The humidity here is so thick you almost need gills to breathe. A dense viridian canopy high overhead traps the moisture of several years’ rain in the underbrush. Petrichor and peat perfume the vaporous plumes of would-be clouds, captured in a constant recapitulation of a sunless water cycle. You survey your surroundings. The trees here are ancient long forgotten species with titanic trunks cloaked in moss and lichen several inches thick. There isn’t much for wildlife. Then again, you probably can’t see any creatures that might be skulking in the mist. Insects abound, though. The nutrient-rich soil, algae-abundant creek waters, and scattered rotting logs provide ideal real estate for growing colonies of acid ants and saw-toothed termites — not to mention the giant, and fiercely aggressive, isopods. In no other place have you ever felt as tiny and insignificant than here, at the roots of the Bogwood. And for a gnome, that’s saying something.

There is so little light, it’s practically monochromatic. White fog rolls over black shadow. It takes all your concentration to make out the shape of things. You scrape against rough bark and trip over thick roots more than once. Ultimately, though, you’re fairly certain this is the right direction. Sort of. Probably. 

Sticky mud sucks at your boots with every step. “Darkvision be damned, this is bullshit,” you complain as you dislodge yet another mystery mold spore from your backpack and squint at what you hope is the trail ahead. Something in the distance, or perhaps the foreground, catches your eye. A metallic glint miraculously cutting through the dark. Cautiously, you move in its general direction. You find yourself squatting, as if that will give you any kind of stealth advantage against anything well-adapted to an environment like this. As you draw near, the curious glint broadens and dulls and moves. 

Your jeebies are thoroughly heebied. You feel yourself trembling, and it’s not from the eerie chill that permeates everything down here. “Please don’t be a bug. Please don’t be a bug. Please don’t be a bug,” you plead under your breath, nearly in tears. But alas, it is a bug. Your horrified stare follows the creature as it rears up on a few dozen of its hundreds, perhaps — no, definitely thousands of legs and bobs its armored head in an undulating ‘W’ pattern in the air. Your prayers go unanswered as the colossal centipede fixes its eyeless gaze squarely upon you. “Fuck.”

The centipede unleashes an ear splitting hiss that resounds from every direction, clacking its vicious serrated mandibles like a demented flamenco dancer. Already, the corrosive castanets are dripping with venom. It lunges for your aching head with terrifying speed. You surprise yourself when, despite your myopia and fresh migraine, you juke hard right in time to save yourself. You suffer only a shallow graze across your left cheek. It burns like a son of a bitch, but it won’t kill you. Yet.

Thinking fast, you leap toward the nearest tree. Running through the muck won’t get you very far at all, so you hope your odds will be better in the branches above. It’s easy to find handholds in the deep-rutted bark and you scurry upward like a parkour chipmunk with the centipede in hot pursuit. Against your better judgement, you glance over your shoulder and immediately regret it. The monstrous invertebrate is way too close for comfort, and rapidly closing the gap. Its myriad legs skitter along the crests and canyons of the ghostly gray trunk with practiced and horrifying grace.

Desperately, you call out an incantation. Not one of your spells have been effective out here so far, but you’ve yet to attempt casting on another creature. And honestly, your options are running out. For a stomach-churning instant, the centipede looms over you, mandibles flexing like sadistic salad tongs and glistening with viscous green fluid. You squeeze your eyes shut and brace for the afterworld. You brace. And you brace. And you — 

“Why aren’t I dead yet?” you wonder aloud, allowing yourself the teensiest peek. Amazed, you realize your spell actually worked! The centipede clicks its mandibles again, this time emitting a soft cooing sound, not unlike a purring cat. It folds its head down, coiling into itself, and swipes the venom from its pincers in a bashful gesture that seems to say, “Oh, I do apologize for the mess!” 

Incredulous, you try to shake off the sheer absurdity of the situation. Not one to look a gift arthropod in the maxilla, you reach into your pack and toss your new ally a scrap of rabbit jerky. In moments, you’ve braided enough ropey vines together for a makeshift bridle. For the next hour or so, you’ll be riding in — well, not “style,” exactly, but it sure beats going on foot.