A prologue of dissapointing proportions.

I've always dreamed of a good story. It seems to be a universal pursuit throughout mankind's existence. Perhaps not for all, perhaps not even most, or even many. But always some. There have always been those who've wanted to tell a good story for its own sake. Not to convey a moral, not to critique a person or policy, and certainly not for any personal gain. Even for the sake of entertainment. No, a story told for any reason other than itself is in a way tainted, impure, no matter the intentions behind it.

The sun climbed its lethargic way up the sky. For the birds this was enough for a song. The mud, obstinate as always, was another story. It pondered whether this paltry effort was enough to reward with hardening. Some of it thought that the heat and light merited a change, but most was still held in sway by the night storm's persuasive argument. The two sides came to a compromise: an upper crust of dirt would harden, just enough to look dry, but not enough to actually stop anyone who stepped in it to avoid sinking knee deep. This happy medium reached, the two sides returned to their perpetual argument as whether to grow wild berries or brambles once spring came around.

A disagreement not too different to this one was currently ongoing only a bit farther past the bog. This one was far less articulate; it was between two humans. 

"Why did we come this way? Last year was already spring and it was still a bog. I don't think coming during the rainy season will make things any better."

This from a huffy grinch of a man. Short of stature and of temper, large of means but as stingy as they come. A pinched and stubbly face with a retreating hairline. One who fancies themselves a connoisseur of all the finer things, but truly a pale imitator of his social betters. Slightly out of shape, much less sophisticated than he thinks of himself, and just the least bit uglier as well. Needless to say, a bureaucrat. 

"There's no real alternative, as you know. The only other well-trodden way that goes this deep into the bogs would require us to catch the old road somewhere. And where it's not full of bandits or beasts, there are tolls. And we really can't afford any of that."

Content that the matter was settled, the big man who had just replied returned to his surveillance of the surrounding area. A true man of the wild, raised in the very heart of the forests, he knew everything there was to know about the wildlife, plants, weather, ways and customs of his native Worstone forests. This gave him the confidence that his muscle and experience would carry him all the way to Kadyp. This confidence was completely unearned: he was now deep in the western marshes, an area far outside his realm of expertise. 

"Surviving one year doesn't promise we'll survive again you oaf. One year the provinces prosper, the next a rampaging warlord burns half the kingdom. We won't see Kadyp alive at this rate. We should turn back. Or at least look for another way through this... bog."

Despite this advice being prudent, the aforementioned oaf did not comply.

"You're forgetting who you're talking to here! Everything there is to know about these wilds, I can tell you! Look, do you see that part of the mud? It's dried out! That means there's no need to keep searching. We can march across in an hour, and be in Kadyp by sunset."

This confident assertion was promptly followed by a "Thud. Thud. Squelch", and a baffled look on the large man's face.

"You're right about that Miles. Deep in the forests, ground looking dry probably means it's dry. But that's because it doesn't see much sunlight, so it only dries out after a long dry spell. Here in the marshes, the sun is directly overhead. So a thin crust can form while the rest stays as wet as ever."

The little man couldn't help but keep the satisfaction from his voice. More than he was worried about the journey, or the predicament of his friend, he was happy to be proven right. How detestable.

"Pilly you rat you'd better help me out of this right now! Get some rope out your pack and tie it to a tree or something. I doubt your arms have gained any strength from all the paper pushing you do all day."

The monopoly on unpleasantness was obviously not held by the bureaucrat.

"It seems our guests are tardy once more."

This shot across the bow was the first thing Eva heard from her friend in a while. They had been sitting together in quiet contemplation for some hours by that point, and Opal felt she had to reply somehow. Still, the statement was indisputable! A dodging reply was in order.

"That hardly seems fair. A trip through the marshes at this time of year is challenging even for the most seasoned of travelers."

This drew a quizzical look from Eva. Sighing, Opal obliged and continued with an explanation:

"And a motley band such as that one can hardly be called seasoned travelers, can they?"

The admission seemed to please Eva, and she seized on the opportunity to lambast those hapless wanderers.

"Even the thought of calling them anything beyond barely passable seems absurd, doesn't it? I could probably get all the way to Jepchy and back before they crossed a thicket!"

"Well, they weren't exactly in the best shape last year, were they? They looked downright mauled!"

"How harsh!"

"I'm only being fair."

Eva's ensuing chuckle jolted Opal to the realization they had reversed roles in the conversation. Strange. She really didn't feel any ill will towards their erstwhile guests. With a sigh, she rose to leave.

"Still, you do remind me that I have other duties. I should get around to them now, shouldn't I?"

"Oh yes Opal, you're always so busy. Not a second down the drain! Why, how would we get along without all your hard work?"

"From anyone else, I'd be mighty offended!"

This huffy replied given, a smile returned, Opal left the old room to Eva and her snide remarks. Down the narrow and rickety passageway, second turn on the left and a leap! Catching herself on a vine and a foothold, the momentum was gone. Dropping down, she hit the next platform, just barely distinguishable to a particularly thick branch. Next, a slow climb down the rickety ladder. All the smells from the cookhouses and hearths down below wafted up and caught her by surprise: had it really been so long up here in the trees that she'd forgotton the smells of town?

Swinging and swooping, climbing and scrambling her way down, she was reminded of another smell of town. More a stench: the putrid acridity of unwashed masses, sewage and waste running its way down streets, trodden in and spread by grubby children. When confronted by the entirety of it, the isolation up in the treetops didn't seem so bad at all. So bad was the stench in fact, that some others had chosen the trees as their homes through no outside coercion. This Opal found strange.

As she finally hit the ground, another sensation returned: solidity. The ground underneath her feet no longer wobbled, was no longer susceptible to her slightest whim. No, this ground shook only with the relentless marching and stampeding of the crowd: Men, women, children, animals of all shapes and sizes. Together, they thrummed and throbbed as a beating mass, far more volatile than even the shakiest of branches. Still, they were comforting. 

Less comforting was the cold greeting she received from a wizened stick of a man. 

"Ho there Opal! And what might you be doing down here? Last I checked no great epics were being written down here."

"I... wait, who are you?"

"I am of the order! We guard an-"

"No, I know what your affiliation is. Anyone could by glancing at the cut of your robes or that emblem on your chest. I meant I don't know you."

With that swift rebuke made, Opal turned to leave. Melting into the crowd, she made her way deeper into town. She would find where her wayward guests were, or be caught trying. Shouts rang out, spreading like a shockwave throughout the crowd, emanating from where she was accosted. She knew the complaints, and knew she'd be caught before too long. But maybe she could find a story before then.

It is told in the lands of the north of a great comet. It came once in two summers. It brought luck to the good and misfortune for the wicked. But this beacon of fate is a trickster, and many a time has it misled the people. Still, it was considered a good omen, and a year without it was considered less opportune: for marriage, for business, for birth, for war. But the people only did their work on years the comet came. They grew lazy and fat off the good luck of the comet. And so, displeased, the comet stopped coming. At first, the people were in disbelief. But eventually, they learned to work hard again. And it is told that once every seventy years, the comet visits once more to see whether the people have once more grown lazy. And again, the comet grants wishes, fortune and good luck to the deserving.

There is another story in the north, far older and far purer, and somewhat less often told. It is a muddier tale, without a message or a purpose. It tells of another comet. It burned and raged and set the world aflame. The weak could do nought but cower. The strong burned and pillaged, and joined the comet in its reign of terror and destruction. And these, the sons of the comet in a sense, would become the kings and generals to rule the world for the next thousand years. And one day, the comet will come again.

One must wonder which story hides the larger grain of truth.