The woodland swamp was a demoralising blot on the landscape during the most pleasant of days, so with little to no sunlight and persistent rain, the sight of it appearing into view caused the dwarf to sigh deeply.
Already he could see the path disappearing under the slurry and sludge, and the haunting disfigured trees causing dense patches of dark shadows everywhere.
“Come Tumbor you old fool,” he said to himself.
There was very little that unsettled the dwarf, having confronted and bested foes several times bigger, and uglier than himself, however he held a genuine uneasiness about this place.
Willow Morass was talked about by merchants with quivering lips, as many that used it as either a short cut to, or from Greshfell, were never seen again. Some say wisps lead them from the path, to get lodged in sinking bogs and are devoured by them. Others mention ambushes from the trees, possibly elves curropted by the bleakness of the place.
The closer Tumbor got to the outskirts, the more he twitched for the reassurance of having ‘Trollcleaver” in his hands.