Toragi The Frog

The eastern coast of Yakai is a fractured place, dotted with islands great and small, of inlets, coves and bays. In places the land and the sea merge, their struggles yielding no clear victor, creating expanses of marshland and bog that fester and bubble beneath damp mists. Many of these places have a dark reputation with sailors and landlubbers alike, but none are as feared as the swamp known as Brackish. It is not the marsh itself that is the cause of the area’s grim reputation, though it is true that the cloying mud and sudden, rising tides have been the death of many a soul. There is something more than mere nature at work in this bleak corner of Teleria. That something is a Fae known to mortals as Toragi the Frog. It seems that Toragi has always occupied Brackish. Perhaps he was born there, or perhaps he created it, conjuring it up to reflect the fetid contents of his own soul. His lair lies deep within the most inhospitable part of the marshland, a great tree lying fallen and half-consumed in the mire. Its rotten bark now teems with fungal growths and writhing insect larvae, while its hollowed-out trunk serves as a place for the hulking Fae to repose. The extent of Toragi’s powers is a point of speculation among those who live near Brackish, or are forced to sail by its blighted shoreline. He is blamed for the storms that grip the area, the cloying mists, and the eerie deadlights that wink amid each settling twilight. He has been to known to lure in the lost or the unwitting to feast on their flesh, or their souls, or both. There is more than a kernel of truth to all of this, though he is not merely a nightmarish creature squatting in the midst of the boglands. Toragi delights in gifts and tall tales. It is believed that by giving him an impressive gift, or telling him a story he considers worthy of his time, is the only way to avoid being gobbled up. In this way, some have encountered Toragi and lived to recount the experience. They speak of a Fae who alternates between morose and jovial, as unpredictable as the shifting marshes themselves. Stranger still are those who claim to have enlisted Toragi’s aid. It is said that if a traveler can delight Toragi with a truly wondrous tale, the Fae will not only spare the asker’s life, but offer him a bog-blessing, a promise to help during a time of need. Those worthy enough he grants a handful of Brackish mud to take with them, which can be used to summon him. A potent stench herald’s the Fae’s arrival, accompanied by his wet, hacking laughter. If summoned to do battle, the Fae throws himself into the fray enthusiastically, wielding his swamp club to devastating effect against whomever his summoner wills. Even the blood of the great brute is toxic and corrosive. Everything about the Fae is noisome, the stink of him enough to turn stomachs, while his pale, blubbery flesh resists all but the most resolute sword and ax blows. Yet those who bring Toragi to battle need to be wary, for afterwards he will consider his riddle-debt repaid. At best he may depart, but at worst, he will seek further presents or stories. Any who cannot provide these satisfactorily risk the Fae urn his mighty club turned upon them as swiftly as it fell upon their foes.