Full speed ahead

By the next morning, the glow of the Rose Stage Festival has faded into memory. The ethereal music beneath the stars is over, the dorms quiet again, and while the rest of campus enjoys a free day, this group wakes with purpose. They still have tasks to complete. There is the matter of the research sheds, whose likely location was pieced together from Sally’s description before she was taken back into custody for safekeeping. On top of that, Professor Lang has asked them to gather ingredients while they are already traveling deep into the bayou.

The chimney of Potion & Prophecies is belching not ordinary smoke but strange, shifting plumes—purple swirls curling through the air, sparks shooting high into the sky, and now and then a foul rotten-egg smell that spreads so thick it turns the stomach. Just when it seems unbearable, the scent changes again, suddenly floral, impossibly sweet. That is how Kroak spends hours: brewing, muttering eagerly to themselves about “the exothermic reaction,” and losing themself in experimentation.

Ruben, more familiar than most with Witherbloom through his work there, decides to spend the morning gathering information. He follows up with staff and students he recognizes, trying to learn more about the bayou’s geography, where the boats are kept, what dangers might be relevant, and what sort of environment awaits them. Yet every story only adds to the confusion. The bayou is too vast, too varied, and the research outposts too scattered for anyone to offer much certainty. The one piece of advice that emerges again and again is simple: get a boat. Walking is impossible.

Lana, meanwhile, realizes that what she truly needs is not to prepare in the bayou, but before it. Quietly, she slips away. For a moment she walks beside Ruben toward the library, then parts ways and heads instead to the Resonance Hall, where the Arcanium Ensemble practices. Alone there, violin in hand, she settles into the same kind of solitude as her last performance at home. The memory of that time lingers as she begins to play, letting the music carry what words cannot. In that private space, she swears her oath—an oath of devotion, of justice, of rules that must work for everyone just as music must belong to everyone. When she returns, she is calmer, steadier, and ready.

Late in the morning they make their way north across Witherbloom campus. The sun is already high, the day warmer than before, the world leaning toward summer. The familiar landscape shifts as they near the northern reaches. Life is still everywhere, but the sounds change: quieter, stranger, the usual hum of campus fading into something wilder. At last they reach the docks, where ancient soaked wooden piers jut into the swamp. The boats tied there look miserable—old, cracked, and hardly reassuring—but they float.

Daiki immediately proposes what he calls a “great idea,” involving Lana throwing things into the boat while the others pull it by rope overhead. Kroak, however, simply steps up onto the prow of one of the boats, pole in hand, perfectly at ease. It is obvious they have done this many times before.

Lana eyes the setup and warns Daiki that flying above a swamp might not be wise. There could be frogs, giant dragonflies, fish that spit water, even worse things. Daiki’s enthusiasm falters almost instantly. “Oh crap, I don’t like it anymore.”

So they all settle into the boat. Kroak shows Lana the basics, explaining with easy confidence, “It’s very easy. You just sit in here and I’ll push this off and you use the stick to navigate.”

Ruben, ever methodical, asks if there is some kind of obvious route through the bayou. There is not. Instead, the swamp is a maze of countless branching waterways between dense trees.

Ruben tries to use mage hand and a large piece of chalk to mark their path on the trees, hoping to leave a trail. But the swamp itself resists the idea. The trunks are slick with moisture, the chalk dripping away almost as soon as it touches bark. Kroak suggests carving the trees instead, though even that seems unreliable in a place where everything is wet, shifting, and half-alive.

Eventually they push off into the bayou. Their directions are loose at best: head for the conversion plant first, then continue upward from there.

The air grows thicker almost immediately, heavy with heat that clings beneath the skin. Lana takes the pole at the stern, steering while Kroak offers directions. Daiki, though still trying to seem cheerful, cannot hide his nerves. He keeps glancing at the water with wide, anxious eyes, every ripple setting him on edge.

Kroak notices and leans over to reassure him, pointing out what to watch for and promising, “It’s going to be fine. I’ll make sure to swat away any nasties.”

Ruben, by contrast, withdraws into contemplation. The contrast with the lively festival version of him is stark. Now he sits with his spellbook open, watching the trees and the water with a distant, searching gaze, as if trying to read something beyond the surface of the world.

