The Legend of Shrimp Gizzard
Some say Shrimp was born in the swamps of Pondyard, among the weeds and marshes. Others say Shrimp was birthed inside a dead, large rock crab; the rumors abound are many. If you drift deep in the backwoods of The Twins, where the crickets sing and the razorbelly hogs rut, you'll hear the Legend of Shrimp Gizzard on the reeds.
“Allow me, mon chèr,” a voice drawls like thick molasses. “I am an unlucky soul, sent by the Threadbinders of Fate to chronicle the life of Shrimp Gizzard. Call me Papa Baptiste. I am what you might call an echo of fate itself, a witness to the tides and tangles of destiny.” He tips his waxed mustache toward you, the corners of his eyes crinkling red from too much sugarcane whiskey.
“And our boy Shrimp… well, Shrimp is something Fate spat right back out, and then immediately regretted.”
In the muck and mud, he prowls where even the boldest would flinch. He dresses in the swamp itself: a long duster stitched from slither-gut gator hide, crusted with mussels and cockles. Tiny barnacles cling to it, murmuring secrets only he can hear, secrets that make the will of men and critters alike tremble. Shrimp is either the luckiest—or the unluckiest—bastard you’ll ever cross paths with. His yellow eyes shimmer with forbidden knowledge, dredged from the deepest recesses of the marsh. His hair hangs in long, dark, sticky strands, perpetually slick with swamp grime, and his grin… that crooked, dangerous grin could charm the panties off your grandmother and still leave you questioning your life choices.
Every step he takes leaves mud footprints that almost twitch, like the earth itself remembers him. He smells of wet moss, old smoke, and something faintly rotten, yet enticing, as if the swamp itself breathed into him. And yet, for all his oddities, for all his chaos, there is a magnetism you cannot ignore—like staring into a fire you know will burn you, but you cannot look away.
“Allow me, mon chèr,” a voice drawls like thick molasses. “I am an unlucky soul, sent by the Threadbinders of Fate to chronicle the life of Shrimp Gizzard. Call me Papa Baptiste. I am what you might call an echo of fate itself, a witness to the tides and tangles of destiny.” He tips his waxed mustache toward you, the corners of his eyes crinkling red from too much sugarcane whiskey.
“And our boy Shrimp… well, Shrimp is something Fate spat right back out, and then immediately regretted.”
In the muck and mud, he prowls where even the boldest would flinch. He dresses in the swamp itself: a long duster stitched from slither-gut gator hide, crusted with mussels and cockles. Tiny barnacles cling to it, murmuring secrets only he can hear, secrets that make the will of men and critters alike tremble. Shrimp is either the luckiest—or the unluckiest—bastard you’ll ever cross paths with. His yellow eyes shimmer with forbidden knowledge, dredged from the deepest recesses of the marsh. His hair hangs in long, dark, sticky strands, perpetually slick with swamp grime, and his grin… that crooked, dangerous grin could charm the panties off your grandmother and still leave you questioning your life choices.
Every step he takes leaves mud footprints that almost twitch, like the earth itself remembers him. He smells of wet moss, old smoke, and something faintly rotten, yet enticing, as if the swamp itself breathed into him. And yet, for all his oddities, for all his chaos, there is a magnetism you cannot ignore—like staring into a fire you know will burn you, but you cannot look away.
At the Clam, Shrimp comes for Lula Jo “Mudfoot” Broussard’s Bayou Blaster. Some swear it’s the drink of gods, others whisper it was born of dark magic and swamp swill. Old Lula Jo ladles it out from a crusty, time-worn bucket, warning it’ll make your chest hair grow and your ovaries wear war paint. Few resist its swampy charm.
"Let me get myself settled before we start on one of his many legends," Papa Baptiste says, lowering himself onto a half-rotted log of the swamp. The wood creaks under his weight, and water sloshes at his feet. His mustache is fully twisted and waxed, cheeks ruddy red from too much sugarcane whiskey—enough to make any sane soul dizzy just trying to follow Shrimp around. His belly, plump from crawdads and boudin sausage, speaks to a man who loves the flavors of the swamp as fiercely as anyone.
"Where should we start before Shrimp and Gumbo wake?" Papa Baptiste mutters, scratching his chin. He lights his old corn-cob pipe, the carved head of a dead frog at the end catching the light as he puffs. The sweet, tangy scent of swamp-rot tobacco swirls in the air.
With a deep Southern drawl, his voice begins to settle over the bayou like thick moss: "Now… the story of the Missing Hot Sauce, Gumbo, and the Moon-Swamp Dragon… that there’s a hell of a tale."
The crickets join him in chorus, and the curling, sweetly-swirling smoke wraps around the listener, pulling them deep into the heart of the Bayou.
"It all started on fateful evenin'," Papa Baptiste begins.
The moon, Lunestra, hung high in the night sky. It was a clear evening over Blackwater Bayou—crickets chirping, cicadas singing, and slither-gut gators rutting in harmony with the tide. The stench of swamp rot kissed the shore, thick and heavy.
Jojo “Gatorgut” Thibodeaux was in the kitchen of The Mudpuppy Pit, stirring something foul, something kissed by the devil himself. He added a special ingredient to this Swampfire Sauce—a hellapeno, freshly plucked from The Plates, still screaming as he tossed it into the big iron kettle. Its soul caught in the rising steam and stirred right back in, as if it knew it was about to become legend.
Everyone in Blackwater Bayou knew Swampfire could strip paint off walls, melt barnacles off boats, and was the only thing Old Shrimp Gizzard would put on his gator jerky. Jojo aged his batches in old, crusty sea barrels under The Mudpuppy, warding them tight with charms and curses alike.
It was one of those nights when the air hung warm in a sinful way, thick with the promise of mischief. Jojo went down to fetch one of his barrels, stocking it up for fermentation and whatever chaos was about to crawl through the bayou next.
Shrimp Gizzard came running clear out from The Swamp Siren, pulling his pants up after a night of lust, sugarcane whiskey, and Tansy Meadows herself. He was hunting for Gumbo, knowing that hog was surely off up to no good.
