NOVEL NEXT Chapter 120: Acronymal in origin, though none remember for what
Swampway Surfing? Surf? I sure as heck have never seen either Robbie or Lena surf before, and surely I don't recall any of Anders' alleged crime having anything to do with water.
We're so doomed. We'll be stuck here forever. I need to save myself from this poison first. If I can just dip myself into the disgusting swamp water, I can—
"I happen to be the Knighthood's three times surfing champion!" Marin stepped forward, waddling further into the swampy water.
What? How come? What are the odds?
"Really?" Griesa's eyes gleamed. "Is there anything you can't do?"
Has he done anything beside binge drinking though… Blorbo thought as he tried to Adjustable Angle his way into washing his face with swamp water. Too bad, the water was too far away.
Marin turned to Griesa as he grinned. "My name is Marin Boyd. What does that sound like to you?"
"... Marine Boy?" Lena asked meekly.
"Yes. I am a man born by the sea, lived by the sea, vibed with the sea my whole life."
I have NEVER heard this man mention the word SEA in any of his lines ever before. Heck, the only water-adjacent word he has ever uttered is ALE.
But his name... makes sense. It's like whoever thought of his name did so for him to shine in this very specific moment in time.
"Oh! Men who have been by the seas all their lives are the hottest kind!"
But you didn't know this information five minutes ago…
Sir Archibald's outermost leaves shimmered with delight.
"At last!" he declared, rearing up proudly atop his doily-adorned plank. "The knight amongst you reveals his pedigree! I knew—knew—the air reeked faintly of seawater and destiny. Of course it would be you, Sir Marin of Boyd. A name both aquatic and noble. A man of tides and taste."
Blorbo, still mid-wriggle, finally managed to dunk the corner of his head into the swampwater. It was cold, viscous, and smelled like fermented encyclopedia. But at least it neutralized the ambient corrosion in the corner.
[Corroding rate slowed: [-4HP] every 5 minutes]
Sir Archibald cleared his nonexistent throat.
"Now," he intoned, "let us commence with the sacred codex of Swampway Surfers, as written by the original custodians of this pool—the Riverbound League of Excessively Specific Sports."
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Of course, every table duelist speaks like this.
He turned one leaf, and a glowing scroll unfurled from thin air, glimmering with damp ceremonial gravity. "Rule the First: No magical propulsion! If you can't paddle with style and effort, you don't deserve momentum."
"Nah, I'm out," said Anders, who proceeded to be out.
"Rule the Second: All boards must be chosen from the Pool of Fate." He gestured toward a drifting cluster of highly dubious swamp debris—wooden doors, a slice of canoe, a mummified atlas, and what looked like a soggy chaise lounge. "Or, alternatively, it could be a table."
Everyone looked at Blorbo.
"Rule the Third: At no point may one touch the water directly with hands, feet, or dignity. This is a sport, not a paddle bath."
Nobody said anything.
"Rule the Fourth: The Board shall judge Style, and the Swamp shall judge Spirit."
"But who's the board and how can the swamp judge?" Lena asked.
Sir Archibald turned majestically, one might say, if one were charitable to vegetables. His outer leaves rustled with the weight of ancestral disappointment.
"The Board," he said, as if delivering scripture to a roomful of rodents, "is the board. And the Swamp is the Swamp. They are eternal. They are inscrutable."
"Okay, but who are they?" She asked.
Sir Archibald's tone grew even more grave; angry. "They are not who," he intoned. "They are what was and what will always be. They are concepts. They are standards. They are forces older than formality itself."
Lena squinted. "So... nouns?"
"The Board knows flair. The Swamp knows soul. Neither of them require your comprehension, only your submission."
Sure, but how are the cryptic forces of the arcane going to judge a surfing competition…
As if summoned by the sheer force of dramatic tension, something bumped gently against the edge of the plank Archibald stood on.
Everyone looked down.
It was a board. A literal, wide wooden board—possibly teak, possibly enchanted driftwood—its surface polished to a smug sheen, and somehow wearing a cravat. A glowing monocle floated a few centimeters above one corner.
"The Board," Sir Archibald said with reverence. "You may address it as Sir Boardingham."
"I expect nothing less from a nonsensical talking leaf," muttered Anders from a safe distance.
Then, the second board floated into view. Wetter. Older. Slimy green moss hung from its frame like a ceremonial beard. Burned into its surface in proud blocky script were the letters: S.W.A.M.P.
"It comes," whispered Sir Archibald, voice trembling. "The Swamp, morally opaque. Acronymal in origin, though none remember for what."
The mossy plank floated ominously past them, silent as fate, trailing algae and judgement.
"And now," said Sir Archibald, drawing himself to full leafy height, "the rules are declared. The judges have arrived. The surf… awaits."
Blorbo looked at the murky water ahead in disgust. A long, tubular appendage, somewhere between a root and a tongue, slithered upward, glistening with a sheen of viscous swamp film. It quivered before unfurling like a limp banner, revealing rows of pale, sucker-like nodules that looked pretty gross.
At its tip dangled what might once have been a shoe. Or a sandwich. It was unclear.
I'm not gonna be a part of this race, am I? Nothing you're going to give me is gonna make me swim in that.
Extra Reward Received: +50 HP
HELL YEAH, BOY! LET'S GET THIS BREAD. I WAS BORNNNN TO BE A SURFING BOARD! STEP ON ME RIGHT NOW. I'M STABLE. I'M WATERPROOF-ADJACENT. I GOT HANDLES! LET'S SHRED THIS FUNGAL WAVEPOOL!