After nearly half an hour of winding through nothing but trees, Kroak finally admits, “I’m not sure where we are going.” They ask Ruben if he can prepare detect magic as a ritual, just in case they pass the research facilities without realizing it. Ruben agrees, beginning the ritual carefully, conserving his strength for what may be hours of travel.

Then the swamp goes silent.

Not quiet—silent. The insects vanish. The birds vanish. Even the water seems to hold its breath.

Daiki is the first to react, panic flickering across his face as he looks around. Somewhere behind them comes the unmistakable sound of water moving.

Lana turns, trying to locate it, but before she can make sense of what she hears, the water beside the boat erupts.

A massive creature bursts from the swamp, enormous tendrils crashing down beside them. The boat lurches violently as it slams against the hull, shoving them ten feet forward. Lana, caught at the back with the pole, pitches forward into the boat. She is relieved she didn’t fall backwards. But relief lasts only a heartbeat. This is one of the monsters they have all been warned about—the kind older students don’t fight. The kind they run from.

Lana scrambles up, grabbing the pole and driving it into the muck with all her strength, pushing for her life. Daiki throws up dancing lights in front of the pursuing horror, the clustered glow flashing in its path in an attempt to distract it. Kroak leaps in beside Lana, instinctively guiding the pole’s angle, turning all of Lana’s raw strength into forward momentum with the practiced instinct of someone who has raced swamp boats before.

Still, it isn’t enough. The boat reaches a split, and Lana’s slipping grip leaves her with only a desperate choice.

“Left or right?”

For one suspended moment, Ruben freezes. His beak parts slightly, his eyes distant with sudden recognition. “I dreamt this last night.”

His spellbook shifts in his hands, its cover writhing into the shape of a swamp frog specimen, the bones worked into its surface rearranging like living omens. He reads the sign instantly: left is bad.

“Lana, go right, now!”

His voice cracks across the swamp like a command, sharp and certain. In the same breath he wheels toward the monster and casts Maximilian’s Earthen Grasp. A massive clay hand erupts from the swamp itself, seizing the creature and holding it fast. Despite all odds, Ruben’s conjured clay hand holds the monster steadfast, as foretold in his dreams. 

For the others, the moment is startling, almost unreal. There is something different about Ruben now, something strange in the way his spellbook moves, in the certainty with which he acts, in how he seems to know exactly what must happen.

Lana reacts on instinct the moment Ruben tells her where to go. She shifts toward the right side of the boat, gripping the pole and driving it down into the murky bayou floor. For one breathless moment, the monstrous creature behind them is held utterly still, trapped in an uncanny lock of space and time. Lana surges forward, trying to force the boat onward, but her hands slip on the pole. She has only just regained her footing, and the push lacks the force she wants. Even so, she follows Ruben’s direction and veers right, guiding them deeper into the twisting waterways.

Behind them, the monster thrashes uselessly. A clay claw clamps around it, pinning it fast no matter how violently it struggles. It tries to wrench itself free, but fails spectacularly, the grip refusing to yield.

Lana keeps steering, and when the next stretch of swamp opens ahead, Kroak leans in to help, scanning the reeds and mud-choked waters. Together they pick out a viable path through the mess of reeds and slick mudbanks. Lana pushes again, but the complicated route and her unsteady handling only carry them another ten feet forward. Frustration flashes across her face as the pole slips once more.

“Ruben, where to go?”

Ruben hesitates. “I don’t know. I mean the dream was very short and I was scared. I don’t know. I’d choose right… or that could be left.”

Kroak glances up at her and says, “You know, if you’re on the steering pole then you have to make the call.”

So Lana chooses right again.

At the stern, Daiki suddenly moves into action. Seeing the creature still held behind them and sensing they need more speed, he climbs onto the railing, braces himself, and angles his body firmly against the frame of the boat. With one hand thrust forward, he unleashes fire behind them, using the force of his spell like a makeshift engine. The flames roar out over the dark water, propelling the boat with a sudden burst of momentum—a magical turbo boost.

Meanwhile, Ruben tightens the crushing force of his spell on the restrained creature, grinding the clay hand down on it for another painful blow. The monster can do little but endure.

Kroak stays near Lana, no longer touching the pole directly but constantly guiding her with quick comments and tiny nudges of advice. Their magic brushes over her again, lending subtle guidance for the next crucial stretch.

