger and hedge knight remained standing, scanning the bog around them.
“So, Sure-toed, this is the direction the villagers heard it?” Ser Balman Hardy, sometimes called “Heavy” for his girth of chest and proficiency with a two-handed mace, asked. The knight huffed, leaning against a nearby boulder; the company stopped to recover with skins of water and satchels of various alcoholic beverages. Balman wiped his brow with a taupe handkerchief, shaking his heavy dirty blonde hair through the breeze before taking water from his squire, Malcolm Pyne.
“The villagers live on the edge of this part of the Pyne’s bog, good ser. And I know that those people wouldn’t lie, especially about this.” Edgetho replied curtly, leaning against his spear. Aerwyn heard another splash off in the distance, seeing something like a fish tail move underneath before dabbing his own forehead with his sleeve. Edgetho kept his eyes out, looking for motion, “People heard a voice like a child screaming in the bog.”
“A child all the way out here? Perhaps there are bandits? Outlaws? Maybe they are stealing away women and children,” young Jorgen Cave surmised, the boy of thirteen sniffing his buttoned nose while he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword, his voice lilting with a hope for glory. He shrugged, partially to relieve himself of his shield’s strap digging into his shoulder while relieving himself of the knights giving him a shared curious stare. Malcolm Pyne chuckled before elbowing his fellow squire in the bicep.
“Regardless, this is as deep into the bog as any man would be willing to go. The only thing out here are deer, rats, birds, toads, and dragonflies.” Belim huffed, taking off his barbute helmet to scratch his scruffy dark brown, almost black, hair. Sticking the butt of his billhook into the mud out of frustration; he then turned to the goodfellow, “Edgetho, are you sure village children aren’t just having nightmares of bedtime tales by their parents?”
“My mother's grandmother told of screams coming out of the bogs. Old, hungry things coming out at night. Screaming into the darkness.” Edgetho kept his eyes out on the tree line surrounding them, looking for more hammocks of land to walk on, testing the ground with his staff. The short, lithe man found a trail of dry land, testing it with light jabs before looking for other paths surrounding their islet.
“My mother told me about them too. Said that they picked off children at night, eating the boys. And if they got the girls, they’d be bred and eaten.” Dylan Waters chuckled dismissively, twirling his short sword in his hand, a baselard. He whinged under his breath and slapped his neck with his free hand to rid himself of a mosquito.
“They have been dead since the Coming of the Andals,” Raegan explained, his lilac eyes looking from one man to the other. Scratching his groomed stubble beard in thought. He then peered over his shoulder, towards the trees and reeds, “And if it was them, I'd rather face brigands.”
Aerwyn pressed the leather cover of his book against his lap, taking comfort from the familiar paper and a charcoal stick in his hand. Writing the exchange in his journal; the Crackclaw men spoke of the fauna and other dangers of the bogs, especially at night, and an ominous “they” that they dare not specify. He repressed a smirk, fascinated by their superstitions, tales that even the Celtigar knight, a son of a Targaryen princess, was susceptible to the folklore of these people.
From the corner of his periphery, Aerwyn watched Edgetho prod his staff into a large patch of reeds, his brow furrowing as something bobbed up from the water. Edgetho's face paled before he began to slowly ease back from the water’s edge; the stench of decay filled the air, and a corpse bobbed below the surface of the peat water. The corpse was headless and pale, the torso was revealed to be empty, skin and flesh hanging from the edges of the cavity as if it were torn open. The limbs of the corpse were covered with scratches and bite marks, with some of the bone showing underneath the flesh.
The knights, squires, and men-at-arms shouted cacophonously, turning towards the corpse and retreating from the hammock’s edge. The squires, Jorgen Cave and Malcolm Pyne, drew their swords an inch out of their scabbards, eyes wide as they backed from the water’s edge. Aerwyn swallowed a gag, clutching his book to his chest, and then stuffing his journal and charcoal into his satchel. He swallowed, arms clutching his satchel as he slowly crept to the center of the islet. A tense silence hung over the air, the men keeping their weapons up, the squires coughing and gagging as the acidic pungence of the corpse wafted around them.
Belim was the first to step forward, looking to Raegan for approval. Raegan, with his Valyrian steel axe in hand, nodded. Then, with billhook in hand, Ser Belim reached forward, remaining five paces from the bog’s edge while hooking the corpse and dragging it on shore.
“Acolyte,” Raegan beckoned over while the group watched the bloated corpse get pulled onto the shore of the hammock. Raegan lowered his battle axe, stepping aside as the acolyte crept forward. Ser Raegan handed Aerwyn his staff, giving him a tool to examine the body, “what do you think caused this?”
