Remy

Thick cypress trees jut up out of the water, their shade a welcome relief from the heat of the day. Spanish moss dangles in curtains from their branches. The air is heavy with a cloying, clinging humidity. It perpetuates the warmth despite the setting sun.

The waters below are thick and murky. They lie still, save for ripples here and there which hint of aquatic life beneath the brackish surface. A frog hops among the swamp lilies; cat tails sway and rattle. Floating logs drift aimlessly - save for one, which moves with purpose. Reptilian eyes blink as the camouflaged gator swims by.

The hum and buzz of insects is everywhere. As the sun dips lower, a few early-rising bats swoop, diving into swarms of bugs for a meal. Frog song carries across the swampwater. Twinkling lights swirl and dance, mesmerizing; the fireflies have awakened.

The gentle glow of the fireflies illuminates a shack. It's a rickety old thing, a ramshackle construction that rises from the swamp on stilts. The deck extending from its porch is battered and weathered. There's a little boat tethered there, a pirogue. It looks just as old and worn as the deck.

In fact, the entire shack looks in need of repairs. The wood is stripped and warping, the door jam hangs crooked, and some shingles are missing. But there's a warm light in the windows. Smoke curls from the chimney. A homey rocking chair sways gently on the porch. And a delectable smell wafts through the air...

The inside of the shack is as unpolished as the exterior. Rough wooden floors creak with every movement. Missing panels of glass let the sounds of the swamp in. A few fireflies crawl on the walls, blinking dots of light. The warm glow of the fire is the only other light source, and dark shadows lurk in the corners of the room.

A Skydancer stands in front of the fire, her hair long and unkempt. She hums to herself as she stirs a bubbling cauldron. Her alto voice is off-key. Within the pot bubbles a thick gumbo. Shrimp, okra, onion, Andouille sausage, rice...all simmering in a thick tomato stock. The dragon lifts a wooden spoon to her mouth and tastes - then adds several generous dashes of cayenne.

Dried peppers, garlic, and herbs hang from the rafters near the fireplace. They cast long shadows, which dance and move as the flames sway.

The firelight is caught on reflective surfaces around the shack. The panes of the windows; an old metal looking glass; and countless glass bottles. They line the shelves, cover the table, are arrayed across every windowsill. Some of the bottles are filled with viscous liquids; in others, the glass is too frosted to see through. The rest hold a variety of disturbing shapes, some of which move in the firelight.

The flames reflect on another surface as well-

Eyes.

Dozens, hundreds of eyes.

An army of frogs sits in the shack. Crowded so thickly on the floor that they might be a carpet; sitting between or behind bottles; scores of them perch upon the rafters.

Their eyes glow in the firelight.

Waiting.

Watching.

From the darkest corner comes a groan.

The Skydancer's humming stops. She turns, her shadow looming large on the wall. A terrifying mask obscures her face - is it carved of driftwood, or of bone? An enormous red-tailed boa coils around her arm, tongue darting out to taste the air.

The frogs fall back as she approaches the corner, tangled hair dragging behind her. Their eyes watch hungrily as she crouches. There lies a Guardian, bound and gagged. She stirs and groans again, wincing in pain from the lump on her head.

"Awake already, mon cher?" The Skydancer's voice is as rich as pecan pie. She tenderly removes the gag, patting the other dragon's cheek. "Lemme getcha somethin' for that headache." She reaches for a nearby bottle. The liquid within looks like the swampwater outside - dark and murky.

The Guardian's eyes are dazed, unfocused. "What happened? How did I get here?"

"Shush now, don't you fret. I'll have you right as rain in no time." The Skydancer lifts the bottle to the Guardian's lips. "Drink up, mon cher."

The Guardian's eyes widen - but it is too late. The concoction coats her tongue.

A chorus of blinks ripples around the room as the frogs watch, rapt.

The Skydancer stands and returns to her cauldron. The gumbo bubbles within. She hums, off-key, as she tastes it.

Perfect.

And from the shadows hops a new frog.

Another for her collection.



Swamp witch living in the bayou with a thick Cajun accent.

Loves: Frogs, gumbo, spicy food, snakes, peppers, collecting more frogs, an evening spent watching the fireflies, turning people into frogs

Dislikes: Interacting with people, conversation, people who aren't frogs (yet)

She will turn you into a frog. Just ask.