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Story: "You know how my father talks to the spirits of those who've passed beyond right? How he'll sit for hours, and days, not moving or talking and looking dead himself after eating and drinking certain things right? Well, he's told me stories...stories he says he's learned from his time spent where only spirits roam." At Father's Knee's voice was soft, spooky, aware of the young ones gathered around her, a few older ones mixed in trying their best not to seem too interested, and failing miserably.

"He says that there's these lights out there... you have to be careful of them, because they like to lure the young and the old alike off the safe well traveled paths into the deep, dark swamp where no kin ever returns from. Sometimes it seems as if the lights are dancing in the mist, looking like fireflies. Other times like friendly fires. It's hard to say what is and isn't one of these lights..."

Her head dipped down closer, voice a low, ominous whisper. "You know how us Zikwa have our own special glows? Some say that the lights, are really Zikwa who'd passed on, still wandering the swamp looking for company. For a mate. For...who knows why. That they'll take on the appearance of a Zikwa you know, to pull you in, to get you away from all you know and love.

No one knows what happens to the kins that vanish with the lights. Maybe they become lights themselves. Maybe they just vanish. Who knows, they could turn up seasons later, with amazing stories though I've never heard about that happening. Just randomly disappearing kin, who didn't stay on the proper paths, and went wandering off into the swamp all by themselves.

"But what about when it's bright out?"

"Oh young one. Day or night the swamp lights will trick you and take you away. So never, ever follow the lights unless you know for sure who or what it is you're following." her words trailed off and she looked over towards the area her father always settled, able to make out his distinct orange glows even from here, and her head tipped towards him. "Even now he's talking with the spirits.... do you want yours to be the next one he seeks? The next one he delivers messages from to their families?" a chorus of 'no!' rose around her and she gave a slow nod of understanding.

"No kin does. So you'd best listen to what I say. The warning I gave to you tonight." she could see the young kin and the older ones alike staring warily at her, and some of the other zikwa with their glowing marks and she gave a gentle laugh. "Relax. We're inside, and we're safe in here. It's when you're out there alone, even when you think you're safe, that you're not. The lights are sneaky, and will do all they can to trick you remember that. But in here... this is home and we're safe in here."

The young ones scurried off to their mothers sides, the older ones trying not to seem scared, and goading one another to step out of the cave in the dark, to find the lights. She could make out from where she was, the lights of one of the Zikwa she was friends with, and within moments the boisterous youths had fallen silent, uneasy, and from behind them she spoke suddenly, unnoticed by them until that moment. "You'd better be careful. Maybe he's coming to spirit you away." she laughed softly as they cried out in fear and ran off, suddenly no longer feeling brave. As she turned to come back in, she was surprised to see her friend who's lights she'd just seen on the path, behind her. A quick glance back outside showed the lights fading away into nothing, and she moved away from the mouth of the cave.

It was just a story after all.

Wasn't it?
(667 words)
Preference List: will-o'-wisp, kelpie, ghoul, shoggoth

Story: Half Truth said to Changes, her son, when he asked her for a scary story one long, cold night when no other adults were around to tell her that this, perhaps, was not an appropriate story for a child: A long time ago, when the Motherfather's fleas and ticks were smaller and duller than they are today, far before you or I were ever born, the Crane's Family was scattered over the Motherfather. There were of course the Kimeti here in the swamp, but the Acha- that's you- were in the desert, and only the desert. And while their coming was met with much jubilation- yes, dear heart, jubilation, for even then while you and I were still but dreams, I loved you- not everyone who came from the desert came with kindness.

As it so happened, there was a Kimeti buck, a handsome fellow, who fell in love with what he knew could only be a desert spirit. She was a beautiful creature, with burning eyes, and he knew in his heart she couldn't be real- for she was no Kimeti, and only Kimeti had eyes like that. She was like a singing specter, a flirtatious phantasm whose hot kisses and scorching embrace melted his bones. For a short time, they were brilliantly happy, and he felt nothing but tender warmth for her. Even after the sunglow faded from her eyes, and he realized she was a creature of flesh and blood, just like him, he cherished her radiance all the more.

