GROGLING

Groglings: Wardens of the Sacred Lily
A Codex of the Grogling Bogs
“Strength is earned in mud. Truth is earned in silence.”
From the middle bogs of Myrr’Kael to the western marsh-mouths where brine kisses rot, dwell the Groglings—broad-backed warriors of moss and mire. They are not builders of towers nor seekers of height. They prefer low ground. Thick ground. Honest ground.
They live where boots sink.
Their skin bears the green-brown memory of swampwater. Their armor is bark, bone, and scaled hide taken from beasts that tested them first. They do not fear the dark wetlands. They belong to them.
I. The Sacred Lily Council
At the heart of their territory rises a single massive bloom known as the Sacred Lily. Its petals span the width of a battlefield. Its stem anchors in a pool so deep no Grogling has ever found the bottom.
Here, the Council convenes.
No throne.
No crown.
Only stone seats carved from old mangrove root and arranged in a circle.
Laws are debated aloud. Decisions are not whispered but declared.
A Grogling may challenge policy with words—or with ritual bout. To clash is not insult. It is clarity.
“Better bruised pride than silent rot.”
The Lily is said to hum faintly when lies are spoken. Whether that is myth or pressure in the roots, none can say.
II. The Long War of the South
For hundreds of scores, Groglings clashed with the Crocren of the deep south—scaled strategists who allied with the relentless Drizzaks. Together they formed what Groglings spatly named the Bongonian Host.
It was not a clean war.
It was ambush and counter-ambush.
Poison fog and trenchfire.
Night raids across reed-choked channels.
Groglings trained from hatchling age. Shields in one hand. Hook-blades in the other. They drilled knee-deep in swampwater until footing became instinct.
Their war-chief rose during these years—a tactician as patient as still water. He understood terrain. He understood morale. And he understood information.
Before victory, however, came desperation.
III. The Failed Sky Appeal
In the midst of the war, facing attrition from Crocren cunning and Drizzak ferocity, the Groglings sought allies.
They marched east beneath fog cover, banners wrapped in reed cloth. They approached the lands of the Hawthryn, hoping for shared interest against the Bongonian threat.
They were met from above.
Spears fell like rain.
The sky darkened with wings. Groglings retreated, shields raised, dragging wounded through muck. The message was clear:
The sky was not theirs to claim.
From that day, Groglings avoided the eastern air.
IV. The Fireflies of War
It was during the blood-heavy middle years that the war-chief discovered a new asset.
Magical fireflies.
Not ordinary insects—but arcane carriers of whisper and sight. They could be guided. Bound. Encouraged to return with impressions of movement, heat, vibration.
The chief learned to read their patterns.
Lights clustering near southern reedbeds meant Crocren mustering. Flicker gaps across river forks meant Drizzak patrol shifts.
For the first time, Groglings had eyes above the reeds.
They struck with precision.
V. The Brohlorian Intervention
Still, the Bongonian Host held ground. The war dragged.
Word of the Groglings’ struggle reached the Brohlorians of the western coast. Horned. Thick-skinned. Newly allied with the tideborn Brohseidon.
The MEGABROHDON Brohthership cut south through coastal waters like a steel predator.
Cannons thundered from its flanks.
Arcane charges split river deltas.
Bongonian supply routes shattered in confusion.
While Crocren strategists scrambled and Drizzak formations faltered, Groglings surged.
They reclaimed battlefield after battlefield.
Hook-blades flashed.
Shields advanced in unified rhythm.
The Bongonian Host was pushed back into the deep south, their hold on central Myrr’Kael broken.
The Long War ended not with ceremony—but with exhaustion.
VI. Peace of the Bogs
Many scores passed.
Brohlorians to the north guarded coast and land alike. Groglings rebuilt watch posts and strengthened reed-forts.
In gratitude and solidarity, the firefly method was shared.
Soon, not just the war-chief—but households—kept lantern-jars of whispering lights.
Fireflies carried rumors.
Sightings.
Warnings.
Speculation.
Groglings could learn of distant movement without leaving their huts. They could know the swamp from within the swamp.
Convenience bloomed.
VII. The Firefly Schism
With knowledge came fracture.
One Grogling would swear the fireflies reported Crocren scouts returning.
Another would insist the lights told of peace treaties.
Some claimed Drizzaks regrouped in hidden trenches.
Others laughed and called it swamp-fever.
Fights erupted.
Not over land.
Not over food.
Over interpretation.
The Council reconvened beneath the Sacred Lily.
Had they given too much?
The war-chief—older now, quieter—spoke plainly:
“Eyes in the sky do not mean truth in the mind.”
The fireflies delivered impressions, not certainty. Patterns, not proof.
Yet some Groglings trusted the glow more than their neighbor.
“Too many lights,” one elder muttered, “and none can see clearly.”
VIII. The Present Balance
Today, the Groglings remain warriors at heart, but tempered by memory.
They train still.
They debate fiercely.
They guard their bogs with disciplined vigilance.
The Sacred Lily continues to host council.
The fireflies still hum in jars across reed villages.
But now, before a Grogling acts on what the lights whisper, they are reminded of a simple doctrine etched into the root-stone beneath the Lily:
“Truth is not what flickers.
Truth is what endures.”
And so the Groglings stand—
mud-footed, scarred, alert—
Protectors of the middle lands.
Victors of the Long War.
And students still learning the difference between information and wisdom.