Mud filled his mouth.
There was no light, not even after he clawed his way out of a hole, centipedes and worms crawling on him from head to toe. While shaking himself off, naked, he saw the first dim torch ahead within the pass. On either side were cliffs, at least fifty paces or so high, jagged with damp rocks and moss.
Glimmers to the side turned him to see his armor and flail, still dull and battered from hammers and hot blades. The nearest smith was a least a week's travel, but he donned it all regardless. Save for his helm, which was so dented he couldn't get it past his forehead.
Flail strapped to his back, he cursed at himself for losing to the nemesis.
It was the cruel nature of the woods which sent him all the way back. Even haven killed the hammering bastard, who got lucky more than anything, delivering a bleeding strike.
Within a muggy pass other fresh arrived souls squirmed halfway out of the ground. Some wept, knowing full well what life had been like before, while others kicked and screamed, fighting themselves free. He passed by a few gathered round a fire, sharpening sticks with wide eyes, not a cloth to cover them, and they averted their gaze from him.
At the end of the pass, he faced shadow and shit, grassy waters for as far as one could see. Trees hung with noodle-like leaves, most hunched over, and torches danced every hundred paces or so in all directions.
Growls vibrated the water, but he stepped in anyway, his boots filling cold within seconds.
Something bumped against his thigh, and he turned to see a serpent raise its head, a tongue rattling between venom leaking fangs. He grasped its head and squeezed, crushing it in an instant. Alligators lashed about, some darting towards him with bright yellow eyes. He took one up by the tail, using it to beat the others to death, and within minutes of his arrival none within the swamp dared his way.
The new lost souls staggered about. Most were dragged beneath the water, drowning in ogre feces and snake skins before gators ripped them to shreds. Some fought, using sharp stick spears to jab open eyeballs, skewer the serpents, or keep the gators at bay upon a slippery rock. A handful made it far enough to cross onto the first stretch of land, an island no more than a few hundred meters leading to lightless waters. Heavy croaks kept those hallowed few from advancing, but he strode by them without a word, flail still on his back.
A man bearing a dung rag round the waist muttered something to him, and he didn't reply.
"Please," another man mumbled, "anything, sir!"
Shadows covered all sides of the swamps, and he ignited his lantern, keeping it high as he treaded chest deep water.
Behind him was a small party of the rag wearers who made it so far, but he paid them no heed. At the first bellow, vibrating waters, of ogre belches, the rag wearers shivered in place. He pressed onward, blowing out his lantern, then bright green eyes scowled him ahead.
They muttered with a mouth full of rodent blood, festering creatures not even the worst demons would dare taste. Ogres, high as the dark slumped trees, roared. Their breaths were worse than he remembered, forcing him to cover his nose, but he gagged regardless. Some had horns, others were balding with long lice ridden hair, and a few lit green fire torches.
The first to approach him roared, enough power to make waves, but he yanked it down by the ankle.
After ripping off its bottom jaw, he used it to cut its throat open.
Most ogres backed away from him, some hissing in their repugnant tongue.
He grabbed the nearest one to him, using the first's jawbone to cut open its throat. They stumbled away from him, clumsy rot-footed beasts, some crawling on all fours to hide behind trees. He snatched a torch from one, then pulled it down to him before knocking it out with a single punch.
The gaggle of poor souls behind him hurried his way, but he glared at them to keep their distance. None of the ogres bothered them, and then it was a walk within hives of swamp slugs beneath the water. Some lost their footing, stuck within black paste keeping them stiff. Before they were dragged away by wriggling underwater black tentacles, he ripped them free. Their feet bled, but they were still able to march, and he shoved them forward within the swamp despite their weeping and curses.
The ogre torch was going strong, and he used it to wave off any insects, mostly horse sized spiders, from spinning webs. Amongst one another, five rag wearers in all, they huddled close, stick spears out. He kept a few paces ahead, wishing he could give them a bath, but they'd come farther than most would for a number of years, possibly centuries.
It was a matter of weeks for him, as he'd taken up a large stick to bludgeon swamp life to death rather than sharpen a twig. After recovering an old rusty iron hammer, it was a matter of battering ogres to death, dozens of times, until he had the hordes committed to memory.
There was a champion, an ogre more wide than tall, and he spewed green fire while waving a staff of an old earth god. It was a fight he got down to every footstep, and it all seemed so simple back then.
What was it about the graves? Had he gotten no stronger, or were the enemies just that much better? He'd gotten close and had yet to even get more than a hit since his best engagement, but he'd have time to think on it.
Solid ground was beneath his feet, sunlight shined within the woods, and croaks of the swamp were behind them.
"Thank you," a woman said, sitting against a tree, taking in the sun's warmth.
Others smiled, wishing to give their gratitude, but he was already on a dry path headed towards the mountains.
None followed him, instead gathering wood for a fire, and he knew they'd figure things out one way or another.
Flurries took the air, and he stalked up an icy slope for the next few hours, winds echoing through all the cliffsides. The villagers along the mountains were poor and offered little more than stale bread. While sleeping against a cold rock, blizzard bands whitening the mountainside, he remembered the cry of wyverns haunting him for days on end.
Then he woke up to a clear sky, the sun melting some of the snow, but it was still cold enough to numb his lips.
Each step higher his breath thinned, but he had yet to pass out, as he'd done the first time. Years it must've been? No more than four, maybe five. It wasn't uncommon for most to suffer at least a century within the swamps.
The mountains could take double the time. It was there he faced his greatest challenge yet, but once finished it was a straight shot to the mainlands. Not everyone got a nemesis, and, as all things luck, his odds were ever in his favor to add another thorn in his arse.
Higher than the incoming clouds, he took a moment to recall his first ascension. Aside from wyvern fire it was still a good sight, and there was a certain joy in climbing. Pure silence, not even a bird, just the air and the sun, and he almost considered becoming a hermit upon reaching the summit.
Dusk fell as he returned to level ground, and an icy path led to a frost covered sign with the language of the land he couldn't read. He knew a few words: yes, no, iron draft, duck, or chicken. In time he'd teach himself and maybe consider reading local fliers on available quests.
Around midnight, a moon full in the sky, wolves howled.
A hand on his throat, he howled back. Nothing, then a few seconds later they returned calls, and his stomach growled at the thought of roasting a pair of dyre wolves. Perhaps werewolves? Rumor had it they were good in a stew, he thought as he laid his head against a tree, gnawing on a rotted apple he picked from a tree.
At dawn he made the last leg to town, arriving just before the noon bell, and he made his way to the inn.
"Good day, weary traveler!" The innkeeper said, giving him a curtsy. "It's been a while! Your usual I assume?"
"Need a bath," he said, and she told him to make for the top floor around sunset.
Draped in his robes he arrived to a room with a golden knob and entered to find a white tub with steaming water in the center. There was a fire within a small hearth, and bottle of ale bath side he emptied before even setting a foot inside.
It wasn't as long as he remembered, but it gave him something as he slid into the tub, water overflowing on all sides.
There was a stark gap between his strength back then and where he was, and in the morning, he'd don his armor once more.
Grave walking called his name.