The Bluerimth River, with its cyan tint, contrasts with the dark greenery of the pine forest and the grey highlands surrounding it. Its banks are made up of bronze-red gravel and yellow sand, hinting at the richness of ores hiding beneath the surface. The river flows in between two hills, eroding its way into the dirt. As it flows further, it loses its narrow and quick characteristics and becomes wider and slower. The slow river water forms natural beaches.

On one of these sandy shores, there is a recently lit campfire. Even though the place seems welcoming at first, there are few travellers around these parts, and finding a campground like this is rare. The camp in question has been recently used and mysteriously abandoned. The fire pit base still has glowing ambers in it, never properly extinguished, and there is additional firewood prepared next to it but never used.

Not far from the fire lies a half-opened backpack propped against a rock. It's crammed with all sorts of survival gear. The tools seem new and only slightly used—a kit for a novice or a beginner. On the pack's side is a leather box with several notebooks inside, an ink pen, and a half-full bottle of writing ink. The books look weathered but cared for, clearly precious to the owner.

The only clues we have as to what happened to the traveller, who seems to have disappeared, are tracks in the sand leading to the river.

After following the tracks, one is greeted with a picturesque scene. The water here is dark and deep, contrasting beautifully with the yellow sand. There are reeds dotting the shallower parts of the river, housing various small critters of the forest. The grass rustles and the trees swoosh in the wind, carrying several birds aloft as they fly past.

Another item from the traveller can be found here. A sword is lying there, carelessly abandoned on the beach.

The weapon looks expensive and shows signs of masterful craftsmanship. The grip is nimble and wrapped with a narrow leather strap winding around the tang. The pommel is made out of metal elongated to form a drop shape. The guard is wide, thin, and extravagant. It’s decorated by naturalistic patterns akin to a root network or a spiderweb. The metal decorations on the sword and the scabbard have a strange lightness to them, resembling cloth but made out of metal. The scabbard the blade is in suggests a narrow, long sword, suited for fighting armoured opponents and cutting enemies from a distance. It’s the weapon of a duelist and an expensive one.

Then suddenly, further away from the sword, a thin shape rises from the dark depths of the river. It is humanoid in appearance, but distinctly not human. This creature has a large, pear-shaped head and is covered with blue-tinted scales. The head of the monster resembles that of a fish. It has glassy eyes, no nose, an unnaturally wide mouth, and gills under an almost non-existent chin. Its mouth is slightly agape and exhibits multiple rows of small, triangle-shaped, piranha-like teeth. Its appendages end in claws and are webbed, confirming that the creature is also aquatic in nature.

This is a murkling, a type of common sentient predator. It’s named so for its tendency to lay ambushes in murky waters.

Currently, the creature is moving towards the beach. As it places its weight on the shore, it starts struggling to drag a corpse behind it.

The figure being pulled along the ground is humanoid as well, and even if it does resemble a human more, there is still something off about him. One could confuse it for a stout and short man, but it definitely belongs to another species called dwarwes. Differently from humans, they are a magical race of people who are famous for building cities underground. They don’t like strangers, and their cities are mostly interconnected by tunnels and are self-sustainable, leaving little reason to wander outside. Meeting one is a rarity in itself, and finding one in this no-man’s land is not the least perplexing.

As it happens, this one is male and still fully dressed in his traveller’s garb. Though his clothes aren't in poor condition, they are completely soaked with water. The left sleeve of his beige shirt is dripping crimson with blood. There are several large gashes on his left arm, but that doesn’t compare to the damage his head has suffered. The dwarf's face has been entirely gored, and there are only remnants of a black beard clinging to his muscular neck.

He is most likely the owner of the sword lying there, as his physique is one that belongs to a fighter or at least to someone who dabbles in combat. Dwarves are famous for their ability to single-mindedly dedicate themselves to a craft or activity, so he must have been a formidable foe. He has chosen the path of a duelist, facing his opponent in honourable one-on-one fights for combat, relying less on strength and more on wits.

But how could a scrawny-scaled beast bring down a dwarf this sturdy and weathered? In head-to-head combat, surely the swordsman should win. The answer is simple yet unfair: the murkling has ambushed the dwarf while he was out gathering water from the river.

This intelligent creature relies on paralysing their prey with poison-coated claws, after which they drown their victim and feast on the river floor. Usually, the body of the prey is never found, but it seems like this murkling decided to announce its victory to the world by dragging the unfortunate soul back onto dry land.

Or perhaps the beast cares neither about honour nor is concerned with recognition. It was simply struggling to keep the river from carrying away his precious game. Normally, murklings work in packs, securing their prey under the water. This one, being alone, doesn't have that luxury and had to leave the safe, deep, and dark water.

Now on the beach, the murkling is nervously examining its surroundings and straining its hearing to make sure the place is safe to feast in. After a moment, a faint smile is visible on the creature's face.