But one night as they lay together, necks entwined in a pool of sweet moonlight, without warning, she ate his heart, smiling as she chewed. He wailed, a horrible twisted howl, keening over and over, begging her for answers. Did she do this for love? He could forgive her if it was for love. Did she do this to nourish their unborn children? He could forgive her if it was for that. But there were no children, and there was no love- she was a wicked, selfish thing and prided herself above all others. He was fine enough to take as a lover, which meant he was a jewel, a prize, a fruit to be plucked- and like all ripe fruits, heavy and dripping, he was sweetest at first bite.

So she ate his heart, and he died, and she thought that would be the end of it- but a crime so heinous could never go unnoticed, for it was abhorrent to the Motherfather. There were predators, and there were prey, and they were in their proper order- but this, this was a perversion, a twisted mockery of what should be. She was found, later on, surrounded by his grisly remains, his dead eyes watching her. Was that a tear in his unblinking eye? Surely it was. They came upon her, chewing the marrow from his bones, flush and content. The fire sparkled in her eyes once more, but her beautiful smile was outlined in blood, a stain that would not fade.

And so she was banished, never to return.

Haughtily, she tossed her proud head, the sun gleaming off her horns, as she stalked away. A feverish wind blew, sending ripples across the swamp as she set out towards the sands. But even though she was a monster of the burning desert, her hooves had touched the cool waters of the swamp. She was doubly cursed, and she didn't know it until she'd carried her disgrace back to the desert sand.

It was then that the Ache set in.

At first, she ignored it; what was mere pain, compared to what she could do? She pushed past it as it twisted her guts, bent her double, froze her muscles. When she could no longer walk, she staggered. When she could no longer stagger, she crawled, dragging herself along, inching her way through the dunes. The searing sun scorched her inside and out, and she found no refuge, no oasis to soothe her.

Some say her journey took years, or months, or it was over almost as soon as it began. That's not important. What's important is that when she reached the swamp again, desperate for sanctuary- but it was as if the swamp had disappeared, for while she could see the shimmer of water in the distance, with each exertion forward, she only found herself pawing through sand. As much as she tried, the swamp came no nearer- and the Ache didn't subside.

It was only then that she cried out in anguish. For five years, or five months, or five days, she lay there, begging to die- but the land was not done with her. She took a life that was not hers to take; justice demanded then that she keep it, as well as her own. She would not die, but she would live a living death.

She's still out there, stalking the night. She can't move well, not after the land's punishment. She hobbles through silent hunting grounds, the gleaming bones of travelers she's eaten her only companions. She mewls for help with a sparse, rasping voice, hoping to prey on the kindness she prays for. She cannot command, she cannot chase- but she can certainly entice and beg for aid, even as you shrink away from her accursed specter. She can follow. She can wait, wait until the sun drops you- and then she can feed.

She likes to eat hearts. The bigger, the better.

But as a warning to desert travelers, she's no longer beautiful. She's a twisted thing, a warped shell of what she once was. Her sensual smile has fallen to gnashing tooth and haggard lip, and virtually nothing remains of her former form. She is a victim of those burning winds that heralded her arrival; as they once played at her back, now they face her head on, flaying her hide and wearing down her bones where they've pushed through. She reeks of carrion and rot, and her lushness has withered. No softness remains, only a crackling hardness, baked to leather by the blazing sun. She looks like nothing, but she also looks like everything; some see in her a broken hound, others a battered desert lion. Some see the impossible, a crocodile in the desert. Some see nothing but the shape of death. Some see an Acha, but not once they get close.

Of course, by then, it doesn't matter what they see, for it's too late. She might look pitiful, but she's fueled by hatred and hunger.

Her motives are debated by those who've never seen her. Does she hunt travelers in order to restore herself, out of a twisted belief that by consuming their essence, she'll be able to take her old shape again? Can she change her shape, or are kin only seeing a strange sort of mirage when they look upon her? Does she really hunt them, or are her pitiable moans a misguided attempt to warn others away from treacherous spots in the desert? Are those sun-bleached bones really her prey, or is she merely their guardian?

Nobody knows, because nobody who's seen her has survived.

But she's out there, surely. Everybody knows that.

And that is why when you cross the desert, you don't look back.


Preference List: Ghoul, Will-o'-Wisp, Shoggoth, Kelpie

Story: It was getting late. The sun was beginning to set, and Count was on his way home. Suddenly, out of the periphery, he noticed two small children running through the swamp. When the kiddies ran up to him, they asked him if he had seen their ball. Count shrugged and told them to return home as soon as possible. The children shook their heads fervently and exclaimed, "not without our ball!" Count sighed. He then began to recount the tale of the Will-o'-wisp that haunts the swamp.

"The Will-o'-wisp is a ghostly creature that will allure you," he began. "Once you spot one, you will see another... and another... and drawn to them you will be. Before you know it, you're chasing them just to see them again." The children looked at him with bemusement. "Um.. okay? That sounds pretty cool." Count snapped, "They have an agenda. They feed on your fear and hopelessness. So they will take you deep in the swamp, somewhere you will never be found. Scream and cry as you might, no one will hear you. You will be taken off-route and you will never be able to find your way home again."

The children looked up at him with wide eyes. "Uh... okay, bye mister!" And with that the children abandoned their search for their ball and ran out of the swamp. Count nodded feeling rather pleased with himself and walked back home.

Preference List: Will-o'-wisp

Story:

Locust was limping when she joined the family, her back leg held stiff and curled up protectively as she slowly entered the clearing. Plague immediately started to fuss, exclaiming over the bite that had hobbled her.

It was messy, surrounded by torn skin and still slowly oozing blood. The creature that had bitten her had gotten away with some flesh in its teeth.

Take Root took one look at the wound and swallowed hard, her sudden unease infecting very family member until Buried Alive sent some of the younger members away to collect healing herbs.

“What is it?” Plague demanded, voice shrill and panicked, as if expecting his daughter to drop dead any second.

Take Root shook her head, freeing herself from whatever thought had affected her so strongly. “It’s only another story,” she said. “And now isn’t a good time to tell it.”

---

Later as Locust was curled up and mending, the herbs smashed together to create a paste and gently rubbed onto the bite, did Take Root take up the story. Buried Alive at her side, his own, deeper voice adding to the tale whenever she trailed off.

“In the caves, it’s easy to get hurt. Cave worms have a nasty bite, a small shift in the rock can cause a cave in and you might take a tumble that breaks a leg. We can often sense the heat of a wound on others, it pulsates, and sometimes we could treat it... and sometimes we couldn’t. That is the way of life.”

“And sometimes,” Buried Alive chimed in, “a wound is not just a wound.”

“Sometimes,” Take Root said, “the wound is not quite a bite. But a tear in the flesh that is frozen to the touch, given by something that shouldn’t be.”

“And it spreads and it rots.”

“And our brother or sister who has been inflicted begins to change. The cold creeps through them, makes them hungry. Their heart continues to beat even as their body begins to crumble, their flesh opens and begins to leak, great sores appear and grow until muscles begin to detach, limbs fall by the wayside, eyes pop from their sockets...

... and still they don’t die.”

“And still they hunger.”

Take Root shuddered. “There are many terrifying things in the caves, like that which lurks below, the dead and not dead, may it never rise-” may it never rise, echoed from each mouth around them, “but this I fear most, that which devours its own kin.”

“They must be stopped, castaway in the darkest depths, for all that is left for them is their need to consume. They will not stop, they have forgotten who they were or who they loved. Family means nothing,” Buried Alive’s voice filled with sorrow. “And they will eat any flesh, living or dead. Some say in an attempt to regain what they have lost, to find some warmth, but there is no return from this undeath.”

“There is no fate as worse.”

There was a brief silence as everyone digested this new tale and Plague once again thanked the MotherFather for not bringing him into being within the caves, until someone spoke, Locust with her voice shrill with worry:

“But it was just a caiman!”

Preference List: Ghoul, Kelpie, Shoggoth, Wisp

Story:

"Beware the water witch," your father had said, when you were but a colt, and still easily wide-eyed, "who sits at the edge of the treacherous marsh, to the North."

