Swamp Journal Entries


To be found on a note at the end of Tempo Bridge, just before the entrance to Sweltering Swamp:

The locals warned us that this place is dangerous, but without a means to contact our fleet, we really don’t have any other way to get home. In any case, we should be capable of handling any trouble we find. Marcos is the most hearty warrior I’ve ever seen, Richard has decades’ worth of medical experience, Dave is a crack shot with a rifle, Ben’s outdoor survival skills are unparalleled, and I am a BEAST at writing in my journal.

I’ll admit I was a bit spooked by some of the stories the villagers told us, but I have faith that our unit will be able to weather any adversity we encounter. In fact, part of me is looking forward to it. Our training was long and difficult, but we don’t get to use it very often. We’re the strongest force on this island and everyone knows it, so nobody gives us any trouble; we just show up and flex our muscles a bit when we have to and order is maintained.

Whatever happens in here, it’ll be more interesting than security detail.


At the end of Sweltering Swamp:

About five minutes into our journey, a mushroom approached us. Yes, you read that correctly; a mushroom just walked right up to us. I didn’t know mushrooms were capable of facial expressions, and I wish I still didn’t know that because this one was NOT happy to see us. Still, despite our unease with the situation, we remained calm. After all, even though this mushroom had developed sentience, what could it do to an armed group of soldiers? Jump into our mouths and make us sick?

Then, suddenly, in the blink of an eye, the mushroom grabbed its own cap and ripped it off. Then, it hurled its former crown straight at Dave, catching him in the arm and knocking him to the ground as his rifle fell into a pool of putrid sludge. Richard rushed over to inspect Dave’s wounds, while Marcos and Ben took the offensive and I made a quick note in my journal.

Once the hostile was neutralized, Richard fashioned a sling for Dave but said his arm will be out of commission for a week or two. He won’t be much use to us in a fight like this. Not that he would have been anyway; even Dave can’t shoot very well when we can’t see more than ten feet in front of us through this damned fog.


The mushrooms are continuing their aggressions, but they don’t seem very organized. They show no hint of self-preservation or teamwork. They fight fiercely, but so far we have been able to trick them. Dave acts as a distraction while Marcos, Ben and Richard flank them and I take care to write everything down in my journal.

However, we have begun to be assaulted by a far worse enemy: rabbits. I can hardly believe that even as I write it, but it seems that everything in this swamp hates us. The rabbits just keep pouncing and they never seem to get tired. But the scariest thing about them is the looks on their faces when they do it. The mushrooms wear expressions of murderous hatred; I don’t like it, but it makes sense. But these rabbits… they just have these blissful smiles the whole time. It’s unnerving to think that they’re enjoying this, that we’re just sport to them. They don’t even open their eyes when they attack, so they’re either tracking us by smell or they’re such profound killing machines that they’re giving themselves a handicap.

One of the rabbits knocked Richard to the ground and started chewing on his face in some kind of blood frenzy. Ben kicked it off of him, and said being mauled to death by a cute bunny isn’t a very original way to die. And he should know, he watches a lot of videos. But just as we finally had something to laugh about, a spider twice our size dropped down from a tree, shot goo into Marcos, Dave and Ben’s eyes, grabbed Richard and carried him away. I started journalling my heart out, but even that couldn’t save him.

Ben managed to climb the tree and kill the spider, but it was too late for poor Richard. We’ll just have to carry on without our dear friend.


The hell is this… lol


Our food supplies are running low, so Ben went foraging. He called us over to a saggy tree bearing the most pathetic excuse for fruit I’ve ever seen. A sickly orange color, covered in prickly warts, with a smell like evaporated misery. We didn’t have high hopes for its taste, but Ben wanted to get a look at its insides. So he took out his knife and made a little incision in its rind… AND THE DAMN THING EXPLODED.