Aerwyn pulled a cloth around his face, tying it around his mouth and nose before crouching down towards the body. He glanced down at his silver link on his chain, wishing that Maester Rahl was here to instruct or assist him. Taking a deep breath, he began his out-loud examination. Explaining with a soured grimace, “the victim was a man, age unclear. Though acidic water from swamps and bogs have been known to slow decomposition. Judging by the bloating and the resurfacing after disturbance, the victim has been dead for more than five days. Though the body has lessened bloating, the coloration change hasn't fully taken effect.”
Aerwyn leaned forward before continuing, using his stick to roll the corpse. A shiver ran up his spine while grunting in disgust, the acolyte continued, “the tattered clothes and emaciation are indicative of poverty, probably destitute. The victim has been gnawed upon before and after he was killed. Deep scratch marks on the shoulders and the torn skin around the neck. The limbs have been removed as well. Likely, something pulled him in, whether it be the attacker killed or drowned him.”
“Pulled into the water,” Belim repeated, leaning against his billhook. He stood above the acolyte, his eyes darting around the bog as he added, “I have heard of such beasts. Lizard-lions, large scaly creatures with dagger-like teeth and scales harder than chainmail. Could that have done this?”
Aerwyn remained crouched, scuttling around the corpse and examining the stump where the head was missing. He thought out loud, “Judging by the lacerations, most of these are scratches. Unless this man was sticking his head near the bog while on all fours, the lizard-lion would've been biting down on his arms or legs to pull him into the water. There is tearing similar to bite marks around the neck, so whatever did this went for the neck first to hasten his death before consumption. The head is missing, but most consumption has been seen around the lower abdomen and arms.”
“So it goes for the neck and shoulders like a mountain cat, but stores its food in the water like a lizard-lion.” Edgetho inferred out loud. The group slowly turned towards him with wide eyes at the last part of his statement, he repeated with a shrug, “Lizard-lions hide their food in the bogs.”
“Seven damning hells,” Jorgen cursed under his breath.
Taking a deep breath and clumsily pushing the body back into the water with a walking stick, Aerwyn shivered while watching the body slowly begin to sink.
Raegan glanced down at the ground beneath him in thought, asking the acolyte, “Aerwyn, what about-?”
The cries started faint, carrying through the breeze like mist before it pierced the air. A shiver ran up the spines of the group, any man who crouched or slouched stood straight, as a cry came deep from the wetlands boskage. The scream was shrill, lamenting, and desperate. The crying tapering off into a tremulous whine before the wails started again.
Aerwyn’s breath became shallow as his eyes darted around. The cries sounded small and distant, a desperate plea, the grating timbre expressing pain and distress. Aerwyn began spinning around, all eyes from the men there darting about before Jorgen pointed at a thin shape scampering behind a dead tree.
“There, I see someone!” Jorgen called out emphatically, prodding the ground ahead of him before hopping from one hammock to the next. Ignoring the mud and peat he slipped into, shouting to the tree, “it’s alright, I’m coming!”
“Boy, get back here!” Rickard leapt after him, catching up before grabbing his shoulder.
“No, someone needs our help!” Jorgen protested, pulling his shoulder away before the hedge knight grabbed his arm.
“Everyone, listen!” Edgetho barked, the screaming continuing to fill the air while the men all turned towards their guide. The distant shrill cried and cried
Dylan growled in frustration, shouting, “I can't hear anything but crying, damn it!”
“Where are the birds and bugs?”
All the men paused, and a silence pierced the air, as sharp as the wailing. There was no buzzing of insects or chirping and squawking birds. Just the cries. Just the wailing that built in pitch before waning into a raspy hush.
“Why did it stop?” Aerwyn asked, his voice trembling as he stood in the middle of the islet. He looked to Raegan, awaiting for his answer before realizing that his lilac eyes were locked onto something. Following his stare, he slowly turned, catching a glimpse of a rock covered in aquatic weeds sticking out of the water. The grey-green rock surrounded by the brackish fen water. The acolyte narrowed his eyes, puzzled as he found that under the wetland weeds oddly looked like a face. His nose wrinkled before coughing, bringing his sleeve to his nose upon taking in the scent of rotten fish that filled the air, exclaiming out loud, “Seven hells, that stench!”
Edgetho's face went pale, acting like a man possessed, he quickly nocked an arrow before loosing it into the water. The rock shaped like a head suddenly dipped into the water, the splash echoing in every man's mind as their eyes peered into the brackish peat water.
