“What do I want to do now?” Saladrin repeated Pablo’s question. “I guess we should head back to the raft.”  Saladrin took a single step then turned to look back at the two grubby destitutes one last time.  Pierre and his men were questioning the pair whose postures betrayed their hidden agitation and nervousness.  The dwarf just shook his head and turned back to the raft where Celestia was waiting.

“Back to the raft,” Pablo said softly, snapping his stubby fingers with a sound that was barely audible in the pounding rain.  He was lost in thought as he trudged along the gravel path.  “Pierre, of all things,” he thought to himself, “here in the city!  And with a wife, to boot!  Ha, doesn’t that beat all!”

Celestia didn’t notice the little dwarf chuckling to himself and shaking his head as he climbed aboard the wooden raft, his hard leather boots making slurping sounds in the thick mud and ooze at the bank of the bog.  She, herself, was lost in her own thoughts, her face turned to stare out across the water.

“I’ve got to get this one right,” the thoughts swirled like the fog inside her head.  “I can’t afford to lose another assignment.  Now, who would use blood to write with?”  the question formed in Celestia’s mind yet one more time.  Celestia had been intoning that question internally over and over again since she first accepted the assignment only hours ago, and she had come up with many answers.  Well, that wasn’t exactly true.  She hadn’t really had the opportunity to accept anything.  Bernard, that stuffy old cabbage-headed clerk back at the Academy had forced it on her.  Bernard was always on her case about guild dues, and the such.

“Cults, of course,” her thoughts returned to the subject.  “There are at least twenty cults of one kind or another that use blood in their rituals.  In Port-a-Lucine there is the Temple of Bidnakur who’s scribes have been known to use their own blood in their sacred writing and manuscript copying.  Very small group, however.  Only twenty members, or so.  There’s also the Plethair family.  Yes.  Yes, the whole lot of them use blood in their yearly rites of longevity.  Claire told me that they only use pig’s blood, and they drink very little of it.  But . . . if the rumors were actually true . . . oh, Claire!”  Celestia’s gut twisted with the very thought of her friend’s family rituals.

“Who else might use blood?” the question rang again.  “The crazies might use blood.  Well. . . the crazies might do anything, I suppose. . . .”  Celestia’s mind continued to race while her lips moved silently and her eyes gazed out at nothing in particular.  Her blonde hair still retained their natural curls, even when the rainwater streamed from them in a dozen miniature waterfalls.

The sloshing and slurping sounds began again as Saladrin approached the raft.  The young priest looked abnormally concerned.  His brows were pulled taunt just under the mass of long brown hair that he grew at the front of his head.  Normally, this patch of hair stuck straight out from his forehead in long spiky clumps while the rest of his head was shaved clean, as was the style among the Ezran clergy of Mordentshire.  Now, his hair lay flat in wet ropes hanging over his eyes, even though his robe’s thick brown woolen hood was pulled over his head.

“Shall we signal to our employer?” Saladrin asked of his companions.

“Yeah,” answered Pablo and he began to wave his short arms in the air trying to get the half-elf’s attention.  “Hey!” the dwarf shouted,.  “uh, Employer!  Uh...flute boy!  Damn,” he swore and turned back to Saladrin.  “What was his name again?”

Saladrin shrugged.   “I’m usually pretty good with names, but his is strange.  I can’t remember . . .”

“Rubix,” a female voice said simply.  Celestia had turned around to face the other two.  “His name is Rubix.  It means ‘conundrum’.”

“What kind of drums?”  Pablo asked gruffly.

“Conundrum,” replied Celestia.  “Or perhaps it means puzzling or mysterious.  He is half-breed.  Furthermore, there are no elves in Dimentlieu.  I believe the man is aptly named, don’t you?” the woman’s eyes arched as she phrased the last part as a question.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” Pablo stammered.  “He seems to keep to himself a lot.  And he does seem a little mysterious.  Hey, are you two sure we can trust him?  I mean, what if he’s got something to do with this?  Maybe he’s the guy that’s been writing in blood.”

“Why would he hire us to catch himself, then,” Saladrin querried.

“Um.  Maybe he ran out of ink,” Pablo said with a grin.  Saladrin tried unsuccessfully to choke down a sudden chortle.  “RUBIX!” the dwarf yelled, waving his arms again towards the half-elf upon the stairs.

The group could see Rubix stand up and stash his flute away into the pocket of his drab grey overcoat, then he nimbly ran down the steep and slick steps.  His agility and grace of step was clearly evident as he descended into the park; the gift of his elven ancestors.  Within moments, the light-haired man had reached the edge of the graveled path where the raft was moored.  With fluid movement, Rubix lifted the raft’s thick and ratty mooring line from around the old tree stump near the path and threw the rope onto the raft.  Wordlessly, the half-elf leaped across the mire between the path and the water’s edge and landed softly upon the lashed beams of the raft.  Saladrin bent low in an attempt to keep his balance after impact, but he was pleasantly shocked to discover Rubix’s landing caused the raft less rocking then his own controlled boarding only moments ago.