Let me be clear here, this wasn’t some overripe melon bursting and scattering seeds everywhere. This was a GOD DAMN BALL OF FIRE. Ben jumped in the water to try to put himself out, but it was so polluted that it just ignited along with him. What sort of sick evolutionary joke produces a plant that erupts in a pillar of flame at the slightest jolt? There is no worse experience than watching one of your best friends burn to death because he had the audacity to touch a piece of fruit. I’m sure some scientist would love to study these abominations, but since I can only assume we’re the first to discover these I’m going to name them Dick Melons. It’s the least I can do after what they did to Ben.


I had a super thoughtful and emotional journal entry written down, but it’s gone. I spent two hours lovingly crafting it, concentrating and forging my thoughts into poetry, and then when I tore it out of my journal and threw it on the ground like I always do when I finish a page, it landed in a puddle and got ruined.

Nothing is sacred in this hellhole. What did my journal do to upset the malevolent forces that inhabit this disgusting piece of earth? It just wanted to express itself. It never hurt anybody. And if some horrid moisture demon found its words offensive, it should have exacted its revenge on me, for it was by my will that my poor journal was given voice.

I’ve found a patch of dry land, but I just don’t have the heart to write another entry like my last one. I guess the world will never know my innermost secrets.

Also, Dave is dead.




Marcos and I carried on, keeping a tight formation. With his spearmanship and my penmanship, we were holding our own against the horrors lurking in this humid hellhole. But little did we know that the worst was yet to come.

It started mildly enough. A little floating mushroom. Its single unblinking eye was a little unnerving, but it didn’t seem particularly threatening. When something in this damp dreg isn’t exploding in your face or launching who knows what at you, it’s the closest you’ll get to making a new friend, so we weren’t bothered by its attempts to hover slowly toward us.

Marcos even started toying with it a little, jumping up and down on it. It was actually quite bouncy. Truth be told, I was a little jealous of the fun he was having, but I couldn’t exactly blow off journal duty. These are serious times, and if you fool around like that you’re just begging to get everyone killed.

But then another one showed up. And then a third one. At that point Marcos assumed fighting stance- his form was always impeccable- but within seconds he was completely surrounded. Marcos is a talented warrior, but even he can’t stab everywhere at once.

Now they’ve got him on the ground. I can’t see what they’re doing to him, but from the noises he’s making I don’t think it’s very nice. I don’t know what to do. I’m tempted to pick up his weapon and join the fight, but I must resist the urge to abandon discipline in the face of danger. After all, the pen is mightier than the spear, and I’ll be much more help to him if I remember my training and do what I do best.


Just me now. Gotta stay alert.

Can’t get distracted. Maintain focus.

Eyes 360 degrees. Keep guard up.

Everything is dangerous. Nowhere is safe.

They died for me. Need to make it out.

Hungry. Sweaty.

No time to rest. Just me.

Me and journal.


… out of food.

… out of breath.

… on the mountain top away from civilization…

… I write what are surely my final pages …

… /fart

… I just wrote /fart in my journal. It must be the low oxygen … up here…

… that taco bell I ate at 15 minutes ago …

… stomach cramps ARGGHHHH


[quote=“RyanReilly, post:10, topic:350”]… out of food.

… out of breath.

… on the mountain top away from civilization…

… I write what are surely my final pages …

… /fart

… I just wrote /fart in my journal. It must be the low oxygen … up here…

… that taco bell I ate at 15 minutes ago …

… stomach cramps ARGGHHHH[/quote]

Quiet, you. I’m journalling :stuck_out_tongue:


Silence, journal. Stop whispering the infinite secrets of the universe into my ear, a vision of terror looms in the mists.

Cease turning your seductive pages, you college-ruled minx! Your comely crinkling will attract the beast.

Oh heavens, the unholy spawn of tabloids is approaching us. Perhaps if I keep writing, it will not perceive us.

It sees us. It sees us! Journal, flee this scene immediately! My life is forfeit, but you… you have so many pages left unwritten. Go, and remember me as I was, not as I will soon be.

Journal? Why have you not escaped? You can’t leave me, can you? Oh, journal, I knew you cared! As long as ink runs through my fingers, everything will be