Memory Archive G047: The Unkillable Frogman

 Memory Archive G047: The Unkillable Frogman

It was a Tuesday unlike any other- painfully boring and entirely uneventful. Except for the fact that on further recollection, it was actually a Wednesday. Unfortunately, the day of the week change doesn’t change the fact it was a rather dull day. Grinkle Gronkle had spent the day searching every nook and cranny of Lowahter Swamp for the bounty he had undertaken. Lowahter Swamp was not the place you wanted to be on a boring day. Every tree, every bog, every bundle of vines and every croaking toad was exactly the same. It was the epitome of bland. This was why, Grinkle Gronkle supposed, that his prey had taken residence here. Where better for a Frogman to blend in?

Frogmen are famously not a criminal people. They’re born in the swamps, spend their lives mining for swampcoal and then they die, rather plainly, in the swamps. It was just who they were, like how Gnomes are inherently mischievous scamps and Humans are widely simple and uninteresting.

 Fillion McGillian was not your average Frogman though. He was exiled from his town as a mere teenager for being far too energetic. His life following that consisted of wandering the country as a vagrant begging for scraps, barely clinging on to life outside of his murky little hometown. One day, though, fortune smiled upon young Fillion. He was taken in by a rather brutal band of mercenaries and trained in the elite arts of deadly combat. As it turned out, the natural agility and cold-bloodedness of Frogmen made Fillion an unstoppable warrior. All across the great nation of Balmorris citizens quaked in fear at the mere mention of the Emerald Shadow himself, Fillion McGillian. Otherwise known as the most (and perhaps only) feared Frogman to ever live.

At least that’s what the local Guildmaster told Grinkle when he accepted the bounty. Although why would a warrior that powerful be hiding away in a depressing little place like Lowahter Swamp? Whatever the reason was, it was proof enough to Grinkle that this ‘Emerald Shadow’ wasn’t nearly as fearsome as he was cracked up to be. Nobody as awe-inspiring as that would retreat with their tail between their legs to somewhere that smelled as though a swarm of Skunrat’s had been using it as an outhouse for at least a century. Except for maybe Fillion McGillian. It does smell like home, after all.

Several hours passed before Grinkle’s mind-numbing search yielded any fruit. He stumbled, rather haphazardly, onto a stretch of land he certainly hadn’t seen yet. It is undeniable the Gnome would’ve remembered seeing a large white pentagram surrounded by trees as black as the obsidian underneath the Crimson Hill and more withered than the old crone standing in front of him. He also definitely would have remembered seeing a withered old lady standing in front of him.

“Um, hullo. Where did you come from?” Grinkle asked.

“I was here long before you were, silly Gnome. Where did you come from?” the crone asked in turn.

“Fair enough. I came from over there, in search of a supposedly fearsome Frogman named Fillion McGillian. Have you seen him?”

“Frogman, Frogman, Frogman… not sure that’s ringing any bells,” the crone began to muse, “unless you mean my new pet perhaps?”

Lo and behold, as if he were always there a fearsome Frogman appeared in chains far behind the crone, hunched over in the centre of the pentagram. Hulking, intimidating and undeniably a Frogman- yes, it seemed this was Fillion McGillion. At the very least it was someone who matched up to the Guildmaster’s descriptions perfectly.

“Pet? As it is, I don’t condone slavery. Ghastly stuff. However, I am here to take his life and chop off his head- given the whole notorious criminal situation he’s working with. After all, they don’t put bounties on any old thug. Do you mind if I just go over there and, you know?” Grinkle proposed although the slight unease in his furrowed brow made it clear he knew this wasn’t going to go his way. 

“You’re more than welcome to try, little warrior. Once you realise your efforts are futile I will be sure to add you to my collection.” The crone clicked her fingers and Grinkle instantly materialised alongside his target.

The swamp surrounding them had seemingly contorted itself into a makeshift arena, equipped completely with stands and roaring crowds. It was now dawning on Grinkle that this wasn’t any old crone, but a Witchbaron in exile. The dastardly cravens have nothing better to do once their land is usurped than roam the lands causing unspeakable chaos. Generally speaking, Grinkle Gronkle, being a connoisseur of chaos himself, had no qualms with this behaviour. He did, however, draw the line at it interfering with his own business. The crowds themselves were also full to the brim of Witchbarons, meaning this was not a spur-of-the-moment trap. There was planning and delicate cooperation involved in this endeavour. How impossibly absurd of them.

Grinkle drew his longsword of Gnomish steel from the mysterious pouch that hung from his waist and began to charge at the Frogman. The blade was forged by the hallowed master blacksmith, Egil Englebert, with the sole intent of creating a weapon so powerful even a Gnome could kill a God. His crow brand was twinging and the witches wanted a show- so it seemed to be in everyone’s best interest for Grinkle to just do what he came here to do. He was done with this nonsense in Lowahter Swamp and simply wanted to move on to his next misadventure. Of course, it was not going to be that simple. For now, though, it was best to just hack and slash like he always does.

