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Soaked to the bone from trouncing through the river, chewed on by a territorial fish, filthy from falling in his attempts to climb this rotten hill and now he gets bitten by a pissed off rat. Night's normally even temper was beginning to wear thin. Shaking off the rat and kicking its nest to roll down the hill made him feel slightly better. Then he felt a twinge of guilt for destroying the creature's home.

Night finally reach the top of the hill. Exhausted, all he wanted to do was lay down. Woodland stood in front of Night. "Dry," he said, relieved. "Dry land." he felt finally able to relax. The going should be easier from here.

Night glanced around looking for his sparrow. He was sure his little avian friend would know which direction to go from here. More grooves in the ground also revealed which way he needed to go.

Night started walking in the direction that his last clue suggested. A terrible snorting stopped him in his tracks. By the racket it was making in the underbrush, whatever was coming, was plowing through pretty fast.

A she-boar broke out of the trees and headed straight for Night. Only instinct and self-preservation made him kick out as she came close. Night only managed to deal the boar a glancing blow while she drew blood from him.

The boar spun around faster than Night expected. He jumped to the side as she charged by and lashed out with a hoof. His hoof connected with the pig-hide, but her head whipped around and got him with a tusk.

Night released the boar. He could hardly believe what was happening to him. He simply wanted to find out what happened to his little friend and it seemed like every creature in the swamp was out to kill him.

Bone weary, Night stepped away from the boar and moved on. Cypresses becoming more sparse, spread downwards towards a marsh. After a long walk, humid, earthy smells of the swamp filled his nostrils. Breathing in deeply, he felt invigorated. He must be close to home, he thought.

As quickly as his spirits had lifted, they dropped again. Oh, this is not good, he thought. This isn't my home. It's Ghost Thistle's. The way forward is no longer clear as fog rolls in, hanging in moonlit drifts.

Through the drifting fog, Night could see the moving shapes of a gathering far ahead. With his recent past encounters, Night moved quickly, but quietly forward to get a better look at who these strangers might be.

Stunned that he was still alive, Night barely noticed the fog shaping into another form at his feet. Feeling a waft of air brush his leg, he looked down to see a foal beckoning for him to follow.

Night followed the foal for several feet before it seemed to be sucked back into the swamp. If it weren't for it's voice leaving behind another clue, he wouldn't have been sure he'd really seen it all.

The fog swirled away from him and Night found the same foal standing beside him. Ears too large for the youngster wiggled at him, then the foal turned to walk away. Despite the fact that it might only be something in Night's mind, it had helped him before so Night trusted it again. As before, Night was only able to follow it a few feet before the swamp swallowed it up.