A viscous bubble burst amid the expanse of milky-green, expunging
visible filth into the air. Cringing from the disgust, he stumbled
onwards, keeping a hand held in front to protect his visage from any
underhangs. The density of the fetid, subterrannean swamp was
unparalleled, it seemed alive, and indeed it was, teeming and boiling
with microscopic beings. There was little light left in his dying torch,
and while he attempted to breath as little as possible of the stale air,
horror and fright drew upon his lungs frantically. A dank, mouldy
wetness sizzled his torch into black, and he collapsed.

The mother awoke in her bed, leagues away, and cried out a single
syllable, "No!"

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Midsummer, in the year 126 MA.