The barnacles on his duster whispered secrets to him on the wind, and despite the chaos gnawing at the swamp, Shrimp Gizzard’s mind drifted back to Old Sweet Tansy—her wild blond hair, her mischievous smile, and that sweet-tea laugh that could make even the muckiest bayou feel like home.
"Where should we start before Shrimp and Gumbo wake?" Papa Baptiste mutters, scratching his chin. He lights his old corn-cob pipe, the carved head of a dead frog at the end catching the light as he puffs. The sweet, tangy scent of swamp-rot tobacco swirls in the air.
With a deep Southern drawl, his voice begins to settle over the bayou like thick moss: "Now… the story of the Missing Hot Sauce, Gumbo, and the Moon-Swamp Dragon… that there’s a hell of a tale."
The crickets join him in chorus, and the curling, sweetly-swirling smoke wraps around the listener, pulling them deep into the heart of the Bayou.
"It all started on fateful evenin'," Papa Baptiste begins.
The moon, Lunestra, hung high in the night sky. It was a clear evening over Blackwater Bayou—crickets chirping, cicadas singing, and slither-gut gators rutting in harmony with the tide. The stench of swamp rot kissed the shore, thick and heavy.
Jojo “Gatorgut” Thibodeaux was in the kitchen of The Mudpuppy Pit, stirring something foul, something kissed by the devil himself. He added a special ingredient to this Swampfire Sauce—a hellapeno, freshly plucked from The Plates, still screaming as he tossed it into the big iron kettle. Its soul caught in the rising steam and stirred right back in, as if it knew it was about to become legend.
Everyone in Blackwater Bayou knew Swampfire could strip paint off walls, melt barnacles off boats, and was the only thing Old Shrimp Gizzard would put on his gator jerky. Jojo aged his batches in old, crusty sea barrels under The Mudpuppy, warding them tight with charms and curses alike.
It was one of those nights when the air hung warm in a sinful way, thick with the promise of mischief. Jojo went down to fetch one of his barrels, stocking it up for fermentation and whatever chaos was about to crawl through the bayou next.
Shrimp Gizzard came running clear out from The Swamp Siren, pulling his pants up after a night of lust, sugarcane whiskey, and Tansy Meadows herself. He was hunting for Gumbo, knowing that hog was surely off up to no good.
The barnacles on his duster whispered secrets to him on the wind, and despite the chaos gnawing at the swamp, Shrimp Gizzard’s mind drifted back to Old Sweet Tansy—her wild blond hair, her mischievous smile, and that sweet-tea laugh that could make even the muckiest bayou feel like home.
Shrimp trudged through the muck, boots sinking with every step. Boy, howdy, he thought, Gumbo done got himself into something this time. He followed the razorbelly’s wide, jagged hoof-prints, each one carving little demonic faces into the mud. The moonlight glimmered across them in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up, goosebumps crawling like swamp-fleas up and down his spine.
“Athos’ balls… Athos’ sweaty balls,” Shrimp hissed through his thick drawl as he stepped into the mess Gumbo left behind—turned-over stalls, busted posts, and smashed Minga melons. Their bright ruby insides were mashed into the swamp mud, looking like bloodstains in the muck.
You notice a ring of tabaccy smoke swirled and paused.
“One moment now,” Papa Baptiste cut in, waving the smoke aside. “I—Papa Baptiste—would never, I mean never, blaspheme the god of Luck, Athos. But ol’ Shrimp Gizzard here? He’s got a grudge… somethin’ to do with a shiny siren harlot and a deck of cards.”.
He made the sign of Athos, then blinked. “Where was I?”.
And just like that, you fall back into the story.
Shrimp pushed onward, listening close as the barnacle, Crusty Joe on his shoulder clicked its tiny shell-mouth and whispered,
“Mon chèr… the swamp spirits be up to mischief tonight.”
Shrimp heard Gumbo before he saw him—the wet thwap-thwap-thwap of that fat razorbelly rump twitching, tail swatting at imaginary flies chewing on its backside. Shrimp’s glowing yellow eyes widened.
Oh, by the Swamp Mother herself…
“RUDDIOUS THIBODEAUX JOLENE MACRAE!” Shrimp hollered.
Old Gumbo turned his head slow, like he’d just seen a ghost—or become one. His jowls dripped red, Swampfire hit the ground, eating away the muck like acid. Smoke curled from his flaring nostrils. His big eye, the too-big one, bulged wild as veins pulsed like angry swamp worms beneath it. And Gumbo was rubbing one hoof against the mud. Hard.
“Athos’ balls… Athos’ sweaty balls,” Shrimp hissed through his thick drawl as he stepped into the mess Gumbo left behind—turned-over stalls, busted posts, and smashed Minga melons. Their bright ruby insides were mashed into the swamp mud, looking like bloodstains in the muck.
You notice a ring of tabaccy smoke swirled and paused.
“One moment now,” Papa Baptiste cut in, waving the smoke aside. “I—Papa Baptiste—would never, I mean never, blaspheme the god of Luck, Athos. But ol’ Shrimp Gizzard here? He’s got a grudge… somethin’ to do with a shiny siren harlot and a deck of cards.”.
He made the sign of Athos, then blinked. “Where was I?”.
And just like that, you fall back into the story.
Shrimp pushed onward, listening close as the barnacle, Crusty Joe on his shoulder clicked its tiny shell-mouth and whispered,
“Mon chèr… the swamp spirits be up to mischief tonight.”
Shrimp heard Gumbo before he saw him—the wet thwap-thwap-thwap of that fat razorbelly rump twitching, tail swatting at imaginary flies chewing on its backside. Shrimp’s glowing yellow eyes widened.
Oh, by the Swamp Mother herself…
“RUDDIOUS THIBODEAUX JOLENE MACRAE!” Shrimp hollered.
Old Gumbo turned his head slow, like he’d just seen a ghost—or become one. His jowls dripped red, Swampfire hit the ground, eating away the muck like acid. Smoke curled from his flaring nostrils. His big eye, the too-big one, bulged wild as veins pulsed like angry swamp worms beneath it. And Gumbo was rubbing one hoof against the mud. Hard.
Shrimp felt the color drain from his face. Gumbo being itchy was never a good sign. Not ever.
Beneath Gumbo’s hooves lay the crushed remains of one of Jojo’s casks of Swampfire—splintered staves, sizzling muck, shards soaked in hell-red sauce. And the other barrel? It looked like Gumbo had swallowed it whole. Shrimp gazed at Gumbo who had swallowed, the barrel whole good razorbellies nearly indestructible.
Shrimp’s stomach twinged—his barnacles twitched in warning— “Duck, fool!”
He hit the mud faster than a sinner hits confession.
Gumbo sneezed. A fireball tore over his head, scorching the night air, shot straight from the mouth of his ornery, over-sauced razorbelly hog—who then lowered his head like he meant to charge him clean through a cypress tree.
“Swampfire?! You had to—YOU COULDN’T WAIT?” Shrimp roared, scrambling sideways. “I had jerky for us BOTH, you fat slither-gut son of a swamp leech!”
Then something chilled Shrimp’s blood.
Not the part where he rolled out of the way of Gumbo—who was snorting fire and ramming himself into an old cypress, sending flaming bits of swamp muck flying. Not even the smoke curling up around them.
No… it was the print. In one of Gumbo’s muddy hoof prints, filled with water and the moonlight shimmered and ripples spread across still water.
“Ygharis’ Seed… Nelous’ Hellfire…,” he breathed. The moon rippled again, slow and wrong.
His heart thudded too loud. Crusty Joe, the barnacle on his shoulder, clicked its tiny shell-mouth and whispered in his ear, “Danger, mon chèr…”
Every hair on his arms prickled. Gumbo stomped and snorted behind him, touching everything with fire and acid leaking from his dripping jowls, his belly glowing red like a lantern possessed.
Beneath Gumbo’s hooves lay the crushed remains of one of Jojo’s casks of Swampfire—splintered staves, sizzling muck, shards soaked in hell-red sauce. And the other barrel? It looked like Gumbo had swallowed it whole. Shrimp gazed at Gumbo who had swallowed, the barrel whole good razorbellies nearly indestructible.
Shrimp’s stomach twinged—his barnacles twitched in warning— “Duck, fool!”
He hit the mud faster than a sinner hits confession.
Gumbo sneezed. A fireball tore over his head, scorching the night air, shot straight from the mouth of his ornery, over-sauced razorbelly hog—who then lowered his head like he meant to charge him clean through a cypress tree.
“Swampfire?! You had to—YOU COULDN’T WAIT?” Shrimp roared, scrambling sideways. “I had jerky for us BOTH, you fat slither-gut son of a swamp leech!”
Then something chilled Shrimp’s blood.
Not the part where he rolled out of the way of Gumbo—who was snorting fire and ramming himself into an old cypress, sending flaming bits of swamp muck flying. Not even the smoke curling up around them.
No… it was the print. In one of Gumbo’s muddy hoof prints, filled with water and the moonlight shimmered and ripples spread across still water.
“Ygharis’ Seed… Nelous’ Hellfire…,” he breathed. The moon rippled again, slow and wrong.
His heart thudded too loud. Crusty Joe, the barnacle on his shoulder, clicked its tiny shell-mouth and whispered in his ear, “Danger, mon chèr…”
Every hair on his arms prickled. Gumbo stomped and snorted behind him, touching everything with fire and acid leaking from his dripping jowls, his belly glowing red like a lantern possessed.
Then a low keening rolled through the swamp—thin, mournful, and not meant for mortal ears. For a moment, the whole bayou held its breath. Even the wind knew something was coming.
Then Shrimp saw it—the fog, that fog, the kind that chills the blood and only rolls in when the moon is full. It creeps thick and wet across the bayou, smelling of rot so sharp the grass it touches melts into black slime. Noxie du Marais. The Noxie. Every barnacle on his duster clacks at once, a tiny sea of whispers hissing its name as his spine goes stiff. The silver-mossed, black-boiled beast moves beneath the surface, stirring the mud from below—because the Noxie don’t live in the swamp. It lives under it.
Gumbo freezes—right before he sneezes out another fireball that slices a clean tunnel through the fog, nailing somebody off in the distance.
“What the—!” a voice yelps faintly from somewhere inside that thick mess.
The Noxie’s still far behind Shrimp—thank Athos’ balls.
Shrimp pushes himself upright, thinking maybe that son of a slither-gut Noxie will just move on, drift past ’em in the dark. Then he looks at Gumbo… and notices they are right there.
He drags a hand down his face, flicking swamp-slime from his fingers, his yellow eyes glowing low in the dark. The Noxie ain’t here for them—it’s here for Jojo’s Swampfire. And Gumbo’s got a whole damn belly full of it.
"Let's take a moment here and breathe, I can feel your tension, mon chèr," Papa Baptiste said, curling the tip of his mustache. His gaze drifted to Lunestra, then back to you, knowing your mind was eager for the next moment in the story. The swamp had settled into its own gentle rhythm, the scent of earth rising with the cool evening mist. A thick layer of fog rolled in as Papa continued his tale, lighting his corn-cob pipe once more. The wind teased your senses, as if something in the swamp were stirring…
"The Noxie was rumbling up through the mud," Papa Baptiste’s voice dragged you back under, slow and sweet, like honey over cornbread.
Shrimp stood, his duster dripping with swamp mud, yet somehow he always looked just clean enough. The fog swirled around him, thick and heavy, and he could see old Gumbo’s belly glowing red, full of Swampfire. He raked a finger through his slimy black hair. Beneath his boots, the earth moved like quicksand—bog, muck, and swamp could shift in an instant, swallowing the unwary. And the Noxie was rising. Bubbles broke the surface, hissing and plopping, sounding like a slop-goat plotting its next mischief.
Shrimp bolted, keeping his eyes on Gumbo. The hog butted a cypress, letting little bursts of fire escape. Smoke and steam curled around him, making him look every bit the Hellion of the Swamps. He grunted and rumbled, saliva still red-hot, sizzling the ground wherever it dripped.