The bayou suddenly narrows into a low tunnel overgrown with thorny branches. Everyone ducks instinctively as the boat glides beneath the brambles—but Lana, focused on the push, is a heartbeat too slow. The thorns rake across her face and arms, scratching her all over. She hisses through clenched teeth as the sting burns across her skin.

Still, there is no time to stop.

Behind them, the monster finally tears free of Ruben’s clay grip with a violent splash. Water churns and sprays as it surges twenty feet closer, now only ten feet behind the fleeing boat.

Lana digs in.

With Daiki’s fire still giving them momentum, Kroak’s guidance steadying her, and sheer desperation fueling her muscles, she finally gets a perfect grip on the pole. This time the push lands solidly. The boat lurches forward with real speed, shooting ahead through the swamp water.

The creature closes, and Kroak turns, raising a hand. A lance of frost streaks through the humid air and strikes the monster, ice spreading across its body and slowing its pursuit. Ruben follows immediately, murmuring “memento mori,” and a sliver of psychic force cuts into the creature’s mind, leaving it reeling and weakened.

Ahead, the water narrows once more, this time opening into a wider channel blocked by two moss-covered stumps. The gap is too narrow for the boat. Lana rams straight into it, and the hull slams to a halt with a heavy, jarring thud. Everyone rocks violently as the boat wedges fast between the stumps.

For a heartbeat, panic threatens to overtake them.

Ruben moves to help, ready to shift the boat’s angle and give Lana better control. Daiki studies the stumps and has a different idea. Instead of fire, he uses druidic magic to coax the moss into blooming thicker and smoother across the wood, turning the rough bark slick and lush. In the rich natural environment of the bayou, the spell responds with surprising strength, the moss spreading eagerly over the stumps.

The monster thunders closer behind them.

Lana grips the pole, breathing hard, scratches stinging, muscles trembling from strain. Then she looks at all of them—their support, their trust, their magic—and something in her hardens.

Her eyes begin to glow.

This is the first time they truly see it. Her braid is half falling apart, thorn scratches streak her face, and all her usual grace is gone. Gone is the composed elegance of her fighting style, the measured beauty of sword and spell. What remains is something older, harsher, and rooted in the brutal strength of giants and war.

This is pure force. This is devotion.

With a roar of effort, she drives the pole down and heaves with everything she has. The boat tears free, surging over the mossy stumps and bursting out into the wider open water beyond.

They shoot forward into safety.

Behind them, the creature charges to the stumps, stopping at the moss-covered barrier. It glares after them, then slowly sinks back beneath the swamp water, defeated.

For the first time in what feels like forever, the sounds of the bayou return: frogs croaking, insects buzzing, distant animals stirring in the reeds. The suffocating silence of pursuit is gone. Their hearts still pound in their throats, but the immediate danger has passed.

Lana is breathing heavily, adrenaline still surging through her, and when the reality of survival finally sinks in, she turns and hugs everyone in the boat.

Kroak smiles warmly. “You did well. Good job.”

“I like it when your eyes light up.”

Ruben adds, “Well, dear Lana, it was a tough call, but I’m glad you were able to help.”

Lana laughs breathlessly, still shaking from the stress. “Thank you, Ruben, also for giving me directions. Thank you, Kroak, for helping steering, and thank you, thank you, thank you Daiki for the stuff that you did.”

Daiki exhales in relief. “I am really glad that we didn’t get eaten or whatever.”

As they drift onward through the oppressive swamp heat, conversation gradually returns. Ruben explains the strange dream that guided him, admitting it may be the first sign that he has inherited his father’s prophetic gift—glimpses of possible futures, visions that might help but cannot always be shared.

Kroak resumes guiding the boat, confidently leading them through the bayou’s winding channels. For nearly an hour they drift between islands and open stretches of black water until, almost by accident, Kroak brings them to a set of docks on scattered islands—a Sedgemoor research outpost rather than the factory route they originally intended, but EXACTLY where they needed to go. 

Towering trees loom overhead, roots and hanging lianas choking the waterways beyond. The boat can go no farther. Thick veins of roots and mud split the little islands apart, and in the black water around them, oversized crocodiles drift in lazy silence.

Ruben looks ahead at the tangled passage and asks the group if they should dock directly, steer left, and whether to do this stealthily, or distract the swamp cats.

Lana eyes the water uneasily. “I am not sure. Yeah, you all can fly. I think I am in the most danger in this boat, generally speaking.”

