The bogs of Shudyng

The Bogs of Shudyng are massive, yet often overlooked by those who pass through this domain. For them, and many of the youths who grow to despise this sleepy area, it is an unremarkable place, a meaningless position for one of the greatest minds in the land. Yet, danger lurks within the exile's land, the inheritance stripped now hiding within the muck. Stirring, wishing to escape.

Security and order are vital within these lands, courtesy being viewed as the highest virtue. Nearly every movement and word is carefully considered before being acted upon. Nothing ever seems to change. The sun rises at the exact moment each day, ushering the same beasts that draw too close to the bog. These few animals are nearly identical and react the same to the presence of the workers. It is as though the gods cursed these animals, too, binding them into the same repetitive motions as man. Routine offers safety, yet causes the mind to dull. Some, lost in the monotony of life, lose themselves in the routine. Walk the bridges. Maintain the railings. Ensure the signs of devotion to the Emperor who cast them down are pristine and easily seen by all gathered. Use their wooden staves to push the dead back into the bog. Physical motion replaces the merriment of thought, yet it shields them from the same drab scenes. The sight, though beautiful, would wear anyone down. Eventually. Mosquitoes and bugs harass the workers, yet they cannot be distracted, for what they protect will gladly pull them into the bog below. At times, it feels as though it would be a mercy.

Fear of rousing those things which lie beneath the bridges has kept the people silent. Strange tales and complicated warnings from their master have left the people confused and fearful to make a sound. The belief that the sound of footsteps will enrage these submerged creatures is common, and many worry that a single voice could lead to an inescapable frenzy. Permanent bridges, covered with scentless furs, are made for the passage of outsiders. Yet, for all the dreariness of their disposition, some have begun acting out. The staves are long enough to be used to vault between bridges. A firm knock can cause the bog below a bridge to bubble and froth, becoming a game that the younger members play with one another. Banners, though makeshift and built from tattered material, signify which group holds each particular bridge, building competition between the people outside of their duties and responsibilities. When one group sleeps, others will hide the temporary bridges. Often left unchecked, the place of punishment becomes alive with moving bridges and silent laughter, each troublemaker trying to change as much as they can without alerting the others. When the slog becomes unbearable, the place becomes filled with movement and energy, the old ways and the new butting heads.