Eron calls Jory over to have a private conversation including Fane and Arylnn.  He discusses what he recalls about the elves near his cabin.  

  “If they are being taken by Bale’s occupants they may welcome help.  The Lady Saradie even with a committed crew cannot skirmish with a Sea Prince ship, I’ve enough experience to know.  But we three with my familiarity with the Hool and your elven lineages may offer hope to the elves while the Lady’s presence provides distraction.  I propose that the ship remains temporarily then heads to Saltmarsh.  We will rally the elves clear Bale Keep and rendezvous back at Saltmarsh. 
  I welcome any input please, I believe we must disrupt what I now strongly suspect to be the situation.”

“I’d like to check in on my cabin too but we’ll see how things unfold.”

"I agree we should take care of the Keep why we are here. If we send the ship back to Saltmarsh, how will we return to it? What if we had the ship move away, somewhere safe from any Sea Prince ship, and stay out of sight. When we are done with the Keep, we can send one of our familiars to alert it to return to us?"

Arlynn nods in agreement with Fane. "If the Saradie lay anchor some way to the north of here there should be no risk of the Sea Princes catching them. As for the elven enclave I think it is a good idea to make contact with them at some point, but I think we should be able to handle the slavers ourselves if we plan carefully." She suggests.

“I leave it up to you Jory to use your best judgement.  If Arlynn and Fane believe us three can take on the keep, I will give every bit of myself to it.  I do think the elves would fight with us also, perhaps they are waiting for a chance to attack and will support our efforts once we begin our attack…”

"Do you think we are able to find the elven settlement and that it is not days away then I agree. I don't think we should ever storm the keep, even if we get the support of the elves, that will only risk unnecessary loss of life, but if they have some elite warrior or wizard then they could certainly be of help." Arlynn concedes with a warm smile.

The decision made, the party stands at the edge of the ship’s deck bright afternoon sun.  The coastline east of Bale Keep, quieter and marshier, stretches into a fringe of trees and tall grass—less watched, less traveled.  It’s here the party will make landfall, circling back on foot to strike at Bale Keep from a position of their choosing - or to venture deeper inland in search of the elusive elven settlement.

Jory “Ironhand” Varnis, the sturdy, thick-jawed first mate, plants his feet beside Eron, arms crossed.  He listens to the captain’s offer with a deep furrow of thought before shaking his head.  “No, Cap. We ain’t sailin’ back to Saltmarsh without you.”  His tone is firm.  “We’ll find a quiet cove closer to them lizardmen, anchor down, and wait. Send the owl to find us when you’re ready.  We'll come runnin'.”

With the plan in motion, a few hands from the crew lower the longboat into the choppy surf, oars creaking as they steady it.  Pip Steggins, the eager cabin boy, tries to volunteer to row but is gently elbowed aside by Dannel Kreet and Sela “Slim” Mandor—seasoned sailors who know the sea’s moods better.

The party climbs down one by one, boots hitting the boat with a thud, the sea slapping at its sides.  The longboat rocks as they push off, oars dipping rhythmically into the water, cutting through waves toward the shore.  Salt spray glistens on cloaks and armor, the scent of kelp and brine rich in the air.  Above them, Leo the owl circles.

The coastline draws closer: sea-worn rocks, acres of tall marsh grass, and a thin treeline beyond.   It’s a lonely stretch of beach, with only gulls and the crash of waves for company.  The rowers run the longboat up onto the mud, the bow scraping over wet stones.

“We’ll be watching the horizon, Captain,” Sela says quietly, nodding once to Eron.  “Give ‘em all nine hells.”

With that, the rowers shove off again, angling back toward the ship.  The party is alone now— the keep out of sight to the west, and a dangerous mission ahead.  The wind rustles through the grass.  Somewhere, hidden in the marsh, elves may be potential allies.  Somewhere beneath the keep, something hungry waits.

They need to decide where to venture next: toward allies they haven’t met… or the enemy they have only just met.

As the rowers shove off, Fane looks at the boat, and quickly Pulls the water next to the boat into the air, in the form of an owl. "Watch for Leo, that will be your sign to get us" she says, as water Leo flies next to the boat for a few feet and then returns to the water.

Fane turns to Arlynn and Eron, "So, we going to the keep, or looking for allies? Honestly, I'm torn between both. Perhaps we head toward the keep, send our familiars out into the marsh to try and locate the olves? See which happens first?"

