The two Dwarves stared at the huge hole in the ceiling of the inn.
“Why would Fralin stop here?” the younger brother, Nogi, asked.
“It’s still some ways to Bree,” answered the elder, Bogi.
“I don’t like the look of that roof,” Nogi commented. “That’ll fall down and crush everybody here someday, mark my words.”
“What do you expect? They’re not Dwarven builders,” said Bogi. “Come on, we might as well get something to drink now that we’re here.”
They trotted over to the innkeeper, a man called Anlaf the Forlorn who looked almost as old as the inn itself. Bogi dropped some coins over the counter and asked for the best ale in the house. The man simply turned around and poured two mugs of the same drink he seemed to give to everyone else who’s approached the counter so far.
“Thought they wouldn’t have much,” Nogi shrugged as he eyed the drinks. “You asked for it, you try it first.”
Bogi gulped some of the ale and spat it out right away, “Bah! This stuff tastes like filth!”
“It’s the best ale we have out here,” Anlaf replied. “Well, the only ale we have out here. It’s better than swamp-water.”
Nogi took a sip and made a sour expression, “Only just! This place’s got a terrible roof, terrible rooms, terrible beds, terrible ale, it’s hardly an inn!”
“But an old place like this has got to have some stories, I bet,” mused Bogi.
“If it’s a story you want, you’ve come to the right place,” said the bearded man beside the Dwarves at the counter. He was far from as old as the innkeep, but he was certainly as rugged as the inn. His skin was tough like a boar’s, his hair a mess like an overgrown bush. If it wasn’t for his height, he would’ve easily passed as a Dwarf.
“That’s Brett,” Anlaf introduced him. “Fill him with enough ale, and you never know what wild tales he’ll tell.”
“I’m Bogi, and this is my brother, Nogi. We’re simple merchants, stopping by on our way along the road.”
“The accommodations here have been horrid,” Nogi added. “Just horrid! We were thinking a hearty song or story’ll help pass the night better.”
“I’m no bard, Master Dwarf,” said Brett, “but stories, stories I can do.”
The man downed the rest of his foul ale as if it was fresh springwater and set the mug in front of him. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, though drops and crumbs still clung to his beard as he turned to face the two Dwarves. He took a breath, looked down to meet their gaze, and began his tale.
“It was about five summers ago. I was living out of Ost Guruth then; it’s an old ruin we wanderers of these lands have set up in. Just east of it is a swamp called Haragmar. You might’ve seen it if you came from the other side of the Last Bridge, or you’re about to see it if you’re headed east.”
“Aye, we saw swamps on either side of the road after we crossed the bridge,” affirmed Bogi.
“The one on the south of the road we call Harleog, the one to the north and closer to the Ruin-hold of Ost Guruth is Haragmar. Anyways, I was in Haragmar, looking for old relics as many of us here do, when I saw the weeds start to move. And it wasn’t the rustling kind of move when there was some animal in the brush either; no, the whole clump began shifting. So I took a step back, and it rose up, higher and higher ‘till I could see the weeds were growing out of a creature. Turns out, it was one of them Bog-Lurkers!”
“What’s a Bog-Lurker?” Nogi inquired. “Never heard of such a thing myself.”
“I guess you Dwarves probably don’t have ‘em underground. They’re usually found in bogs and marshes, hence the name,” explained Brett. “Bog-Lurkers are strange creatures that appear to be made of wood; not carved, you see, but living, growing wood. They got four long legs and a small head and body- ‘bout the proportion of certain spiders, except their legs are straight like a crane’s. When they stand up they can be taller than a Man, but they’re often crouched down, using the moss and weeds that grow out of them backs to hide.”
“Don’t believe these tales of fancy monsters,” Anlaf said as he refilled the man’s empty mug. “Next thing you know he’ll be talking about walking trees! Goblins and wolves, now that’s what you really have to watch for on the road.”
“I saw it with me own eyes, I tell you!” Brett insisted. “A Bog-Lurker!”
“And I suppose you’ll be telling us of how you felled this mighty creature next,” said Bogi.
“No, this is where the tale gets interesting. I reached for my axe-”
“A fine choice of weapon!” Nogi interjected with a grin.
“I carry it mostly to cut wood, but it’s been useful in keeping away wolves and lynxes too. Anyways,” continued the man, “I reached for my axe, but the Bog-Lurker knocked me right on me back with one swing of its foreleg. It loomed over me, and I thought for sure that was going to be the end. Then, a raven swooped down from the sky and started pecking at the creature’s eyes! It was shaking its head and swatting the air trying to drive the bird away, which bought me enough time to get up and grab the axe.”
“So you were saved by some bird that’s decided to pick a fight with this bog monster?” Bogi asked.
“Not exactly,” said Brett. “Before I could strike the creature with my axe, I felt something hard hit me on the back of me head, and I don’t know what happened next.”
“Some story,” Nogi laughed. “You don’t even have it finished!”
“There’s more!” the man took a swig of his newly refilled ale before talking again. “When I woke up, I was in a campsite on the edge of the swamp. There was only one other person- a lady, with old travelling clothes and a green hooded cloak that covered much of her face. The raven was perched on her shoulder, and there was a lynx in front of where she sat. And it sounded like she was talking to the lynx, talking in some tongue I couldn’t understand. But it looked like the lynx was understanding it.”
“You were saved by this woman, then?” Bogi corrected his earlier statement.
“Well, maybe. Like I said, I don’t rightly know. I have the feeling she wasn’t too fond of me and might’ve been the one who knocked me out cold. I couldn’t get much out of her; she spoke our tongue, but she didn’t seem to be the type for talking, to folks like us at least. She only talked to ask me what I was doing in the marshes. I told her I was looking for artifacts, and she said something about how these old ruins- Rhudaur she called ‘em- were dangerous and left behind by evil Men. Wouldn’t say any more than that, just to stay away. So I gave up treasure hunting.”
When Brett stopped talking and seemed like he had finished his tale, Nogi pressed for more, “So who was she?”
The man shrugged and drank more ale, “She was gone when I woke the next morning. I later learned that others have met a similar figure. They call her the Beast-Mother, because she supposedly protects the creatures of the wild or something. Nobody seems to know where she comes from. Some say she grew up in the wild, was raised by beasts and now raises them in turn, which is why she’s called Beast-Mother.”
“Sounds like an Elf-maiden to me,” Bogi suggested.
“Whoever she is, I probably do owe me life to her,” said Brett. “I hear there’s dead wights rising out of them old ruins now too. Even if I survived the Bog-Lurker, I might not be alive if I kept looking for artifacts in these marshes today. She may not like Men, but she did me a favour that day, whether she meant to or not.”
The Dwarf brothers thanked him for his story and retired back to their room. The night was filled with odd noises coming from the walls, but the two also found themselves wondering about this mysterious Beast-Mother. Would they meet someone like that on their travels? Did she even exist? Probably not. But thinking about her distracted their minds enough to get some sleep in this rotting inn on the long road, and that was good for they had much travelling to do still.
