Aston the Swamp Wanderer, Size Small (Medium Firmness) Hot Rod
He’s the kind of presence that you can sense is there, but just barely. Like a whisper of a mist that tickles the hairs on the back of your neck. He only dwells in the kinds of places that any sort of venture there immediately feels like an intrusion. An invasion on something incredibly old, older than the trees, the stones, even the hot breeze that whispers here. The Kudu’s hooves are thick with black mud, ankles wet with the marsh waters. She whistles to herself, a tune that’s long been used as her only safety net here amongst these trees that hang low with moss that dances and sways. The thing in the swamp you see, is quite the music connoisseur. He can easily be persuaded to give safe passage with a joyous tune hummed, whistled or sung. And so when you enter these dark places…it’s best you be able to carry a tune.