The blue-haired half-elf nods in agreement with Fane. "I'm with you whatever you decide captain." She says, letting her weird invisible familiar hover closer to the keep to see if anything has changed.

Zzplorff
Stealth: 16
Perception: 6

“Okay familiars may act as friendly olve liaisons hopefully making contact.  While we use gorillon tactics on any venturing out from Bale keep.  Or do we look for a way in?”  Eron adjusts his hat and stretch’s his arms an legs.  His right side especially as he pulls his throwing hammer and longsword in a blink then holsters and sheathes them just as quickly.  “I’m ready.”

"As long as the slavers don't catch any olves I think time is on our side and we should be able to ambush any group they send out into the marsh." Arlynn says with a nod. "I suggest keeping Zzplorff here to watch the keep though as he won't be much use with making contact anyway." She adds with a small smile.

The party moves inland from the quiet landing beach, boots squelching through damp sand and shallow water, the air warm and thick with the scent of salt and growing things.  The terrain here is softer than the cliffs and rocks near Bale Keep - a tangled sprawl of coastal grasslands and brackish wetland, woven with natural channels where seawater pushes gently inland.  Tall reeds sway in the breeze, their rustling a near-constant hush, broken only by the occasional cry of a gull or heron.

Broad patches of sandy earth stretch between low pools choked with algae and floating driftwood, each one reflecting the clear blue sky.   Palm trees with long, fronded arms cluster in small groves besides mangroves, offering occasional islands of shade amid the open sun.  Where the land dips, the water creeps higher, forming shallow bogs where tiny fish flicker just beneath the surface and crabs - some the size of dinner plates -scuttle away at the party’s approach.

The air is humid, heavy with moisture, and carries the sounds of life—chirring insects, the distant bark of marsh toads, and the wingbeats of flocks of shorebirds circling above. Occasionally, the party spots tracks in the sand— marsh deer and giant lizards, mostly.  

Every step demands attention: a misjudged patch of ground might suck down a boot, or worse.  But there's a quiet beauty here too.  The water glimmers with iridescent sheen, and wildflowers—white, purple, and flame-orange—dot the high ground between pools.  The world here feels distant.  Hidden.

Up ahead, the trees thicken where the land transitions from coast to marshy forest.  The sun is still high and unobstructed out here by the sea, warming their backs.  They have six, or maybe seven hours of good light left, but this land won't yield its secrets easily.

Eron, make a survival check, with advantage from Leo scouting overhead.  If anyone else wants to try anything to assist in finding these elves, don't hold back.  It won't be easy.

Fane looks through her spell book, but nothing comes to mind as a way to help, other then her trusty scout Leo.

Survival 13 (sad)

Eron is comfortable here the marsh has been his home growing up, he loves every sight smell sound, but maybe too comfortable as his normal tracking and needle focused insticts simply dull and distract.

Eron leads the group confidently, eyes scanning the swampy terrain as the party ventures deeper into the heart of the Hool Marshes.  Behind them, the tang of the sea fades, replaced by the thick, loamy scent of wet earth, cedar bark, and the slow rot of leaf-litter.  Boggy pools give way to islands of drier ground, and here, trees rise—not the palms of the coast, but stouter things: cedars, twisted cypresses, and the occasional gnarled oak draped in moss.

The open skies give way to dappled canopy, the light slanting through in amber shafts as the sun begins its descent.  The marsh hums with life: tree frogs trill, insects buzz, and distant birds call from deep within the underbrush.  The path, if it can be called that, winds between sunken hollows and mossy ridges, often doubling back or vanishing entirely into dense undergrowth.

Eron gestures occasionally to faint signs which could be evidence of the elves they seek: a knotted reed here, an old, buried fire pit there, once even the faint indent of what might’ve been a bootprint, half-erased by weather.  But each lead peters out into nothing.  Leo circles above, silent and keen-eyed, but even the owl finds little more than more marsh deer trails and the distant shadow of a large crocodile basking in a blackwater pool.

The party grows quiet as the hours wear on.  Even with the help of Fane's familiar and his own experience in these lands, Eron find his efforts in vain, for now.  The terrain is difficult, especially for Fane and Arlynn, and with each wrong turn, the possibility looms larger that they’ve wandered in circles, or that the elves have moved on—or vanished entirely.

Now, with the sun bleeding orange across the treetops and long shadows falling over the mossy ground, they pause.  The warm tropic air is cooling, and the chorus of nocturnal life begins to stir.  Eron had thought he would know these places better—he should know them better—but the land seems to resist his search, guarding its secrets jealously.  They’ve found no fresh tracks.  No hidden camps.  No sign that the elves are still here at all.

They stand in a drier grove of leaning trees and fern-choked underbrush as evening gathers.  There is another hour before darkness settled in.  Does the party want to continue searching for the elves?  Or begin setting up a camp for the night?

Fane says "Let's take a quick break" and takes a sip of water. She will then ritual cast detect magic.

[She is looking, obviously for magic, but wondering if perhaps the elves of the area are trying to keep us away.]

The group gathers in the fading light, settling onto patches of relatively dry ground beneath the shadow of leaning trees.  The air is thick with the buzz of insects and the distant warble of marsh birds, and a cool summer breeze stirs the hanging mosses above as twilight deepens.

Fane begins her ritual.  After ten minutes, she opens her eyes—now faintly glowing with enchanced magical perception.

The world takes on a new texture.  She sees the lingering glow of magic, pale and translucent, like a thin veil stretched over the marsh.  It clings to the trunks of trees, flickers in the bends of old deer trails, hovers faintly above stagnant pools.  The aura is illusory, subtle and dispersed, like a web of trickling glamour woven over the landscape itself.

It's not particularly strong magic—nothing that would blind or mislead someone already deeply familiar with the terrain—but it’s just enough to confuse strangers, to subtly redirect or disorient.  Paths seem more winding than they are, while others vanish entirely unless one knows precisely how to walk them.  Bushes that seem too thick to pass conceal narrow trails.  Clearings shimmer faintly as if slightly out of sync with reality.

Fane narrows her eyes, tracing a shimmering thread of illusion across the marsh floor.  It’s a camouflage, she thinks—one that might even pass under the nose of most spellcasters.  Certainly subtle enough to avoid notice without magical aid.

But then comes the strange part: the magic has traces of the Feywild but it isn’t Elvish, or at least not any school or style of elven illusion Fane has studied.  There are no traces of the lyrical patterning or natural symmetry she would expect from high elven or wood elven wards.  This magic feels... older in a way, or perhaps simply alien.

As Fane calls for a break, the blue-haired half-elf simply nods gratefully and finds a decently comfortable seat on a small rock, bringing out her waterskin and some dried fruit to nibble on as the elf starts her ritual. After a few minutes though Arlynn starts to look around for an animal that she could ask for help, having some dried fruit and some dried meat to offer for it's cooperation.

Perception: 13
Cast Speak with animals if animal found.
Persuasion: 14 

As Arlynn settles onto her moss-draped rock, her senses tune in to the faint rustlings and calls of the swamp’s animal life.

It doesn’t take long.  Her sharp half-elven eyes catch the flick of a tail behind a curtain of reeds.  A few cautious moments later, a swamp otter emerges—sleek, slick-furred, and glistening from the water. It freezes when it notices her, small nose twitching, half in curiosity, half in suspicion.  Arlynn produces a bit of dried fish and holds it out slowly, palm open.  The otter tilts its head, then pads forward, sniffs, and—after another wary pause—takes the offering with quick little paws and retreats a few steps to gnaw it down.

Seeing her chance, Arlynn murmurs the incantation to Speak with Animals, the words sliding into the natural rhythm of the land around her.  The magic takes hold, and when she next speaks, the otter blinks and cocks its head again—this time clearly understanding.

When inquiry is made about elves, the swamp otter replies with a series of squeaks and chitters.

Arlynn:

Fane shares what she sees with the others. After hearing from Arlynn, "Hmm perhaps this bog monster is the source of this illusion magic? Perhaps your Otter friend can tell us which direction to head? If I keep detect magic going, maybe we can find the way."

The blue-haired half-elf does indeed share with the others what the sea otter has conveyed and nods to Fane, then turning back to the helpful furry water mammal. "We want to help the tree-walkers. Do you know where they are? Are they close you think?" She asks with series of squeaks and chitters of her own, offering another bit of dried fish to help the conversation along.