Kerhs of Swampholme🐸⚔️💀

[D&D RAIs, Day 1 rolls: 30, 27, 1] <Ghosthunter vs Skeleton Vignette> Kerhs the grippli Ghosthunter stood ankle‑deep in the murk, torchlight flickering across the moss‑choked ruins like dying fireflies. Ten years of nightly battles had carved hard trenches of exhaustion into his emerald face — the kind of lines you only earn by surviving curses that should’ve killed you long ago. His unarmoured legs, thick with muscle and scar tissue, shifted with the slow, deliberate tension of a predator preparing to spring. The swamp around him was eerily silent. It didn't last long... First came the dull, wet sucking sound of the muck losing its grasp onto something, then came the clatter of long dead bones shifting under metal plates. A skeleton lurched out of the fog, rusted armour shedding flakes of decay with every step. Its empty sockets glowed with necrotic hunger, the same hunger he’d seen a thousand times before. And a thousand times snuffed out. It never changed: the deadly curse, the hollow faces, the shambling horrors. But Kerhs did — his aching muscles grew harder, his mind grew angrier yet more determined to keep Swampholme alive one night at a time. Just one more sunrise. The sun... He crossed his scimitar and short sword over his chest and remembered its warmth; radiant light beginning to crawl along their edges like dawn breaking through storm clouds. His jaw tightened and eyes narrowed as his voice dropped into a resonant croaking growl. “GET OUT…” The skeleton raised its greatsword readying a sloppy downward arc, bone creaking like rotten timber. Too slow. Too predictable. Too cursed. He launched. The Hunter streaked through the air in a blur of emerald muscle and radiant steel, blades uncrossing into a mirrored diagonal arc — the Scissor‑cut he’d perfected over a decade of undead butchery. Light flared. Mist split. The skeleton barely had time to register the hurtling mass before the strike hit. “...OF MY…!” Bone cracked. Rust flew. The undead warrior folded in half like a snapped cattail. Kerhs landed in a wide, primal stance, blades still blazing as the skeleton dissolved behind him into drifting ash. “…SWAAAAMP!” He finished his guttural war cry, a deeply resounding croak echoing through the swamp like a signal drum. He didn’t celebrate. He didn’t smile. He just watched the last flecks of bone fade into the mist and muttered to himself: “One down. Plenty more to go.” Moral of the story: If you’re an undead horror shambling into Swampholme, don’t test the frog. You won’t make it past the first swing. FIN. [BTW, Yes this is a Shrek joke; Shrek reversed = Kerhs. Also sounds like "curse" which is a funny coincidence...] CUTTING ROOM FLOOR: