"Hmm, probably better to wait, maybe summon it when we are nearer to the keep tomorrow? So we don't have the gap of it flying back I guess."

[Assuming you are not recalling ZZplorff at night?]

The night in the Olven hollow unfolds like a strange, delicate dream.

As the sun dips beneath the horizon, the forest transforms.  Lantern-glow fungi shimmer along the roots and branches, casting the hollow in an otherworldly blue-green light.  Small lights are lit in the treetop homes of the elves, and the scent of herbs and roasted marsh roots mingles with the hum of frogsong and distant, bubbling water.  Strange moths dance in the light, and the trees overhead sway gently, as if listening.

Granmire proves to be a gracious—if inscrutable—host.  With a wave of her knotted hand, she guides the party to low platforms of woven reeds and soft moss, arranged in a circle not far from her own thatched hut.  A bowl of tea is pressed into each hand—smoky, bitter, and likely enchanted to calm the nerves and ease the body.

When Arlynn thanks her, the crone smiles, revealing no teeth this time, only a faint crinkle of age and mischief.  “Kind words for a wrinkled marsh-witch,” she mutters with what may be humor.  “Rest well.  The swamp is fond of whispers, and you carry many, don't you?”

When Arlynn approaches her again later, seeking further knowledge of the keep or the marsh, Granmire receives her with amused patience, but offers no more than vague suggestions and riddled sayings:  "If the keep still stands, it does so on bones and bile. Watch the roots beneath it—they drink strange things.  You’ll find answers there, aye.  Answers and teeth.”  The crone offers nothing concrete, and changes the subject idly, asking Arlynn about the source of her magic, or offering a story of a “man who once tried to steal dreams and choked on them instead.”  She does not dismiss Arlynn, but she keeps her cards close.

Fane, with her open heart and bright curiosity, finds some common ground with the Olves—though it is slow, and careful.  At first, most of them respond to her with cool politeness.  Their voices are quiet and musical, but their eyes are watchful.  When she speaks of her homeland and sings the songs of Celene, there are murmurs and sidelong glances, but none of her songs spark any memory for Sylraen or the others.  Still, her effort is not in vain.

One of the older Olves, a woman named Nereissë, finally sits beside Fane and shares a tale of a forest far to the east, where the moon was red and the stars whispered.  She remembers the taste of snow, but not what her village was called.  “We were not all taken from the same place,” she says.  “Some of us are kin.  Some are not.  Some here were born in bondage, never having known any freedom but what we hold here.  But we are all Olves again now, and Granmire cares for us well.”

A younger boy listens closely to Fane's tales and hums along with her songs, but when she asks questions, most answers are vague or unsure.  It's clear their memories have been dimmed by time, trauma, and maybe something more.  Still, Fane brings warmth to the gathering.  She is a firelight in the gloom.

Arlynn, after speaking with Granmire, spends some quiet time with Sylraen.  The young elf sits cross-legged beneath the arch of a tree, fletching arrows by touch.  She smiles as Arlynn approaches and sets the tools aside, brushing strands of hair from her face.

She is easy to speak with—gentle, sincere, but there's a nervous energy beneath the surface, like a bird unused to open sky.  She admits she doesn’t remember much the world before she was captured—only dreams of bright cities and starlight, of a mother with a voice like windchimes.  She doesn't speak of her time in captivity.  She expresses deep gratitude for Granmire's protection.  “But I’ve always felt I was meant to do more than hide,” she says.  “There are things the swamp doesn’t teach.  Like how to fight for others.  How to matter.”

Arlynn’s questions about her readiness are answered earnestly.  Sylraen is a capable hunter, familiar with traps, poisons, and swamp survival.  She has spoken with birds, called upon plants to ensnare her foes, and faced venomous beasts with only a bow and arrow.  But her only experience with people outside the Olves here has been through nightmares—captors and slavers.  It’s clear she is brave, but untested in the larger world.

Eron, ever watchful, notes the subtle tension beneath the peaceful tranquility of this place.  The Olves rarely stray far from each other.  They glance toward Granmire often, looking to her for silent cues on how to respond to the visitors.  Some of them treat her as a grandmother; others as something closer to a patron saint.  There is no fear, but they do seem to look to the old woman for guidance on what to say and do.

He sees that Granmire watches them watch her.  And Granmire watches them watch the party.