Then came the sound—like opening a can of pickles, or uncasking an ancient barrel of fermented eggs. A hiss followed as the Noxie erupted from the sludge, long and sinuous, a creature born of swamp, sin, and shadow. Its body was a mishmash of gator and dragon, ancient and malformed, silt and black moss boiling along its scales. Milky, perceptive eyes locked on Shrimp and Gumbo. It inhaled, and the clicking, chittering sound it released rattled bones. The moon itself seemed to shiver as the fog twisted across Blackwater Bayou, thick and alive around the Noxie’s rising form.
“Hellfire,” Shrimp spat as he picked up speed, mud slinging off his slither-gut hide boots. The shells on his duster rattled like they knew exactly how bad an idea this was. Gumbo was gonna hate him for this—hate him for a long, long time.
He’d made that hog one promise: he’d never ride him. But a promise didn’t mean much when a moon-swamp dragon was rising from the deep. So Shrimp prayed Athos was feeling generous tonight. He slapped the sign of Athos across his chest, looked up at the sky, and blew a kiss to Luck himself.
Gumbo sure as hell didn’t see it coming. Shrimp launched onto the hog’s back quicker than sin, grabbing one gnarly ear and twisting his fingers into the coarse bristle of his mane. His thighs locked around the beast like he was still holding on to Sweet Tansy.
Gumbo bucked, squealed, and spat fireballs—each one blasting open chunks of swamp earth. The Razorbelly’s whole stomach glowed like a furnace full of angry coals.
Then Shrimp saw it—the fog, that fog, the kind that chills the blood and only rolls in when the moon is full. It creeps thick and wet across the bayou, smelling of rot so sharp the grass it touches melts into black slime. Noxie du Marais. The Noxie. Every barnacle on his duster clacks at once, a tiny sea of whispers hissing its name as his spine goes stiff. The silver-mossed, black-boiled beast moves beneath the surface, stirring the mud from below—because the Noxie don’t live in the swamp. It lives under it.
Gumbo freezes—right before he sneezes out another fireball that slices a clean tunnel through the fog, nailing somebody off in the distance.
“What the—!” a voice yelps faintly from somewhere inside that thick mess.
The Noxie’s still far behind Shrimp—thank Athos’ balls.
Shrimp pushes himself upright, thinking maybe that son of a slither-gut Noxie will just move on, drift past ’em in the dark. Then he looks at Gumbo… and notices they are right there.
He drags a hand down his face, flicking swamp-slime from his fingers, his yellow eyes glowing low in the dark. The Noxie ain’t here for them—it’s here for Jojo’s Swampfire. And Gumbo’s got a whole damn belly full of it.
"Let's take a moment here and breathe, I can feel your tension, mon chèr," Papa Baptiste said, curling the tip of his mustache. His gaze drifted to Lunestra, then back to you, knowing your mind was eager for the next moment in the story. The swamp had settled into its own gentle rhythm, the scent of earth rising with the cool evening mist. A thick layer of fog rolled in as Papa continued his tale, lighting his corn-cob pipe once more. The wind teased your senses, as if something in the swamp were stirring…
"The Noxie was rumbling up through the mud," Papa Baptiste’s voice dragged you back under, slow and sweet, like honey over cornbread.
Shrimp stood, his duster dripping with swamp mud, yet somehow he always looked just clean enough. The fog swirled around him, thick and heavy, and he could see old Gumbo’s belly glowing red, full of Swampfire. He raked a finger through his slimy black hair. Beneath his boots, the earth moved like quicksand—bog, muck, and swamp could shift in an instant, swallowing the unwary. And the Noxie was rising. Bubbles broke the surface, hissing and plopping, sounding like a slop-goat plotting its next mischief.
Shrimp bolted, keeping his eyes on Gumbo. The hog butted a cypress, letting little bursts of fire escape. Smoke and steam curled around him, making him look every bit the Hellion of the Swamps. He grunted and rumbled, saliva still red-hot, sizzling the ground wherever it dripped.
Then came the sound—like opening a can of pickles, or uncasking an ancient barrel of fermented eggs. A hiss followed as the Noxie erupted from the sludge, long and sinuous, a creature born of swamp, sin, and shadow. Its body was a mishmash of gator and dragon, ancient and malformed, silt and black moss boiling along its scales. Milky, perceptive eyes locked on Shrimp and Gumbo. It inhaled, and the clicking, chittering sound it released rattled bones. The moon itself seemed to shiver as the fog twisted across Blackwater Bayou, thick and alive around the Noxie’s rising form.
“Hellfire,” Shrimp spat as he picked up speed, mud slinging off his slither-gut hide boots. The shells on his duster rattled like they knew exactly how bad an idea this was. Gumbo was gonna hate him for this—hate him for a long, long time.
He’d made that hog one promise: he’d never ride him. But a promise didn’t mean much when a moon-swamp dragon was rising from the deep. So Shrimp prayed Athos was feeling generous tonight. He slapped the sign of Athos across his chest, looked up at the sky, and blew a kiss to Luck himself.
Gumbo sure as hell didn’t see it coming. Shrimp launched onto the hog’s back quicker than sin, grabbing one gnarly ear and twisting his fingers into the coarse bristle of his mane. His thighs locked around the beast like he was still holding on to Sweet Tansy.
Gumbo bucked, squealed, and spat fireballs—each one blasting open chunks of swamp earth. The Razorbelly’s whole stomach glowed like a furnace full of angry coals.
“No, Gumbo,” Shrimp hissed—his voice carrying an older edge, as if something deep in the swamp whispered through him, that part Shrimp everyone feared just a tiny bit..
Old Gumbo was pissed as hellfire. As he snorted, flames crept from the corners of his jowls, licking the air like hungry tongues. He stomped the ground so hard the mud shuddered, his whole body quivering as every muscle tensed for a fight he did not understand.
Shrimp was hollering—less riding, more commanding—trying to keep his seat as Gumbo spun and snorted. Then the hog froze.
