Vorpeus solemnly paddled through the swamp, ignoring the fetid landscape he knew as home. There were a few patches of solid ground separated by large pools of stagnant water. The stench of decay was so strong a normal person would have become violently ill and even possibly die from a mere minute of exposure but Vorpeus, adapted as he was to this environment, had no problem with it. He also enjoyed immunities to the mosquitoes since his blood was toxic to them they had learned to stay away. Everything in this place is a corrupted, mutated mockery of life. Above the water, there are trees with tentacle-like vines that try and grab animals passing by and send tiny roots into them to slowly absorb their nutrients. The melancholy aura of the place is concentrated around these trees with their dozens of vines with skeletal remains swinging in them. The animals being preyed upon were almost as ghastly. There were warthogs with gills, squirrels with mantis-like claws, and birds with teeth that always seemed to be smiling sinisterly. Ruling over this morbid parade was the fungus. The prevailing cause of death among all the species here is premature decay. All the creatures have large mottled patches of black and green fungus covering them onset from soon after birth. The locals say “untouched” for someone innocent or pious beyond reproach implying that they are untouched by the fungus of the swamp. Of course every once in awhile there were children born that the swamp refused to claim with its fungus. These children are seen by the natives as an ill-omen and are sent away from the village. They don’t kill the children like some societies that believe a certain birth to be an ill omen might do because it never occurs to them to do so. Death is a constant part of their life, looming overhead and they have never thought that they could bring down death on anything, which has led them to a strange harmony with their environment. As a consequence some of these children survive. Vorpeus was one of those children. He, like all the others, would be unwelcome in any of the villages of the great swamp and if he ever made it out the “untouched” outside would call him a monster and send him back, or so he had been told by the villagers he had met. So, he leads a lonely life. Occasionally he comes across other outcasts but after a few days they always part ways. This particular day he was daydreaming about the world beyond the swamp and drifted to close to the bank. He was pulled back to reality by a half-dozen slimy vines groping him and lifting him out of his barge. He screamed in pain as his skin was pierced in several places by the army of little roots. As the roots began to branch out it felt as if her was getting a thousand shots from the inside. Each sharp prick was followed by a dull throbbing pain and then a numbing. After a few minutes it reached his head and he lost consciousness.
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