Cymere

The wanderer fell to his knees. The mud soaked through his thin trousers immediately, but he didn't have the presence of mind to feel it. Without a second thought, he thrust his hands into the bog, rummaging around frantically. He was told that he could find Cymere in this muck, but so far, all he had to show for it was brown-stained hands and--   He felt something. The tiniest brush of something firm against his hand. A pebble perhaps? He groped around for it once more, and soon succeeded in closing his fingers around it. He brought it up to the surface and wiped away most of the mud.   The crystal was barely the size of his thumbnail, but its glow was unmistakable. Cymere. He held the mud-covered crystal close to his chest as if it were his last possession in the world. With this, he thought, things would be okay.