The Death Maze

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Cold cave water dripped down, echoing across the walls of the great cavern. 

The expedition was in trouble, and they knew it. They were lost.

Back and forth they'd gone, searching for the way out in the way they'd come in. It had to be there, how else had they gotten down here?

The cave seemed to want them inside. Walls would shift behind their backs, and sometimes right before their eyes, if only one of them were watching. Of course, this simply made the explorers all the more panicked.
Hours became days, and the urgency grew higher. Their shouts became louder, for help, at each other. How would they escape?
A sinister presence permeated the group, of this they were now certain. Huddled, starving, cringing in a corner without the strength to move, the dark force crept closer and closer. One by one, the explorers closed their eyes and never opened them again.
There did they lay until a century later, when another curious group fell into the grip of Turnor Cave, or as the ancients called it, the Death Maze.

Her Long Journey

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Her long journey had finally led here. 

The pristine valley spread out below. Aira stood, looking out across the dense landscape. 

Everything she'd heard about the valley was true. A graceful waterfall flowed down out of sight. Birds on a wing flew above, soaring into a darkening sky.

Here the road led, here the path ended. In she must go.

For here lay her true calling, within she would find her destiny. A destiny of love, knowledge, and ultimate betrayal.

For all power carries with it such perils. Men covet power above all else, and that which Aira sought was the ultimate power and as such, held the ultimate risk.

But the danger would be worth the price. After all, what else had she too lose? Already she'd been through love and loss, seen beauty and brutality, felt the graceful touch of passion, and the powerful sting of violence.

Her pysche already scarred, why then shouldn't she have the power as well? At least with the power in hand, she could bring the hammer of justice to those who needed it, deserved it. 

And bring it she would.

Aira spent ten years in the Noth Cave, secreted away from the world, learning the secrets of magical arts from creatures long thought extinct from the world.

And when she returned, she brought not only justice, but a wreaking vengeance that knew no bounds, no bounds at all.

Of the Hunter

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In a sunlit cove, upon the bones of ancient sentinels, stands the Hunter

Stalking his prey, waiting for the moment to strike

He walks in shadows, lurks in the night, the dark is his ally

None hear him save those he wishes, none see him save those he targets, none live save those he misses

And the Hunter, never misses

Always with an arrow ready does he stand

Always with a steady arm does he pull

Always with a keen eye does he aim

Always do his foes fall

The swamp is his domain, the trees are his castle, the shadows are his battlements

Creatures of the morass, alligators, snakes, lizards and spiders

These are his friends, his allies, his army

They stand at his command, attack on his orders, kill at his whim

Who knows his name? None, for no one enters the swamp and lives

Who knows what he really is, what he really stands for? Who knows, of the Hunter?

The Swamp of Lost Souls

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"This is just downright spooky."

"Ya, for sure." A squeaky voice agreed. "Why do we have to go in here anyway?"

Los rolled his eyes. They'd gone over this ad nauseum before leaving the inn.

"Because," their tall leader remarked angrily, "the only cure for the Virox plague is in this swamp."
"Says who?" the first voice asked, a deep, raspy voice belonging to the only real warrior in the group, and he wasn't much of one at all.

"Says me." Los answered. "You don't need to know where all my information comes from. You do know you're getting paid, and that should be enough."

"You didn't say nothin' about goin' into no swamp." Rath replied in his heavy accent. Rath talked like he was always out of breath. It didn't inspire the greatest confidence in his fighting abilities.

"Yea." Ensil replied, his high voice seeming to carry across the entire swamp. 

"Perhaps not," Los replied. "but I did say it might be dangerous. But then again, it might not be. After all, we haven't run into anything scary yet, have we?"

Neither of Los' hired hands answered, merely trying to peer through the thick mist of the swamp.

The trio pushed on through the twisted maze of mire and trees and moss, looking for an old woman's shack. An old woman who was reputed to know anything and everything about sickness, diseases and plagues. 

Their arguments echoed out through the swamp, and to this day it is said they can be heard shouting at one another. For the brave expedition of three never emerged from the Swamp of Lost Souls, though they did earn the bog its eerie nickname.