He saw the Noxie.
The swamp earth around the creature rose and swelled, wet soil ballooning upward as the beast pushed through, the land itself bending to make room for it.
“Move, you two-toned belly-sack of Poopugh’s shit!” Shrimp bellowed, giving Gumbo a sharp tug and praying to every god with ears.
Shrimp jerked hard on the bristles of Gumbo’s mane, the coarse hairs biting into his palms as he squeezed his thighs tight. The Noxie was close—close enough that its sulfurous breath slipped cold and wet over his skin. His whole hide prickled..
Old Gumbo was pissed as hellfire. As he snorted, flames crept from the corners of his jowls, licking the air like hungry tongues. He stomped the ground so hard the mud shuddered, his whole body quivering as every muscle tensed for a fight he did not understand.
Shrimp was hollering—less riding, more commanding—trying to keep his seat as Gumbo spun and snorted. Then the hog froze.
He saw the Noxie.
The swamp earth around the creature rose and swelled, wet soil ballooning upward as the beast pushed through, the land itself bending to make room for it.
“Move, you two-toned belly-sack of Poopugh’s shit!” Shrimp bellowed, giving Gumbo a sharp tug and praying to every god with ears.
Shrimp jerked hard on the bristles of Gumbo’s mane, the coarse hairs biting into his palms as he squeezed his thighs tight. The Noxie was close—close enough that its sulfurous breath slipped cold and wet over his skin. His whole hide prickled..
Gumbo lurched forward, tearing into the swamp muck like a demon set loose. Shrimp clung to him, fingers hooked around that gnarly ear, knuckles white, swamp-sweat dripping down his brow. The hog’s belly glowed hotter with every pounding step, fireflies swirling up in their wake like sparks off a forge..
Folks stepped out onto the porches of their stilted houses, squinting into the fog..
“Ride ’em, Shrimp! Teach that hellion a lesson!”. Then the shouting died—quick and flat—when they saw what was behind him..
The Noxie.. Moon-swamp dragon.. Black boil and silver moss.. Rippling through the muck with jaws snapping like thunder..[ Shrimp felt something then, some shift under him as Gumbo ran, breath hammering, belly glowing like a cursed coal….
“Athos’ hot guts, you wouldn’t!!” Shrimp shouted, flying by the seat of his pants, duster flapping wildly in the wind. The barnacle on his shoulder clicked near his ear.
“He’s gonna blow, mon chèr,” it warned.
Shrimp felt his belly twist with dread. The Noxie was close, thrashing through cypress and water oaks, vaulting over fallen logs. Behind them, a few of those black-boiled horrors popped, a sound like nails scraping across slate. They oozed black tar that coated the muck in sticky trails.
Gumbo’s belly gurgled, hot and furious, carrying them past rutting slither-guts and the hollow of the dead frog. Again, Gumbo rumbled, louder this time, as if the swamp itself was growling.
Then it came—a noise that should never have existed. Gumbo’s rumble turned into fire, shooting back fifty feet in a streak of blazing swamp fury. Shrimp nearly ended up beneath him as the hog thundered on, the trail of fire stretching like a comet tail through the muck, straight into the Noxie’s gaping maw.
The beast got one taste of the Swampfire—now carrying a new, vile flavor after passing through Gumbo—and swallowed it down. The Noxie’s eyes bulged, its head nearly exploding, boils hissing and popping across its blackened scales. It coughed and gagged, heaving up a massive, steaming pearl before clawing back into the mud. Smoke and stink hung heavy over Blackwater Bayou, the swamp itself trembling at the sheer audacity of what had just occurred.
Shrimp and Gumbo stood there, their Shrimp was still alive as he gathered that moon Pearl and tucked it away, his eyes glowing,
“No, I bet you think that’s all that’s happened, that this tale ends here,” Papa Baptiste said, puffing sweet, sickly tobacco smoke that curled like halos to the sky. His eyes sparkled with pure delight and mischief, and as he twisted the end of his mustache, he gave you a smile so like Shrimp’s that you found yourself questioning why you had ever joined Papa here in the bayou. The crickets sang, crawdads perched on logs, all waiting for him to keep spinning his yarn.
His gaze threaded with fate, his lips curling in a nearly sinister smile, he murmured, “No, Shrimp Gizzard, the Noxie du Marais, and Gumbo are certainly not done. Hold onto your log, mon chèr.”
And with that, he began to weave the rest of the story. Fireflies buzzed lazily through the fog, and you swore you could hear music drifting in the distance.
Folks stepped out onto the porches of their stilted houses, squinting into the fog..
“Ride ’em, Shrimp! Teach that hellion a lesson!”. Then the shouting died—quick and flat—when they saw what was behind him..
The Noxie.. Moon-swamp dragon.. Black boil and silver moss.. Rippling through the muck with jaws snapping like thunder..[ Shrimp felt something then, some shift under him as Gumbo ran, breath hammering, belly glowing like a cursed coal….
“Athos’ hot guts, you wouldn’t!!” Shrimp shouted, flying by the seat of his pants, duster flapping wildly in the wind. The barnacle on his shoulder clicked near his ear.
“He’s gonna blow, mon chèr,” it warned.
Shrimp felt his belly twist with dread. The Noxie was close, thrashing through cypress and water oaks, vaulting over fallen logs. Behind them, a few of those black-boiled horrors popped, a sound like nails scraping across slate. They oozed black tar that coated the muck in sticky trails.
Gumbo’s belly gurgled, hot and furious, carrying them past rutting slither-guts and the hollow of the dead frog. Again, Gumbo rumbled, louder this time, as if the swamp itself was growling.
Then it came—a noise that should never have existed. Gumbo’s rumble turned into fire, shooting back fifty feet in a streak of blazing swamp fury. Shrimp nearly ended up beneath him as the hog thundered on, the trail of fire stretching like a comet tail through the muck, straight into the Noxie’s gaping maw.