"Beware the water witch," your mother had said, "she may look like an ordinary Kiokote - even fetching, with her glossy locks - but her dripping mane is laced with tangled weeds, and across her back she bears the marks of her sin: clear hoofprints, pale and dry against the dark damp of her pelt.

"For only the flesh of other Kin could satiate her hunger, so far has she fallen, the water witch. She will call to you, sweet words that draw you to her - and once your hoof might touch her wet-slicked fur, there! You are stuck fast - no force on earth could free you - and then she will dive, deep, into the treacherous marsh, and there she will drown you, and there she will strip every last trace of meat from your bones.

"Few kin have returned from the treacherous marsh. Only enough to warn of the water witch."

You had been a colt, still easily wide-eyed, but even so you had easily dismissed the silly tale. It was quite clearly, you had declared, a fabrication to warn baby foals from talking to strangers. But you were not a baby foal, you'd stomped your hoof, you were a grown colt. And then you had grown further, into a young buck, and forgotten the tale as you'd struck out from home to wander the Swamp, to the North.

And here you were, a young buck, at the edge of a marsh you had not believed existed: as treacherous a marsh as you might have imagined from your childhood, black and thick, and still as a rock.

And there she was, at the edge of a marsh you had not believed existed: as fetching as your mother had warned, with her glossy locks - her dripping mane laced through with tangled weeds.

Clear hoofprints across her dark, damp back.

So much for a silly tale, you thought, wild-eyed and full of your hammering heart. She was unfolding, moving towards you, strolling along the edge of the marsh. She was saying words, and her mouth looked sweet.

She will call to you, you knew, sweet words that draw you to her -

Of course you ran.

Along the edge of the treacherous marsh, you ran, and every time you looked behind you, she was running after, sweet mouth moving still - so you ran harder. Harder – till your luck ran out: you tripped over a creeping root, and tumbled into the treacherous marsh.

And treacherous it was indeed, for the water, black and thick, was not mere water: beneath the glassy splash, the marsh was a bog – and you were quickly becoming mired in the mire!

Sinking, faster than you'd like, the peat too thick for your buried limbs to move – you thrashed your hooves, desperate for purchase, but there was none, and you were sinking…sinking…

Then you heard it, her words. Not as sweet as you'd have thought.

"- m' back!" you heard.

You turned your head.

There was a vine between her teeth, held fast, pulled taut, from where it wrapped around the tree that felled you. Her body was half-submerged into the bog, her back to you.

"Push up," you heard, the words squeezed, urgent, past the vine between her gleaming teeth, "on m' back, for Swamp –"

You like to think it was only a moment – barely a moment – for which you stared, dumbfounded, before you had the good sense to take her advice, and push yourself up, inch by straining inch, against her back, until your hindlimbs were freed from the muck, and, together, you made your painful path back to the shore.

"Honestly," she gasped, scolding, when the both of you, sodden to the skin, were safe once more upon the bank, "the likes of ye keep comin' and ye never listen! 'Th' bog's dangerous, ye'd get stuck innit so watch yer step,' I said, but nooooo…"

You hung your head, you scraped at the bank, you'd look away – you'd look anywhere else, if you could, but the only thing you could stare at was your hoofprints, pale and dry, where you'd pushed down so desperately, against the dark damp of her pelt.

Preference List: kelpie, ghoul, will-o'-wisp, shoggoth

Story: You remembered the stories as you stood at the graveyard, bones at your feet.

Never leave your dead unburied, the herd had whispered. It was the one ancient rule they always kept to, although it didn't stop the rain from sweeping everyone away. You might go mad with grief, they had warned. You never held much stock to the story. It was an ancient myth, you had assumed. Something parents told their young to frighten them for one reason or another.

Still, you remembered it — why wouldn't you? They repeated it so often it was almost a mantra at this point. You just... forgot how it started. Maybe if you thought on it a little longer you would remember.... maybe?

