Tom winced as he rowed. Leaning too far forward caused a stab of pain in his mostly healed leg. That was a mystery in itself, after only a month his leg had healed what should have taken several, the only complication a short fever and a few days in bed immediatley after the attack.

Wouldn't want to make charcoal the normal way in town, no, that would be terrible. A nice relaxed job in the edge of the slums. Bottom feeding off of the loggers and woodsman. Just had to move off alone into the swamp. Tom monolouged to himself, a bad habit he had picked up in his isolation.

"WHERE I'M TRAPPED" he screamed in his head. If he wasn't constantly on edge and in danger he might have screamed aloud.

Soon after recovering from his fever Tom had begun rearming and checking all his noxious scent buoys and traps.

His paranoia about the swamp gator following him home had been well served. As not more than a day later several gators lay dead in pits or strung up in trees, several swamp cats poisoned in water holes, and nearly half a pack of marsh raptors struggling to escape a series of cages and snares.

Something was not only driving the creatures of the swamp to higher levels of aggression than before, even fish would devour each other in traps or clean caught fish to the bone when on a left alone line for more than a few hours.

The close call with the gator and the increased danger brought Tom to survival mode. Survival mode for a month had made him past overly cautious to outright paranoid.

"I can't do any more of this" he said to himself.

He began plotting his escape that moment as he finished refilling the scent bouy that floted nearly two miles from his island. Tom loved his home in the swamp and his freedom of lifestyle but he needed human contact, traps and jungle critters just wouldn't cut it for him, and the mystery of Mr. Hood remained a mystery.

Tom sweated as her rowed his skiff back to his boat house his head on a swivel, constantly listening and looking for any potential danger. It took him longer than it should thanks to nets of vines hanging from trees down into water and spiked stick and log traps.

It still stodd hidden by hanging vines and branches, intentionally camouflaged by grass and leaves, from a distance it could have been a dead tree or bush that the jungle had begun to retake.

Arriving at the boat house he got up and started lashing the large gourds that made the scent bouys to his boat. Finished with the 8th gourd, when previously one or two would have done fine, he dragged and lowered a second rowboat into the water.

It was his old boat that he now used to occasionally haul large loads of supplies, it was now going to be roped to the rear of his skiff.

Grunting as he lowered it into the water from the platform is had been waiting on, a stab of pain and Tom dropped the boat. He winced from both pain, and fear that he cracked his boat on the rocks in the shallow water. Further inspection revealed it to be fine.

Loading all of his charcoal blocks in woven baskets he had both bought in town of higher quality, and lower quality, made himself when those ran out, he slowy filled his skiff. The trips with the wheel barrow back to his compound made all the slower by his limp. The path while traversible was intentionaly difficult to follow and not in a straight line.

Disguised to look like an animal path with traps all along it Tom painstakingly manuevered the trip back and forth with a lighter load than he liked.

The sun had passed it's zenith and begun to lower, the day more than half done. He knew his trip wouldn't happen till the following day and he would have to leave his loaded boat in the water but what else could he do.

Continuing to load the extra boat with animal pelts, and meat. Some salted, some smoked, some still relatively fresh and wrapped well in leaves. Once that had been completed Tom sat down in a chair woven from grass and vines, more of a hammock really.

The temptation to soke his feat was great but the water was treacherous before the bayou had gone mad.

Sending up a wordless prayer to the gods of men and beast, Tom stared into the darkening twighlight of the bayou. As he sat fireflies began to come out, brighter with more variety of color than he could ever remember seeing them.

It brought peace to his soul. As much as the bayou had always been dangerous this kind of beauty was part of what made him love it soo much. The rainbow of color dancing atop the water, inbetween trees, stumps and vines. Leaving tiny ripples in the water where they seemed to bounce off its surface.

After it had gotten almost completely dark, Tom roused himself to get home and sleep well the next day would be just as long as the one he had today. Yet he had hope for he would see people and maybe even find some answers.

. . . .

Waking up Tom swung out of bed not even noticing his leg till he had already begun bathing. Why was he healing soo fast. It made no sense yet he could not find it in himself to hate the strange turn of events.

No time for breakfast, Tom chewed on jerky as he began rowing his heavy skiff back out of his protected island, past his layers of defenses. Passing the two mile point he began dropping the extra bouys he had brought occasionaly lighting one with a wick. These bouys didn't last as long but sent the scent of the sap out stronger.

Hopefully this would prevent anything from following him and keep his route safe for his return trip.

Several hours later the sun began to approach noon and the bayou began to thin, the smell of salt a welcome one.

Nothing had disturbed him on his trip out, but several times he had seen creatures slipping through the water. This had everytime brought his heart pounding, but either the smell or the size of his craft had discouraged any potential violent encounter.

Finally after another long stretch of rowing and a lot of water and jerky Tom could see the wide river and the estuary that fed and provided for most of the city. While not there he was on the final stretch the docks were nearly in sight.

Zoning in and out of the rowing process, his guard much further down now that he was out of the bayou, Tom bumped into a mooring post with his craft.

The sound of seagull and people hit him and he almost cried.

He had done months alone before, but never had he been so scared, exhausted and confused. Tying his skiff to the boast and then securing both boats he attempted to collect himself before anyone came along.

He had made it, he was alive, and with his bounty of skins, and meat quite a bit richer than he had been before.

As he climbed onto the wooden dock he glanced around. Several fishermen coming back, while others just pushing out. The clean blue water a stark contrast to the water of the bayou. The splinterd wood path led to the shore where among crates and shouting men several boys ran and lounged.

"I need a runner" Tom called out from his boatside. Several boys started to get up but one already walking closed to his dock beat the rest of them. They all fell back to lounging or wandering.

"Whatcha got" the boy asked. He stood confidently, his confidence would seem out of place to his frayed outfit and dirty hair and face.

"Twenty five copper if you get to Merchant Sully's servants and tell him Tom is at the docks and he should bring 4 carts." Tom told the boy.

He swallowed and bobbed his head "Yessir I'm on it" running off. Motivated by the high pay the boy put some speed in his gait as he dissapeared into the warrent of the docks.

Life was on the up.