The beast got one taste of the Swampfire—now carrying a new, vile flavor after passing through Gumbo—and swallowed it down. The Noxie’s eyes bulged, its head nearly exploding, boils hissing and popping across its blackened scales. It coughed and gagged, heaving up a massive, steaming pearl before clawing back into the mud. Smoke and stink hung heavy over Blackwater Bayou, the swamp itself trembling at the sheer audacity of what had just occurred.
Shrimp and Gumbo stood there, their Shrimp was still alive as he gathered that moon Pearl and tucked it away, his eyes glowing,
“No, I bet you think that’s all that’s happened, that this tale ends here,” Papa Baptiste said, puffing sweet, sickly tobacco smoke that curled like halos to the sky. His eyes sparkled with pure delight and mischief, and as he twisted the end of his mustache, he gave you a smile so like Shrimp’s that you found yourself questioning why you had ever joined Papa here in the bayou. The crickets sang, crawdads perched on logs, all waiting for him to keep spinning his yarn.
His gaze threaded with fate, his lips curling in a nearly sinister smile, he murmured, “No, Shrimp Gizzard, the Noxie du Marais, and Gumbo are certainly not done. Hold onto your log, mon chèr.”
And with that, he began to weave the rest of the story. Fireflies buzzed lazily through the fog, and you swore you could hear music drifting in the distance.
The pearl was larger than any Shrimp had ever touched. Warm to the hand, it shimmered like Lunestra herself. He looked over at Gumbo, who was still shooting sparks from his rear, tail flipping back and forth, fireflies passing through the smoky haze. For a brief, improbable moment, peace settled over them. Shrimp drew a deep breath.
“Bless you, Athos,” he muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the pearl. With this, he could buy enough jerky to last a week—and maybe even a whole week with Tansy at the Swamp Siren.
Then it started—the ground trembled beneath them, a deep, rolling rumble. Shrimp’s barnacle clicked warnings too late; the Noxie’s massive maw snapped up through the muck, tugging at the end of his duster. Shells and barnacles clattered and scraped with the movement as the beast hollered, a sound of pure hunger and malice.
The Noxie was going to drag him down into the world under the swamp, where he would become food for The Underfolk, seasoned with swamp fuel and spite. Shrimp’s hands flew—one clutching the pearl, the other digging into a cypress tree, moss bending under the wind and the beast’s pressure. Athos… if you let me live, I’ll never blaspheme again…
A horrifying sound cut through the chaos. He looked down. His favored barnacle—the one who whispered soft secrets—was gone, torn up by the Noxie. Tears burned down his cheeks. Jolene… small, brave Jolene, shredded like an appetizer in the beast’s gaping maw.
“Bless you, Athos,” he muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the pearl. With this, he could buy enough jerky to last a week—and maybe even a whole week with Tansy at the Swamp Siren.
Then it started—the ground trembled beneath them, a deep, rolling rumble. Shrimp’s barnacle clicked warnings too late; the Noxie’s massive maw snapped up through the muck, tugging at the end of his duster. Shells and barnacles clattered and scraped with the movement as the beast hollered, a sound of pure hunger and malice.
The Noxie was going to drag him down into the world under the swamp, where he would become food for The Underfolk, seasoned with swamp fuel and spite. Shrimp’s hands flew—one clutching the pearl, the other digging into a cypress tree, moss bending under the wind and the beast’s pressure. Athos… if you let me live, I’ll never blaspheme again…
A horrifying sound cut through the chaos. He looked down. His favored barnacle—the one who whispered soft secrets—was gone, torn up by the Noxie. Tears burned down his cheeks. Jolene… small, brave Jolene, shredded like an appetizer in the beast’s gaping maw.
There was no time to mourn. The Noxie was still hungry. Shrimp leapt back onto Gumbo’s back, heart hammering. The hog wasn’t thrilled, but he trusted Shrimp enough to know they weren’t going down without a fight. The Noxie’s shadow stretched across the swamp like a living curse, black boils rippling over its scales, every inch of its form radiating intent: this was personal.
“Listen here, you swamp-rotted fool! You’re giving me that Swampfire hog for my supper!” the Noxie bellowed. Its voice rasped like ancient, hollowed bones scraping together, every word twisting and plum nearly worn away as it echoed from the gaping maw.
“You’ll be eating Vespera’s Clam before I give you Gumbo!” Shrimp hollered, a curse slipping out between his teeth as he urged the poor beast forward. They tore through brackish water, dodging horn-toads and slick, skittering fish that shot out of their path, mud and muck flying in every direction. The bayou thinned around them; the water was getting deeper, colder—like the Swamp itself was pushing Shrimp and Gumbo toward the marsh-edge.
And out here? The dangers were worse. Mud-people, razor clams—things that hid beneath the tide and snapped at whatever wandered too close.
Behind them, the Noxie was still chomping at Gumbo’s heels. In the distance, Shrimp could just make out the lanterns of the bayou folk and the glint of weapons. They’d love to claim a Noxie hide tonight.
“Listen here, you swamp-rotted fool! You’re giving me that Swampfire hog for my supper!” the Noxie bellowed. Its voice rasped like ancient, hollowed bones scraping together, every word twisting and plum nearly worn away as it echoed from the gaping maw.
“You’ll be eating Vespera’s Clam before I give you Gumbo!” Shrimp hollered, a curse slipping out between his teeth as he urged the poor beast forward. They tore through brackish water, dodging horn-toads and slick, skittering fish that shot out of their path, mud and muck flying in every direction. The bayou thinned around them; the water was getting deeper, colder—like the Swamp itself was pushing Shrimp and Gumbo toward the marsh-edge.
And out here? The dangers were worse. Mud-people, razor clams—things that hid beneath the tide and snapped at whatever wandered too close.
Behind them, the Noxie was still chomping at Gumbo’s heels. In the distance, Shrimp could just make out the lanterns of the bayou folk and the glint of weapons. They’d love to claim a Noxie hide tonight.
The chase drove Shrimp and Gumbo straight to the Shadow Oak—twisted, black, ancient. Nobody touched The Shadow Oak. It was said to be as old as the Gods themselves, standing sentinel over the Black Bayou.
