Loveland Frogman's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

Loveland Frogman cleared his throat and began his tale to a cluster of dragonflies hovering near the water's edge. His webbed hands moved through the air, painting pictures of ancient things that rose from deep below. The dragonflies scattered before he reached the good part. He sighed and tucked his cloak tighter. Someday his stories would reach beyond these muddy banks, beyond creatures with short attention spans. He would find listeners who stayed until the end. That night, he dreamed of a place where people gathered just to hear stories. He woke with the image clear in his mind—wooden walls, simple tables, the smell of hot drinks in the air. A place built for listening. Three days later, he stood in front of the Swampside Cafe. The structure rose from the ground on thick posts, its wooden beams already weathered by moisture. Inside, mismatched chairs surrounded rough-cut tables. Loveland ran his webbed fingers along the worn counter and smiled. This was it. His orange eyes grew wide as he imagined the seats filled with listeners, all waiting to hear what he knew. Here, his tales about the Moth Prophet and Old Gristleback would finally reach ears that cared. Here, the ancient fragments he carried would spread like ripples across water. He hung his cloak by the door and began arranging the chairs.