Ruben gestures toward the islands. “Do you think you’re able to cross? To jump from island to island?”

Lana studies the distance, then nods with more confidence than caution. “I most certainly hope so. The island I can now see is like ten feet across. I can jump that far. Yeah.”

Kroak, entirely at ease, opens a newly acquired bag of holding and pulls out roasted cold potatoes, passing one to everyone. “Maybe have a little snack and then move on.”

When Lana glances suspiciously at the food, Kroak reassures her by showing Harold happily munching on their own share from the folds of their robes.

With an exasperated sound, Lana backs up, takes a running start, and leaps cleanly to the middle island.

Ruben sighs. “Okay, so that ends our stealthy approach. It’s fine.”

Kroak scans ahead and, seeing nothing obvious, calls out, “I don’t think we need to be very stealthy. It looks like no one’s there.”

The crocodiles notice the movement but remain strangely calm, half-submerged and still.

Daiki hovers uncertainly over the water, wondering aloud how high crocodiles can leap. Before he can decide, Kroak remembers enough about swamp predators to shout, “Swamp cats can jump higher than you think!”

At once Daiki lifts himself higher into the air.

Lana, meanwhile, strides forward across the middle island—and the ground vanishes beneath her.

One step sinks sharply. Her other foot goes down to steady herself and only plunges deeper. In an instant the earth becomes liquid mud, dragging her down to the chest.

“This is great,” she mutters in mounting disbelief, staring at the sucking mire. Having grown up in the north, she has never seen quicksand before. Panic flashes across her face. “What the fuck do I do? Ugh.”

Ruben watches with a stoic sort of inevitability. “One doesn’t need foretelling to see that this could have happened with such heavy armor.”

Kroak, who had been preparing their own jump, changes course mid-motion. Instead of landing dramatically, they swoop over to help, trying to catch Lana under the arms and yank her free in one clean motion. But the mud grips her like stone. Kroak hits the resistance, topples forward, and ends up with both feet stuck fast in the same quicksand.

Now both of them are trapped.

Lana, still trying to keep herself from sinking further, slowly draws her javelin from her back without moving her feet too much and braces it out. But her efforts only worsen things. The mud climbs higher.

“Can somebody like please help me?”

Above them, Daiki reacts instantly. He fumbles through his backpack, looking for his kazoo. “Help! Someone help!” The kazoo noises he makes for alarm cut absurdly through the swamp air.

Ruben flies closer, voice calm and measured. “Lana, please don’t move. The more you move, the more you will sink in. Can someone please throw a rope, pull, and get as horizontal as possible?”

At that, Daiki brightens. “Oh wait, I have a rope!” He tosses it over to Ruben.

By now Kroak has flattened themself across the mud as best they can, wings and arms spread wide, trying to distribute their weight. Lana imitates the position as much as the quicksand allows, leaning back awkwardly with the mire nearly at her neck.

Even in the middle of the danger, Kroak turns their head toward Lana with impossible levity. “Do you think this pushes up my boobs in a good way?”

Lana stares, half-submerged to the neck. “I can’t look. I’m up until my neck. I can’t see if it makes your boob look better.”

Ruben finds solid footing on a safe patch of land. He braces himself, plants his feet, and hauls on the rope with all the force he can muster.

Lana clings to it.

The mud releases her in one violent, sucking pull, and she spills back onto solid ground covered from the neck down in thick swamp filth.

She coughs, spits mud, and exhales sharply. “Well, that was stupid. Thank you for saving me.”

Without wasting time, she takes the rope back from Ruben. “Great, thank you.” Then she throws it to Kroak, who is buried much deeper now, and with a strong, clean tug she drags them free as well.

Kroak comes up laughing and bouncing in place despite the muck. “See? I told you. It’s magical healing power. It is a lobster.”

Daiki, delighted by the chaos and the successful rescue, immediately launches into cleaning magic, proudly announcing that he did pay attention in Professor Vantrax’s classes. With a flourish and a cheerful “Poof,” the mud vanishes from Lana’s armor, her hair is rebraided, the scratches on her face fade with a bit of her own healing magic, and even her glasses sit perfectly straight again.

She stands pristine once more, as if the swamp itself had never touched her.