“Let’s go,” Rubix said with a sincere seriousness in his voice.  He bent down to unlash the two long poles used to push the raft through the deep water.  He handed one pole to Pablo and the other he kept for himself.  Setting one end of his pole against the muddy shore, he leaned into it and shoved the raft off the muddy bank and into the bog.  Pablo followed suit on the other side of the raft and sank his pole into the water and pushed off.
The raft moved slowly through the muck and slime.  Tiny green plants floating on the surface of the water were shoved to either side in front of the raft, only to slowly slide back into place behind the raft as it passed.  Only a slim trail of cleared water on the surface and a stream of tiny bubbles marked the raft’s passage.

“Did you learn anything?” Rubix asked the group.

“Yeah,” replied Pablo, “there’s probably more to this than just some trashed temple out on that island.”

“It’s a shrine,” Celestia corrected the dwarf.

“Yeah, whatever,” grumped Pablo, and he continued to fill Rubix in on the gist of their conversations with the people they had met in the park.  When Pablo got to the part about Saladrin’s meeting with Fritz and Saul, the priest took over.  Saladrin talked quickly about the drowning of Hector and the mens’ encounter with hissing pig creature.

“Did they say what it smelled like?”  Pablo cut in.

“Uh, no, they didn’t.  Would that have made a difference?” the priest asked.

“Maybe,” the dwarf answered then fell silent as he stared out across the bog.

The raft was about halfway, now, to the little islet.  While the entire park was socked in with a light mist, the center of the bog held an exceptionally thick bank of fog.  The fog in the center seemed to swirl even more as the little raft approached, as if an unfelt breeze had agitated the thick mass of mists.

Suddenly, Celestia spun around to face the rest of the party.  “Turn around!” she yelled frantically, her hair flying about her face madly.  “Go back to the shore!  We’re in danger!”

“What?” Rubix cried, “Are we under attack?  Where?” the half-elf was vigorously shoving the long pole into the water and pushing away from the island. Suddenly, Rubix stopped and stared up into the dark and rainy skies with the other three occupants of the raft.

The fog around the island had thickened and turned the color a fresh cream.  Long snaking tentacles of nearly solid mist formed and reached out across the bog as if alive, the longest of which wrapped around the trunks of trees at the water’s edge.  The four on the raft could only watch in silent horror as the mist in front of their raft turned into a gigantic wave of fog that reached thirty feet into the air.  In moments, the fog-wave became a giant umbrella over the raft.  Then it crested and fell upon the companions in silent fury.

Fritz heard Celestia’s scream from the gravel path near the park stairs.  He turned to look, his jaw dropping visibly.  Saul, Pierre and the militia men who were still questioning the poor beggars also looked out over the bog just in time to see the enormous fog bank fold in upon itself and the raft.  Like a huge white whale, the mist swallowed up the raft and its four passengers.  Cesestia’s scream suddenly cut short and the sound echoed, bouncing off the sheer walls of the park.  The group on the shore watched in awe as the milk-white fog slowly thinned and finally retreated back to it’s former natural state around the little island.  The raft and its occupants were no longer to be seen.

***

As Pierre filed his report to the militia captain that evening, he forced down the wry smirk that had formed on his face.  His good friend was dead and this was not the time sane men dwelled upon macabre humor.

The report indicated that the raft in the park was unsafe and had been responsible for the many drownings that had been occurring recently.  He had personally witnessed the drowning of four people this very afternoon, one being a close acquaintance.  The raft had disappeared as well, probably caused by a viscous undertow resulting from an excessive buildup of swamp gas.  He was sure that the raft and the bodies would turn up withing the next day or so.  Pierre didn’t mention the unnatural fog that had seemed to devour the group, or the fact that no one had heard any water splashing as the tiny vessel had capsized.  A sane man wouldn’t report witnessing a drowning and not ever seeing the water even form a single ripple.  And there was nothing more important in Port-a-Lucine then appearing sane.

“Good ol’ Pablo,” Pierre thought to himself as he left the barracks that evening.  “I told him that if anyone could solve this mystery it would be him.”  The smirk on his face reappeared, despite the old border guard’s best efforts to hide it.

***

The blinding white light began to clear along with Celestia’s fading scream.  The whiteness was slowly replaced by a near-painful brightness.  Gone was the rain.  Gone was the cold.  Gone were the ducks, the familiar bird sounds and the muffled sounds of voices in the park.

Saladrin stared and slowly released the Ezran medallion that he gripped with the hand’s of death.  He noticed that he was still standing on the pine-lashed raft and his fellow passengers were all standing in the exact places where they had stood before the fog had swallowed them up.  Celestia stood at the front of the raft and faced the other three, her eyes wide with fright.  Rubix stood to his left holding one of the long poles and glancing in every direction, his mouth open wide in wonder. Pablo had dropped the long pole he was using onto the raft and had a brilliant long sword in his hands.

Water was all around them, but they were no longer in the park.  Tall trees with massive trunks grew out of the water in huge clumps.  Their roots could be seen above the water’s surface and sunk down into its depths like hundreds of thick legs. The tops of the trees formed a thick green canopy nearly one hundred feet above.  The sky was no longer grey, but a brilliant blue.  The noontime sun could be seen directly overhead and its heat was intense.

Clouds of insects buzzed all around and several landed on Saladrin’s exposed face.  The thought crossed his mind to pull his hood even further down his head to protect him from the flying pests, but then he began to sweat.  The temperature had risen dramatically and the humidity penetrated his thick winter woolens.

One thing was for sure, they certainly weren’t in Dimentlieu anymore.