There were so many reasons to have trepidation, since Poxig and his companion Jancuis were entering the evil swamp. They saw through the maw of hades, for all the imp-beasts had overtaken the swamps. Returning to the path, the talking trees began chanting.
The Greek word for bodily personhood was not immediately lost on them. They knew that the magic that surrounded them was of an evil nature. The trees were bending under the weight of the dark magic that oppressed all living things. Poxig tried to keep focused on his courageous self, for the light magic that could dispel the gloom was far from them.
“When do you think we will reach Wyckham Hall?” asked Jancuis.
“We aren’t far from it,” Poxig replied, “but I can’t hear anything beyond the screaming trees.”
“Why are they chanting?” he asked.
“They mourn for the dead that the imps have slain,” Poxig grimly remarked. “The imps feast on the swamp animals. They leave nothing in their wake but ruin and destruction.”
“For this reason, we must make it to Wyckham Hall and restore order to this place overrun by imp-beasts.”
They journeyed further into the murky wasteland looking for signs of life. The wind whistled through the tops of the ancient trees. One misstep would bring them further from the path that led to the dark mansion. Poxig could himself no longer be persuaded of the virtue of venturing further into the evil swamp. It was likely that the muck all around them, and the shrieking imps with their blood-curdling cries would overcome them.
“We will need the help of the ancient spirits tonight,” Poxig mumbled.
They had despaired of ever getting through the wasteland, and then appearing through the midst of a fallen tree, they came upon the dark shadow cast by a decrepit old mossy manse.
“Wyckham Hall!” Jancuis said.
“At last!” Poxig returned.