Valyrian steel was raised into the air first, Raegan tensing for a swing and holding his battle axe above his shoulders. Looking at Rickard and Malcolm, he shouted, “Get to dry land, now! Circle up!”
The men raised their weapons, forming a circle with an open gap. Rickard, seeing ripples move as something crawled in the murk, yelled, “Run, boy!” Jorgen hastily skipped from islet to islet, eyes wide with terror as a murky green silhouette crawled beneath the murk. Rickard bounded behind him, spear in hand, his eyes darting aside.
The creature slithered beneath the murk before it lunged out of the water. The hedge knight shoved the squire down, both of them dropping prone into the mud. A scaly, dark green entity lunged over their heads and swiped its finned arms in an attempt to grasp at its prey before it dove back into the murk.
“Hurry!” Edgetho shouted, nocking another arrow and loosing it into the water, his recurve bow following the ripples it left as it slithered through the boskage, shaking the grass and tall reeds before dipping into deeper water.
The two men, now damp in peat water and sweat, jumped onto the hammock, panting raggedly and pointing their weapons out towards the water. The squire’s hand trembled as he drew his arming sword in one hand and his dagger in the other. Rickard held one of his smaller spears over his head, ready to throw. The spear’s tip pointed at the water like a harpoon.
Raegan took a deep breath and let out a slow exhale, reaching one hand for his hip and unfastening the strap of his helmet. With another hissing exhale, the scarlet crab of House Celtigar covered the brow of his mask, its claws pointing at the sky in defiance. With a yank, he strapped the helmet under his chin and readied his Valyrian steel axe, Craw Cleaver.
Aerwyn, with a trembling hand, drew his letter opener from his satchel and stared out into the bog. The silence hung around him like a noose, and uncertainty would be his hangman. Overcast curtains darkened the sky, shrouding the murk around them.
Then they heard it, the sound of faint footsteps that faded with a splash. It surrounded them. Circling them in a mercurial trudge that went squish-squish, splash, squish-squish-squish, splash.
“Look, over there.” Aerwyn whispered and pointed a finger, spotting something crawling on its belly like a lizard, and diving into the fen.
Silence again. The combatants formed a circle, backs to one another with the squires guarding the acolyte in the center. Young Jorgen shivered, his face pale and dirty from the mud smudged on his face. Malcolm held up his shield, sword pointed behind it.
The creature lunged at the man-at-arms, Dylan Waters, and tackled him to the ground. Dylan screamed as the monster pinned him down, its mouth stretching forward, revealing a yawning maw of needle-like teeth. It snapped at him ravenously, screeching as he screamed and desperately held its head away with his arms before he drove his baselard short sword into its gills. The monster reared back, clutching its neck with its webbed hand.
The creature stood up, and Aerwyn beheld the horrifying marvel. It stood a little shorter than a man, though its head was proportionally larger, supported by a thick neck. Dark green, membraned webbing sat between its fingers, toes, and armpits as it opened its arms and screamed. The green-scaled monstrosity's mouth opened impossibly wide, expressing a gaping maw of green needle-like teeth that led into its cavernous hole that smelled of rotting flesh, with maggots crawling in between its teeth.
Without giving it time to recover, Balman’s two-handed mace swung his two-handed mace into the monster’s head. The flanged ball of steel cracked the side of the creature’s head, its sickly pale yellow eyes almost bulging out from its sockets before it stumbled aside. Balman quickly grabbed Dylan by his arm and pulled him to his feet, bellowing erratically, “By the gods, it’s a fucking squisher!”
The creature’s large scaly head unfurled a frill of bony gills that shuddered while it hissed at Rickard, who replied by launching a javelin at its white-scaled torso. The spear head punctured its clavicle, only for the creature to swat the spear out and hiss again. It held a low stance, swiping the air wildly with black claws that struck Malcolm in the face, a spray of blood flying from his eye. The blow sent the lad sprawling on the ground, screaming as he clutched his face. Belim Boggs roared in desperate outrage, driving the tip of his billhook into the creature’s spiny back.
The monster let out another piercing scream as it was pinned down, the bony spines on its back flapping. Dylan stood to his feet and punctured its back with a downward stab of his baselard. It stood up, twisting and writhing out from under the billhook’s tip and shoved back the large knight as if he were a straw dummy, its claws scraping against his padded chainmail. It wheeled around towards Aerwyn, who had run to Malcolm's side to check on his wounds, and charged them.
