The Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: Into the Heart of Darkness-- the turtle-men

 

The river was slow and breathless, choked on both sides by thick jungle vines and tangled trees that shut out the sun. The insects buzzed dizzily and the two longboats glided forward, paddles dipping silently into dark, turgid water.

Afternoon dissolved into evening and then night and Salt’s boat began to drift — not forward, but sideways. At first it seemed like some hidden current had taken hold, but then shapes moved beneath the surface: broad-shelled turtle-creatures, humanoid in posture, long arms pushing steadily against the hull.

They didn’t attack. They didn’t speak. Only when the boats neared the shore did a cadaverous figure step into the torchlight. It stood upright on the bank — skin stretched tight over its bones, jaw slack and trembling. It let out a gurgling wail, half gibberish and half song.

That was enough. The travelers took no chances. With swords and arrows, they tried to drive off the turtles, but only Bo-Jing have much success in cleaving the hard shells.

As the boats turned and edged toward the opposite bank, the ghoul screamed louder. The turtles began to rock the boats. That’s when Bangqiu raised a hand. Three bolts of crackling light flared from his fingers. Salt followed with a streak of white flame. Fen added a searing spark of his own.

The ghoul fell twitching, its body burning as it slumped into the reeds. The turtle-creatures didn’t seem upset — only confused.

They conferred among themselves in their own tongue, bobbing slightly in the water. Then one of them called out:

“That was the deal. If he lost, we eat him. If we lost, he eats us. He’s dead, so… we eat the loser?”

The party’s reply was cautious, but curious. A challenge was offered — a fair fight, one champion from each side. Bo-Jing accepted.

The turtles directed their chosen fighter to a muddy island in the middle of the stream. The others kept their distance, floating in a wide semicircle. The party remained in their boats. No one wanted a misunderstanding.

Bo-Jing stepped ashore, calm and barefoot. The turtle-creature facing him was larger than the others. It crouched low, knuckles in the mud, but moved with surprising speed. The first exchange was light, respectful — a bow, a feint, a counter-grip. Bo-Jing shifted into Mad Monkey form, playful and elusive, but, when paired with a ki shot, very devastating.

Then the turtle touched him — just a tap to the inside of his arm. A bloom of pain burst up through Bo-Jing’s shoulder. His fingers wouldn’t close properly. He stepped back, eyes narrowing.

The others in the water began to drift closer.

“Wait,” Bo-Jing said. “How about we teach each other?”

The turtle blinked. “We are okay with that,” it said, “as long as we get to eat someone first.”

That ended negotiations.

The fight resumed — but the rules were gone. All five turtles surged at once, splashing and clawing toward the island. Bo-Jing didn’t wait. He leapt clean over their heads, landed in the boat, and barked, “Go!”

The paddlers pulled hard. Bangqiu turned and flung out his hand. A wall of stone erupted from the riverbed behind them, cutting across the turtles’ path — but not for long. The creatures split and swam around.

They were fast. Faster than the boat.

Salt and Bangqiu locked eyes. Without a word, they each grabbed a rope and dove into the river, disappearing beneath the surface — and moments later, two enormous hippos burst from the water, ropes cinched to their harnesses.

The boats lurched forward.

The turtles gave chase, but they were no match now. The great hippos thundered through the dark river, heads high, teeth gleaming. Behind them, the turtle-creatures dropped back — slower, sullen, and hungry.

The jungle swallowed the sound of their escape.