The swamp is primeval. The goblin hermits say a person is a modern thing and should feel out of place here, among vines that have been mummering for eternity and bearded moss that has grown over the cold rock of centuries. A low mist always hangs over the muddy waterways down which canoes and water chariots of the goblins glide. Rotting vegetation mixes with fresh green growth of plants that cling to everything, the mud is thick and black but fertile, the water has patches of scum but teams with life, the whole place hums with insects wings, occasionally pierced by screeching of beasts from deep in the undergrowth. No one knows for sure what’s out there.