Dylan rushed to intervene, tackling it and stabbing at its neck. He cursed, his baselard striking the bony flap covering its bleeding gills. The squisher turned on the man-at-arms, opening its needled maw and biting into his neck; arterial blood spraying out. Clutching his throat, Dylan fell to the ground as the creature bit down harder, delivering the killing blow.
“No!” Jorgen howled distraughtly, slashing his arming sword at the back of the monster’s knee. The squisher hissed and backhanded the squire's chest, knocking the air out of him. Jorgen clutched his gambesoned chest, wheezing for air, watching the monster stand over him.
Raegan advanced, his Valyrian steel axe singing a faint whistle as he swung controlled strikes at the squisher. Driving it away from the squires. The creature ducked and slipped away from the blows before Rickard ambushed it from behind and used his second spear to stab it in the neck.
Belim swung his billhook once more, chopping into the side of the monstrosity and then lunging, pinning it to the ground. He barked raggedly, “Kill it!”
Balman, Rickard, and Jorgen surrounded the squisher, slamming their weapons into the monster’s torso repeatedly. The Hardy knight’s heavy mace cracked its ribs with every brutal swing; meanwhile Rickard and Jorgen repeatedly stabbed it, striking off flecks of green and white scales but not piercing flesh. The squisher twisted and slipped out of the ambush, quickly standing to its feet and lunging at Rickard, mouth agape.
The hedge knight howled as its green needled teeth stabbed through his chainmail, its clawed hands raking at his leather and chainmail. Rickard pulled his foot back in a lunge, grounding it and placing the butt of his short spear against the inner arch of his boot. The spearhead spurred between the squisher’s scales. Building into a roar, he grabbed the bony plate covering the squisher’s gill, dug his gloved fingers underneath and ripped it loose. He then pulled the squisher towards him and onto the tip of his spear, the steel head penetrating its scaly chest.
The squisher shrieked so loud that Jorgen, Malcolm, and Aerwyn covered their ears with their wrists. The knights stumbled away, stunned, while Edgetho loosed arrow after arrow into its chest, some falling away from its scales as it twisted and thrashed. Edgetho narrowed his eyes and loosed an arrow into its neck, white fletching sticking out of its neck.
The squisher’s gurgling screams were followed by a pale gray gauntlet punching it in the jaw, sending it stumbling towards the shore. Raegan stomped towards the squisher, swinging Craw Cleaver in response to its outstretched clawing swipe, chopping its right arm clean off below its elbow. Ducking under another desperate slash from the squisher’s muddied claws, he chopped above its left knee, taking off its leg. He then watched the monster fall to the ground, the creature rolling onto its belly and dragging its way towards the bog.
The squisher’s slithered for the water’s edge until Raegan’s Valyrian steel axe painted the peaty soil underneath its neck dark red. Ichor geysering out from the stump that was left. The aberration’s head rolled free, to which Raegan put his boot on its head.
The men all panted and gasped for air, while Rickard moaned and bent over, clutching his arm. Raegan inhaled deeply before letting out metallic puffs through his helm. Aerwyn sat next to Malcolm, frozen, and immediately tending to the squire’s wound.
The squire slowly removed his hands which were sticky with blood. He then looked up at the acolyte with eyes, teary with fright and the stinging cut that covered the temple of his forehead and across his cheek. Aerwyn sighed in relief, “well, your eye isn’t damaged. You were lucky.”
Jorgen, having sheathed his knife and sword, lent his water pouch and watched the acolyte pour fresh water onto Malcolm's wound. After applying salve from a small jar, Aerwyn wrapped Malcolm's head and cheek in white linens. Belim and Balman remained vigilant, watching for the water with Edgetho, who kept an arrow nocked in his recurve bow.
Meanwhile, Rickard trudged over to Dylan Waters, closing the man-at-arms' lifeless eyes that stared up at the clouds. Aerwyn's eyes fell upon the man who saved his life, he then crouched down and stuffed the wound with cotton, staunching the bleeding and wrapping his neck in linen wraps. Rickard crossed his arms and consoled Aerwyn, “he will have a proper burial at the Pynes.”
After the squire was helped to his feet, Raegan called Aerwyn over, the acolyte shivering as he stared at the creature's corpse. The men gathered around for a proper look at the dead squisher. Raegan grabbed the severed head of the creature, its wide mouth hanging open, “Aerwyn, my goodfellow, I think this might get you a Valyrian steel link in your chain.”
Aerwyn’s face slowly began to regain color, his breathing steadying before leaning against his walking stick. He looked down at the creature, its webbed, clawed fingers twitching. Aerwyn craned his head back, watching the clouds beginning to break, and letting out a sigh of relief as the birds sang and the insects buzzed around.