The Frogman, however, was clearly still competent- despite his imprisonment. He dodged Grinkle’s swing with relative ease and drew his sickles. They seemed to have been made of a very valuable type of silver, possibly crafted by the Hillfolk themselves. What's more is that they seemed to be tipped with some sort of poison, as the curves shone a nauseating violet. A good fight, Grinkle thought to himself. It had been a very long time since one of those. It was sure to make a satisfying death. 

Fillion lunged forward with his sickles, cleaving at Grinkle with all his might. He saw this coming of course and gracefully leapt backwards in such a picturesque fashion it would impress even the elite performers of the Ravenscar Circus Institute. Grinkle then expertly struck back, his sword slicing cleanly across the Frogman’s tunic and revealing his sickly green underbelly to the audience. The crones all hissed in approval, clearly supporting the little warrior’s movements. He was surely the fan favourite to win. But Grinkle gloated for far too long, and before he knew it his foe had sprinted behind him at such a speed his moniker was beginning to make sense. What is a shadow if not something that is there one second and gone the next? After all, as soon as McGillian clonked Grinkle on his head he stood on the other side of the arena again- catching his breath. It seemed Grinkle’s decisive swipe to the stomach was more than a graze. The cut he left began to expand, and in moments his foe was completely disembowelled. 

“Cheater!” a Witch called from the crowds, followed by a series of boos and roars.

“Now now ladies,” Grinkle started as he was getting up, evidently still dazed from the blow his now-deceased rival had struck, “no need for any accusations. I’ll have you know it was a witch who cursed my sword to leave wounds with a delayed reaction time. How could you sneer at one of your own’s handy work?”

“Easily, we don’t like each other very much. Or anyone, for that matter. No matter, you’ll simply just go again. I won’t have this bout end in such honourless japery.” the head witch declared. With a click of her fingers, the cut sealed as if it were never there and the amphibious warrior was back on his webbed feet.

“That explains the pentagram.” Grinkle muttered.

The two warriors proceeded to spend days engaging in pointless combat. Its result was always the same: Grinkle would best his opponent and the witches would deem it unfair. After a while, the Gnome considered just giving in, but ultimately that would be pointless. Why come all this way just to die now? Eventually, though, he did begin to realise something. Every single time Fillion was brought back from the dead, the pentagram underneath them shimmered. 

That was when it hit Grinkle. No witch could do this on her own, not even the most powerful. Raising the dead was strictly hell magic, and therefore is something only doable by a demon. She must be using the pentagram as a sigil to receive aid from beyond the grave. Presumably a bored lieutenant in the seventh circle. As far as Grinkle had heard there hasn’t been a war in Hell for weeks, so there must surely be some lesser demons with nothing better to do whilst they wait around to fight. 

It all seemed so obvious to Grinkle in retrospect, but he was rather tired. He hadn’t slept in what, 5 days now? The witches must be keeping him awake with their dastardly magic it seemed. The time for that was over now, though. Grinkle finished off the Frogman one last time and proceeded to get to work before the reincarnation could begin. He dug his sword into the ground and proceeded to break a piece of the pentagram off. Once the sigil was gone, everything else would be too. It’s Demon Magic 101 really. This chore proved harder than expected, being demon soil and all. He would be sure to carry a reinforced spade in his satchel from now on, he thought to himself. 

Finally, the dirt gave way and the sigil was gone. And with that, everything else was too. The arena that appeared as if it were always there disappeared as if it never was. The witches did the same, although odds are they were never actually there anyways. It’s quite common for a witch to simply send an illusion to watch in their stead- travelling to every single death match can be quite time consuming, you see. All that remained was Grinkle, Fillion McGillian’s corpse and acres upon acres of mundane swampland. 

Grinkle had achieved freedom at last. As did Fillion, evidently. When the Gnome wandered over to the corpse to take its head for the bounty, he found himself looking at a smile plastered on the very deceased face. Not one of madness, or joy even. A simple smile of gratitude, as if the ghost of Fillion McGillian was thanking him from another plane. It was hard to feel too bad for him though. It is undeniably awful he was enslaved by that vile witch and nobody deserves to be put through the torture of dying over 500 times. He did burn down a village and slaughter countless innocent families though, which just goes to show not every situation is black and white.

This particular bounty hunt would stick with Grinkle Gronkle for the rest of his days. After all, how do you forget the face of a man whose life you had taken hundreds of times? He was cynical and rude. He was oftentimes vile himself. But Grinkle Gronkle is not heartless.

Memory covertly extracted from Guild Member Grinkle Gronkle for F.B.E.C archival purposes by Head Librarian Eudora Woods- with the operational approval of F.B.E.C Covert Operations Head Fraldarius Lancaster.