Gumbo hit the roots first, hooves testing the slick bark before hauling himself upward, one large eye glowing red in the gloom. Shrimp clutched that pearl tight—there was nowhere else to run—and below, the Noxie called from the tall, rattling grasses.
“Shrimp! We’ll roast yer gizzards!” The Noxie sang, voice like an eerie rasp dragged across bone.
He scrambled up after Gumbo just as the Noxie snapped again—took another barnacle off with her maw. Betsy Sue and Tommy Two-Shells, gone in a single crunch, torn clean off his duster.
Shrimp skittered higher, boots slipping, heart pounding fit to break his ribs. He and Gumbo perched on a thick branch and stared down into the dark heart of the bayou. Above them, the sky had cleared, and Lunestra burned bright and pale over their heads.
Gumbo sneezed—another little fireball dropping into the murky depths.
Below, the Noxie kept circling, snarling, breath echoing through the swamp. But she didn’t climb. She didn’t touch the tree. It was like she couldn’t.
The Noxie circled for days, trading barbs with Shrimp and Gumbo. The people of the bayou stayed in the shadows, waiting to pounce. On the third day, Shrimp was getting hungry, and so was his razorbelly hog—they’d been gnawing on grubs from the trees and sipping from hollows of old rainwater. He wanted nothing more than that hot, piled heap of fried slither-guts, craw tatties, and a tankard of Lula’s swill. His bones ached, and the pearl sat hidden in the crook of the Shadow Oak.
He leaned back, staring at Gumbo, the fat hog taking another nap. The barnacle on his shoulder, Crusty Joe, clicked at him.
“That ain’t no pearl, Shrimp,” he murmured. “That’s her baby. She don’t know it’s missing, mon chèr.”
Shrimp paused, holding the pearl. The sky was dark tonight, but it still radiated warmth. He pressed it to his ear, listening—there was a heartbeat. Well, he thought, I’ll be Poopugh’s uncle. Maybe Athos is looking out for us after all. He leaned over the branch, gripping the pearl carefully.
Gumbo hit the roots first, hooves testing the slick bark before hauling himself upward, one large eye glowing red in the gloom. Shrimp clutched that pearl tight—there was nowhere else to run—and below, the Noxie called from the tall, rattling grasses.
“Shrimp! We’ll roast yer gizzards!” The Noxie sang, voice like an eerie rasp dragged across bone.
He scrambled up after Gumbo just as the Noxie snapped again—took another barnacle off with her maw. Betsy Sue and Tommy Two-Shells, gone in a single crunch, torn clean off his duster.
Shrimp skittered higher, boots slipping, heart pounding fit to break his ribs. He and Gumbo perched on a thick branch and stared down into the dark heart of the bayou. Above them, the sky had cleared, and Lunestra burned bright and pale over their heads.
Gumbo sneezed—another little fireball dropping into the murky depths.
Below, the Noxie kept circling, snarling, breath echoing through the swamp. But she didn’t climb. She didn’t touch the tree. It was like she couldn’t.
The Noxie circled for days, trading barbs with Shrimp and Gumbo. The people of the bayou stayed in the shadows, waiting to pounce. On the third day, Shrimp was getting hungry, and so was his razorbelly hog—they’d been gnawing on grubs from the trees and sipping from hollows of old rainwater. He wanted nothing more than that hot, piled heap of fried slither-guts, craw tatties, and a tankard of Lula’s swill. His bones ached, and the pearl sat hidden in the crook of the Shadow Oak.
He leaned back, staring at Gumbo, the fat hog taking another nap. The barnacle on his shoulder, Crusty Joe, clicked at him.
“That ain’t no pearl, Shrimp,” he murmured. “That’s her baby. She don’t know it’s missing, mon chèr.”
Shrimp paused, holding the pearl. The sky was dark tonight, but it still radiated warmth. He pressed it to his ear, listening—there was a heartbeat. Well, he thought, I’ll be Poopugh’s uncle. Maybe Athos is looking out for us after all. He leaned over the branch, gripping the pearl carefully.
“Noxie du Marais! I seem to have somethin’ you’re missing!” he hollered, holding it high.
The Noxie hissed in surprise, halting her circling of the Shadow Oak. Her eyes, pearlescent and milky, widened with terror. Shrimp waved the pearl as if he might drop it. blackwater “Stop, you son of a leech-laden whore!” the Noxie hissed.
“Is this important to you or something?” Shrimp crooned, his grin cutting through the tension like a razor through moss.
“Now, Shrimp… just give it back and I’ll leave you and that hog alone.” Her voice had changed—desperate now. The Noxie went still, those long moon‑white eyes fixed on him. Even her black boils shifted color, her whole body shimmering as she eased herself into the water, staring up.
Shrimp dangled the pearl in hand. “How do I trust the great Noxie du Marais won’t wake up tomorrow and try to eat old Gumbo—and me—for touchin’ your precious pearl, ma chère?”
His tone slid into honey, smooth and velvet, like he was trying to charm a rattlesnake. “Best make it good, love… or I drop this right now.”
“You ate Jolene… Betsy Sue… and Tommy Two-Shells,” Shrimp said slowly, moving down the gnarled branches. His wet hair clung to his face. “Duck!” he called as Gumbo sneezed another fireball into the murky swamp. The Noxie rolled out of the way it was terrifying sight as the water sizzled.
The Noxie hissed in surprise, halting her circling of the Shadow Oak. Her eyes, pearlescent and milky, widened with terror. Shrimp waved the pearl as if he might drop it. blackwater “Stop, you son of a leech-laden whore!” the Noxie hissed.
“Is this important to you or something?” Shrimp crooned, his grin cutting through the tension like a razor through moss.
“Now, Shrimp… just give it back and I’ll leave you and that hog alone.” Her voice had changed—desperate now. The Noxie went still, those long moon‑white eyes fixed on him. Even her black boils shifted color, her whole body shimmering as she eased herself into the water, staring up.
Shrimp dangled the pearl in hand. “How do I trust the great Noxie du Marais won’t wake up tomorrow and try to eat old Gumbo—and me—for touchin’ your precious pearl, ma chère?”