Ruben senses something wrong in the waters nearby—a heavy corruption flowing through the stream fromthe north. Yet before they pursue it, the sight of a fenced research shed draws their attention. Inside, through the little windows, they can already make out shovels, flasks, potion vials, Erlenmeyers, and makeshift burners built from swamp biomass.

Daiki hesitates. “Shouldn’t we investigate this first? This little shed?”

Everyone agrees. They are already here.

The shed door stands unlocked, freely accessible to students and faculty. Kroak pushes it open with exaggerated suspicion, joking about doors being their greatest enemy, and the group moves in to investigate. Ruben and Kroak begin searching the supplies while Daiki specifically looks for any ingredients from Professor Lang’s list. Lana, having learned from the island’s hidden dangers, remains outside, keeping watch over the perimeter.

That caution proves wise.

A shape suddenly bursts from beneath the roots near one of the trees—a huge worg-like beast, twisted and feral. It lunges straight at Lana, snarling in a voice far too intelligent for comfort.

“The dark magic—give it to us!”

Lana reacts instantly. She channels radiant power into her longsword, the blade glowing with holy energy, and slashes across the creature with a brilliant strike that bites deep.

Then she shouts toward the shed, “We have trouble!”

She steps aside, heroic and deliberate, making space for the others to rush out rather than letting the beasts pin them inside.

The wounded worg retaliates with terrifying speed. It crashes into her, jaws locking onto her with crushing force, and drives her to the ground. In a heartbeat Lana is sprawled prone in the mud with the massive dog-like creature looming over her.

The cry draws Daiki out first.

He spins, flies out of the shed, and rises into the air, anger flashing across his face at the sight of Lana pinned beneath the beast. He raises his newly crafted Founder’s Orb, the tiny dragons coiled around it gleaming in the wet light.

“Don’t worry, Lana. The Founders will protect you.”

The Prismari dragon flares red. A miniature dragon of fire spirals from the orb and slams into the warg in a burst of flame, scorching it savagely before Daiki lifts higher and lands atop the slanted roof of the shed, ready for the next strike.

Lana is pinned beneath the struggling worg for only a moment before she forces herself back to her feet, armor scraping and breath sharp with effort. She rises, steadies herself, and swings her longsword at the beast again—but the strike goes wide.

Frustration flashes across her face, but she doesn’t hesitate. Instead, she draws on divine magic, a shimmer of pale light settling over her like a second skin as she casts Shield of Faith. The glow clings to her armor, hardening the air around her into something almost tangible. Her stance shifts, suddenly surer, more protected.

Before the fight can escalate further, Ruben—still half-focused on the shed and its research—glances through the doorway and gestures lazily toward the worgs outside, his voice tired but precise. “Let dreams shape your world.”

The words settle over the creatures like fog. Both wargs falter, their snarls dissolving into heavy, sluggish breaths. Ruben barely even looks at them as their limbs go slack. “Please don’t attack them because they are now asleep. You can bind them if you like. Please don’t try to wake it up.” With the immediate danger suspended, he turns back toward the shed as if this chaos is merely another interruption to his work. 

The spell deepens, and soon both wargs are fully unconscious, collapsed in front of Lana. With quick, practiced hands, she drags the unconscious wargs against a tree and binds them tightly, looping rope around legs and bodies until they’re secured in place. 

Inside the shed, Ruben and Kroak continue their investigation side by side, rummaging through cabinets, shelves, and tables. What they find is disappointingly mundane: empty vials, lab tools, clippers, and the usual implements for harvesting ingredients. It is a research shed, ordinary in almost every way.

“There’s no ingredients in here,” Kroak notes.

No dark artifacts. No hidden compartments. No fake panels. Just the unmistakable feeling of a campus field lab left between uses.

Outside, the minute of magical sleep runs its course. Ruben hangs back cautiously, wisely staying out of biting range, while Lana steps forward with a grin that promises mischief.

“I’ll do it. I’ll grab my javelin and I’ll poke them.”

The point nudges one of the worgs awake. Its eyes snap open, lips peeling back in a snarl as it thrashes against the rope. Lana immediately keeps the javelin near its throat, ready to strike if it tries to break loose.

Ruben steps in, voice calm and inquisitive despite the snapping jaws. “Why are you attacking us, and what do you know about these dark items—dark magic? What is it that you want?”

The worg offers nothing but murderous intent.