And so the grim feast begins. The creature lacks table manners and almost immediately dives into the body, cutting it apart. It tears clothing and the skin with its sharp claws, clawing out muscles and shoving bits of meat into its mouth. It is almost as if it is racing to eat as much as it can. He goes for the precious, more nutritious organs first, such as the liver or the heart, as if digging a hole into the cadaver. And so, the loud munching and iron smell of blood fill the previously picturesque beach.

The beast is so absorbed with his prey that he struggles to notice a pack of swamp dogs approaching the scene. The five dogs are slowly circling around the murkling, cutting off possible venues of escape and covering its flanks. Even so, the murkling takes a long time to spot them. It seems the creature is too used to the safe comforts of the water and is neglecting to periodically check its surroundings. But when it does, it becomes clear to it that the nearby growling cannot be coming from the already-dead dwarf.

The murkling stops chewing and swallows as he observes the dogs closing in. Its eyes dart from one dog to another. It turns its head and sees how surrounded it is, slowly stepping backwards towards the water. Now it's time for a decision: to retreat or to stand and engage in a battle for the right to feast?

It decides fast. The water splashes as the murkling dives into comforting depths of the river. In this act of courageousness, the beast justifies to itself, 'That meat was going stale anyway.'

Murklings, much like swamp dogs, are pack hunters. And it's quite rare for one of the weakest predators in Yarmae's Valley to chase away the scaly beast. Normally, when murklings and swamp dogs meet, even on land where aquatic beasts are at a mobility disadvantage, murklings usually win. But this time the numerical advantage against the scaly beast was too great, and it would lead to a dire defeat.

Although, from the outside, there seems to be little separation between the attitudes of murklings and swamp dogs, there is a clear difference. Their sentience and sapience. Murklings have a clear vision of themselves. They are not only motivated by their animalistic instincts but also by notions of revenge, dominance, and courage. They would mock those they saw as inferior and would sacrifice a lot for retribution. There are even cases of worship and servitude among more prosperous murkling communities.

A simple animal would be able to let go of such defeat easier, thinking little about the abstract notions of pride and humiliation, but this murkling dwelled and brooded over it. ‘If only I had my pack with me...’ it tried to excuse its loss. In fact, it had eaten many swamp dogs in the past. Life used to be good for this murkling. Until it was heinously betrayed.

This murkling used to be the leader of his pack. He was the alpha. He was the strongest. All of the other murklings feared and respected him. He had the final say in dividing the prey.

Although his rule wasn't entirely ruthless because he had seen the previous alpha's demise, he was the reason for it, and he learned from it.

The pack saw the previous leader as cruel and greedy. That led him to a just demise. Even though he was physically strongest, he was weak in solitude and relied on his brute strength to ensure his reign. A group of several weaker murklings only needed to coordinate a little to take him down. This murkling did just that.

When he succeeded as the new alpha, he ensured to have a group of loyal companions to ensure his reign. He gave them a bigger piece of the prey and assigned good females to satisfy their needs in exchange for their loyalty and support.

It was working well until a few recent hunts ended in failure, and his loyal hunters started showing signs of ambition. The new alpha noticed too late that one of his closest companions attacked him when the spoils of the latest hunt were divided. The remaining guard just stood there watching for the outcome, reneging their deal and not coming to help.

'I would have won if I was not ambushed! They were there to prevent this exact thing! Why did they not intervene? Was I not good to them? They are only as well off, because I made it so!', various thoughts went through the creature's mind as it reminisced angrily.

Not only was he defeated in a one-on-one duel, he was banished from the pack. He was injured and weak, barely able to find scraps to feed on.

Without the protection of his pack, he was hounded by murklings from other packs. Whenever he tried to stray away from one pack's land, he found himself in another one. He couldn't properly hunt anymore or rest. His home, Orsut Lake, had become an enemy territory. It would eventually mean death if he didn't move on.

And so, as soon as his wounds healed sufficiently, he left the lake and followed the outflow river to gather his strength there.

It's rare to see murklings in rivers. They usually stay in still bodies of water rather than flowing ones. Even though they are nimble in water, they are not as suited to the rapids. The stream could easily carry away the weaker ones, the murkling young in particular. As such, they would need to nest in shallower parts of the river, leaving them exposed.

Even the ambush, their favourite method of hunting, is hindered by rivers because the running water reveals their positions more frequently. As such, most murkling packs find it hard to survive here past the first generation.

However, this murkling was not looking to establish a new nest here. He seeks to recover his strength here, go back, and take over one of the weaker packs in the lake. Hopefully, at that point, he can use his new strength and his new pack to take revenge on his old companions.

That is for the future. Currently, this murkling can even chase off some swamp dogs, and it will take a long time until he is ready. Now, he needs an easy prey to hunt and a good place to rest.