His tone slid into honey, smooth and velvet, like he was trying to charm a rattlesnake. “Best make it good, love… or I drop this right now.”
“You ate Jolene… Betsy Sue… and Tommy Two-Shells,” Shrimp said slowly, moving down the gnarled branches. His wet hair clung to his face. “Duck!” he called as Gumbo sneezed another fireball into the murky swamp. The Noxie rolled out of the way it was terrifying sight as the water sizzled.
“I’ll give you anything… just give me my baby back,” the Noxie purred, watching his every move.
“I want your blessing,” Shrimp said, voice steady now, “and a promise to never hurt a single living soul in the bayou again.” He descended further, moving toward the knots of the tree. The Noxie hesitated, too scared he’d drop her precious charge. Moon-swamp dragon eggs were rare—blessings for children even rarer. Shrimp held the tiny globe in one hand, careful, reverent.
“Fine… I couldn't help myself,” she admitted, a whimper breaking through. “Dripping Swampfire in soil… so tasty… and Gumbo marinating in it… My blessing,” she whispered, softer now.
“I’ll make sure we leave you a cask out every full moon,” Shrimp said, stepping closer. “And you protect the bayou from the other things out there. We’ve got a deal, mon cher.” He felt the tiny pulse in his hand, a flickering life he would never harm—yet he wanted safety too: his own baby, old Gumbo, Tansy, and the rest of Blackwater Bayou.
“Fine! Deal!” she said, dropping a scale onto the muddy shore, speaking in the ancient tongue of the deep swamp. It shimmered. “Keep the scale in the bayou… you’ll be protected… give me my BABY.”
Shrimp moved to the edge of the roots and knots, gently gathering the scale. He set the baby down, watching the pearl before letting it rest safely. “For Jolene… Betsy Sue… and Tommy Two-Shells,” he whispered, letting the tears finally fall.
“I want your blessing,” Shrimp said, voice steady now, “and a promise to never hurt a single living soul in the bayou again.” He descended further, moving toward the knots of the tree. The Noxie hesitated, too scared he’d drop her precious charge. Moon-swamp dragon eggs were rare—blessings for children even rarer. Shrimp held the tiny globe in one hand, careful, reverent.
“Fine… I couldn't help myself,” she admitted, a whimper breaking through. “Dripping Swampfire in soil… so tasty… and Gumbo marinating in it… My blessing,” she whispered, softer now.
“I’ll make sure we leave you a cask out every full moon,” Shrimp said, stepping closer. “And you protect the bayou from the other things out there. We’ve got a deal, mon cher.” He felt the tiny pulse in his hand, a flickering life he would never harm—yet he wanted safety too: his own baby, old Gumbo, Tansy, and the rest of Blackwater Bayou.
“Fine! Deal!” she said, dropping a scale onto the muddy shore, speaking in the ancient tongue of the deep swamp. It shimmered. “Keep the scale in the bayou… you’ll be protected… give me my BABY.”
Shrimp moved to the edge of the roots and knots, gently gathering the scale. He set the baby down, watching the pearl before letting it rest safely. “For Jolene… Betsy Sue… and Tommy Two-Shells,” he whispered, letting the tears finally fall.
The Noxie moved with gentle grace now, more dragon than raging beast. It gathered the pearl in delicate claws, cast one last measured glance at Shrimp, nodded once, and vanished into the murk.
Now, it is said that every full moon, the people of Blackwater Bayou leave out a cask of Swampfire, and the Noxie’s scale is kept atop the Shadow Oak. Since that night, the bayou has known no deep trouble—not even the mud-people dare bother them anymore.
As for Old Shrimp and Gumbo… Shrimp’s duster grew more barnacles, each named: Lonnie, Ronnie, and Tawny. Gumbo, meanwhile, now sneezes fireballs at the most inconvenient moments, much to the surprise—and occasional terror—of anyone wandering the bayou.
"And so the legend of Shrimp Gizzard, the Moon-Swamp Dragon, and the razorbelly hog endures, whispered in the reeds and carried on the wind—a tale of cunning, courage, and a little swampy mischief," Papa Baptiste said, a final halo of tobacco smoke curling skyward.
"Now I better be going. Shrimp Gizzard and Gumbo are surely up to no good—I’ve spent too long spinning this yarn. Until next time, mon cher."
With that, Papa Baptiste vanished with the breeze, leaving you to wonder if it had all been a dream. The mist of the bayou thinned, and in the distance, the squeal of a razorbelly hog echoed through the water. Above it all, Lunestra hung high over the bayou, pale and watchful.
Now, it is said that every full moon, the people of Blackwater Bayou leave out a cask of Swampfire, and the Noxie’s scale is kept atop the Shadow Oak. Since that night, the bayou has known no deep trouble—not even the mud-people dare bother them anymore.
As for Old Shrimp and Gumbo… Shrimp’s duster grew more barnacles, each named: Lonnie, Ronnie, and Tawny. Gumbo, meanwhile, now sneezes fireballs at the most inconvenient moments, much to the surprise—and occasional terror—of anyone wandering the bayou.
"And so the legend of Shrimp Gizzard, the Moon-Swamp Dragon, and the razorbelly hog endures, whispered in the reeds and carried on the wind—a tale of cunning, courage, and a little swampy mischief," Papa Baptiste said, a final halo of tobacco smoke curling skyward.
"Now I better be going. Shrimp Gizzard and Gumbo are surely up to no good—I’ve spent too long spinning this yarn. Until next time, mon cher."
With that, Papa Baptiste vanished with the breeze, leaving you to wonder if it had all been a dream. The mist of the bayou thinned, and in the distance, the squeal of a razorbelly hog echoed through the water. Above it all, Lunestra hung high over the bayou, pale and watchful.
This is a fantastic start to WorldEmber. I love Shrimp and Gumbo and Papa Baptiste.
Explore Etrea | WorldEmber 2025
Thank you so much for reading! I really enjoyed these characters there will be more tales of Shrimp, Gumbo and Papa Baptiste!