The moment the worg lunges to escape, Lana reacts, hurling the javelin. But fate twists the throw into disaster. The weapon cuts cleanly through the taut rope instead of flesh.

The bindings snap.

In an instant, the worg is free.

It launches itself at Lana, jaws wide—but the divine shimmer around her armor flares, deflecting the bite at the last possible second. The beast’s teeth scrape harmlessly against the barrier of holy force.

Kroak’s patience ends there.

Seeing the worg go feral and clearly unwilling to talk, they step forward, death rune glowing beneath their hands. Necrotic magic surges through their fingers and slams into the creature in a wave of Inflict Wounds. The worg convulses under the force, flesh darkening as the spell tears through it. By the time the magic fades, it is bloodied and staggering.

Daiki follows immediately, hands weaving together as he tries to recreate the lightning spectacle Kroak had conjured days earlier. A spectral blue dragon’s head forms between his palms and rockets forward, crashing into the worg in a burst of crackling energy.

The creature reels.

Lana, now fully committed to ending the threat without killing it, steps in with her glowing sacred blade. “Let’s try to hit it unconscious.”

Her sword shines brighter than the others have ever seen, radiant power gathering around the edge. When she strikes, she turns the blade, using the flat in a brutal uppercut that channels divine force through steel and into fur and bone. Holy light erupts in a swooshing arc through the air.

“Wow,” Kroak breathes from beside her.

Even battered by smite and spell, the worg refuses to drop. It whimpers, badly hurt now, and suddenly bolts in blind panic.

Lana moves to grab it by the hind legs, trying to drag it back, but it slips from her grasp.

Kroak does not let it go. Something shifts in them—a hunting instinct, primal and sharp. They lunge forward, seize the worg, and then launch themselves bodily onto it. Wings and arms wrap around its neck as they bite down hard, feasting on the vulnerable wounds Lana’s sword already carved open.

The scene turns savage in seconds: Kroak clinging to the beast’s back, dragging along as it runs, blood matting fur and feathers alike.

The worg makes one desperate leap over the dark water.

Kroak feels it first—the rustle, the dread, the unmistakable movement beneath the swamp’s surface. They release at exactly the right moment, kicking upward into the air.

Below them, the water explodes.

A crocodile erupts from the swamp in a violent surge, jaws wide enough to  the fleeing worg midair, crushing it in a single horrific snap before dragging it beneath the water. Blood blooms across the swamp’s surface in spreading red ribbons.

From above, safely airborne, Kroak glares down at the water and throws an uncooked potato towards the crocodile.

“No, that was mine.”

The swamp cat, predictably, does not care.

The second worg, seeing its companion vanish into the bloody water, begins chewing frantically through its own rope. It tears itself loose and starts running as well, though much slower from the time lost.

Daiki, still perched above the shed and riding the thrill of the moment, calls out “hee-hee-hee”, a burst of psychic distraction to rattle its mind and slow its thoughts. The worg stumbles, shaken.

Then Lana raises her voice, sharp and commanding, speaking in a tone that brooks no refusal.

“Halt.”

The magic of Command slams into the fleeing creature. On its next turn, it stops dead in its tracks, body locked in stillness, unable to move or act.

Ruben glides closer through the air, hovering just above it. “So what’s the deal with this item? Tell us, and we will set you free.”

But the creature remains frozen, caught in the force of the command, unable even to answer.

Kroak, still riding the adrenaline of the hunt, hurls a ray of frost after it, but the spell flies wide and dissipates into the night air.

The remaining worg darts away into the swamp darkness, escaping before anyone can finish it.

With the danger receding, the group turns their attention to the second research shed.

This one finally yields something useful. Among the same gathering tools and lab equipment, Kroak uncovers two forgotten healing potions tucked away among the supplies. More importantly, the tools here make it obvious that harvesting the professor’s requested components from the surrounding swamp will be easy.

Nearby, Lana presses a hand to her neck and face, murmuring healing magic over herself until the worst of her injuries fade.

Ruben, however, is already looking past the sheds and toward the deeper mystery. His gaze fixes on the bubbling water where blackened strands thread through the swamp like veins of corruption. Even without activating more magic, he can see it clearly: a point where contaminated water wells upward, dark tendrils mixing into otherwise ordinary swamp runoff. The corruption is in the water itself, flowing westward in black strands through the swamp.