Lost and Lucky in the Green Hell

Darlings, if you ever fancy a bit of rough, a taste of the wild, or the thrill of the unknown, take this old mog’s advice: keep your whiskers in the city. Because let me tell you, there’s nothing bona about the unexplored jungles of southern Vanaheim, unless you’re looking to get your lallies chewed off by something with more fangs than sense and less charm than a spanner in a fogbank.

It all started when a right posh hunting club from Nova Aurora invited yours truly on a little “expedition” down past Lake Serene. “Oh, Milosh,” they said, “it’ll be a bit of adventure, just a spot of big game and a few lush tales for the news.” Well, I must’ve been off my noddle, because I said yes. Next thing you know, we’re deep in the green, the air thick as soup, the birds louder than a market barker, and the ground squelching under every step.

But, my dears, that was the least of my worries. The jungle down south is no doss house for city mollies. Every shadow was a story, every rustle a warning. We hadn’t gone two hours before the first of the beasties showed up, a ruddy ankheg, all mandibles and acid spit, bursting up from the muck like some sodding nightmare. One of the club’s beefy types tried to give it a poke with his spear, only to get his bona boots dissolved for his trouble. I kept my tail high and my head low, let me tell you.

Then there were the velociraptors, not the little ones you see at the zoo, but proper sharp, wicked things, eyes like polished buttons and claws like cutlery. They stalked us for days, popping out of the foliage with that naff grin of theirs, always just out of reach, waiting for a slip or a stumble. Even the airships overhead wouldn’t chance a landing after dark. If you’ve never heard a raptor’s scream in the black, you haven’t known true palaver.

At night, the woods crawled with giant centipedes, long as a streetcar, venom dripping from their jaws. I caught one slithering up my bedroll, bold as brass. I legged it up a tree faster than a newsboy on payday. Between the giant spiders dropping from the canopy and the jungle drakes circling overhead, I was starting to think I’d never see the city lights again.

But the real chivvy came when we lost two of the posh club in a tangle of thorn-vines, only to see the vines move, swear on my tail, the jungle itself wanted us gone. The locals call it the tendriculous, a beastie that’s half plant, half monster, all bad news. It swallowed a whole crate of supplies, and we barely got away with our pelts.

By the end, I was scratched, bitten, and half out of my mind. I’d seen enough monsters for a dozen lifetimes, gargantuan wasps, aurochs with too many eyes, and something that might’ve been a chimera (but I didn’t stick around to make polite introductions). We staggered back to civilization, me with my fur three shades lighter and my nerves jangling like a tinman in a thunderstorm.

So, my advice? If someone offers you a ticket to the green hell of southern Vanaheim, do what any clever omi would: say no, buy them a drink, and listen to their tales from the safety of a well-lit tavern. Elysium’s a lush old world, full of wonders and horrors, but some stories are better left untold, and some jungles better left unexplored.

If you do go, pack your fastest boots, your sharpest blade, and say a prayer to any goddess who’ll listen. And if you see a shadow move, run the other way.

Keep your whiskers twitching, and stay out of the green, unless you fancy ending up a snack for something with more teeth than manners.