There once was a Zikwa. That sounded right. It'd do. There was a Zikwa who loved another more than anything. It was that kind of love that would bind you to that person forever — the kind you never understood. How could you love only one? Forever? Regardless, that wasn't the story. The Zikwa and their partner lived together, alone, for a long, long, long time. They never had kids, although some stories claim they did. You didn't care which version you heard.

Eventually, one passed, as nature goes. The Zikwa's mate perished naturally and the Zikwa was, obviously, heartbroken. They wailed and cried; pleaded and begged. Of course, the swamp didn't favor their pleas. Death was death, through and through. Most came to accept that, but the Zikwa didn't. Instead, they collected the body of their loved one and laid them in their den, waiting.

And wait they did. For days they laid next to the decaying body, reverently hoping and praying. Naturally, the body stayed in resting, but the Zikwa didn't lose hope. It maddened them, as each day they awoke to a scene they could have avoided. Madness was exactly what must have happened, as the story ends abruptly and, frankly, disgustingly.

When the grief grew to strong the Zikwa ended up consuming their mate. You would remember how, during this part of the story, bile would rise in your throat. They consumed their partner and wandered aimlessly from graveyard to graveyard, waiting for their beloved to return despite what they had themselves done. Some say they've seen this Zikwa, decayed in their grieving glory as they shamble through fog and murk. Others say if you had seen them you wouldn't return home, as the Zikwa has lost their mind.

You say it's either all hogwash or a twisted tale of something else that had happened.

Yet, after all these years of scoffing and denying your herds strange scare tale, you still keep it in mind when you pass the local graveyards. Mounds of dirt, both recently and previously dug, laid unceremoniously on the ground, marked by rocks and twigs. Your eyes lock on something in the distance — something stumbling. The story flickers in your mind, biles rises in your throat. You know it's silly; foolish, even. However, the something jerks their body a step in your direction and you feel your heart quicken.

.... Could it be?

Preference List: Ghoul, Will-o-Wisp, Kelpie, Shoggot

Story: You're not really sure how you got here. This isn't a place in the swamp that you normally frequent. It's distant and lonely, hung with dripping moss and dotted with deep pools of water, and here you met her. She didn't seem startled to see you; she only asked if you wanted to be guided back out. On the way back, as you follow her, she tells you a story.

Once, there was a kimeti, and he died. It's not important how, not really. He had been searching for something. It's not really important what that was, either. What's important is that he died, and he died angry. He died in a place where he would never be found, and his flesh and his bones sank slowly into the mud. His flesh and his bones decayed, but his anger did not. His blood seeped into the mud, red into black, and something of him lived on.

The anger that had once been a kimeti became the blood and the mud. It seeped into the earth where he had died, and it lurked there unmoving. It slept. It brooded. It bubbled up from time to time, red and black and formless. It waited.

In time, other kin came to the place where the anger that had once been a kimeti lurked. They, too, were searching for something. It's not really important what. What's important is that they came looking, and they disturbed the place where the anger lay, and the anger awoke. It heard the voices of the others who had come, and it roiled and swirled in the mud, awakening red from black once again. It became hungry.

The others who searched made a mistake. One of them stepped hoof into the mud where the anger waited. Disturbed, it boiled forth, engulfing her, and it pulled her down and down and down to join the anger that waited. But this was not enough. The mud and the blood bubbled up out of the swamp, and it went hunting.

In the night, the others heard voices, familiar voices. Voices calling, voices begging for help. Voices that could not be there, voices that should have been safe at home, and in among those voices sounded a soft fluting singing, weird and otherworldly. One by one, they went out into the dark in search of the voices they heard. One by one, they went to find the voices they could not resist, and one by one, they were eaten, eaten by the anger that had once been a kimeti.

Far out in the swamp, where there are deep pools of water and the moss hangs dripping from the branches, they lie deep down in the mud. The searchers did not find what they came to seek. They found only anger, anger and blood and mud, blood and mud and death. Somewhere far out in the swamp they lie in wait, sleeping, brooding. Perhaps, if someone comes searching, they will awaken, and once again the voices in t he dark will sound.

It would be wise not to disturb them.
Preference List: will-o-wisp, shoggoth, kelpie