When Eron speaks to Sylraen, she is open and honest, eager to be trusted.  But some of the other Olves seem unsettled by her choice, whispering in their musical tongue when they think no one hears.  Caelthas glares from the shadows, his disapproval sharp as a dagger.  He does not confront them again, but his silence is heavy.

By the time the firefly lights die low, the marsh is thick with frogsong and distant splashes.  The trees creak like old bones.  And yet… it feels safe here.  Or safe enough.  A subtle enchantment in the air keeps the insects at bay, and no nightmares disturb the party’s sleep.  Granmire’s magic, or perhaps her word, holds sway through the night.

As the first pale mist of morning threads through the trees, Granmire is already awake, already stirring something in a pot with a long wooden spoon.  She does not speak yet.  Sylraen is awake too, standing at the edge of the circle, watching the swamp with a small bundle at her feet, a staff, and a single bow over her shoulder.  She smiles at the party, and says she is ready.

When asked about the source of her power, Arlynn would respectfully be equally vague but keeping a polite tone about it, pondering Granmire's advice.
Later she sits and listens to Sylrean with a warm smile, giving her words of encouragement. The next morning she would quickly ready herself for departure, eager to get back to the keep. "No second thoughts then?" She asks Sylrean with a small smile.

If Eron can wake early he’d try to catch a fish or two.  A swamp usually has a few fishing holes here and there…

survival  21

unless he is dissuaded.

Eron rises early—before the mist has burned off, before even the bog-woman's cauldron begins to bubble.  The air is thick and quiet, except for the soft pulse of insects and the occasional deep, guttural croooak of a marsh toad.  The ground is damp beneath his boots, and the scent of mud, moss, and distant peatfire lingers in the air.  He finds two of the Olves already awake: Nereissë and a boy named Lethos.  Both regard him silently for a long moment, then Nereissë nods toward a narrow path twisting away through the reeds and says, “If you wish to fish, come.”

They guide him through a winding, half-submerged trail, the water rising just above the ankles.  Dragonflies shimmer past in the early morning stillness like flying shards of emerald glass.  Eventually, they reach a quiet pool nestled in a grove of cypress trees, their roots rising from the water like grasping fingers.  Thick vines hang low, and lily pads the size of shields drift lazily atop the dark surface.

The Olves say little.  They use spears or short rods carved from blackreed.  Nereissë gestures to a shallow shelf where a trickle of cool spring water feeds into the deeper hole—it’s there, she says, that the best fish come.

Eron waits, patient, watching the ripples, the light, the reeds trembling with frogs.  And then—a faint swirl beneath the lilies.  With a practiced motion, he casts, waits, then hauls.

The surface explodes in spray and thrashing scales as he pulls in a powerful, sinuous creature nearly three feet long.  It fights hard, nearly snapping the pole in his hands, but Eron holds firm.  After a brief but violent struggle, the creature is landed.

He has caught a Glimmerfin Pike.

A rare predator of the deep swamp waters, the Glimmerfin Pike is named for the shimmering streaks along its flanks—iridescent lines of white, blue and green that run from gill to tail, almost like veins of moonlight trapped under waterlogged scales.  Its eyes are pale silver and unblinking, and its mouth is a cruel slash filled with sharp, needle-like teeth designed to pierce fish, amphibians and birds alike.  Locals say the Glimmerfin Pike only rises from the depths during moments of great change or strife—an omen of upheaval.  In some parts of the marsh, it is considered lucky.  In others, it is considered ominous.

Lethos’s eyes widen in awe.  Nereissë raises a brow—not quite smiling, but the glint in her eye is unmistakable.  “Perhaps the marsh likes you,” she murmurs. 

They help Eron clean the fish, their movements swift and clean, and by the time they return to the hollow, the scent of fish musk and blood clings to his hands.

Back at the elven encampment, Granmire eyes the pike with amusement.  “Caught yourself a ghost-fish,” she says, her voice like the shifting of wet leaves.  “They don’t rise for just anyone.  They take to smoke quite well.”

The Olves seem to be more relaxed this morning.  A few even laugh, soft and musical.  For the first time, the hollow feels like a place where life is lived—not merely survived.  They take turns visiting and saying their goodbyes to Sylraen.

Sylraen, watching all this with her pack on her shoulder, offers Eron and Arlynn a smile.  "No time for regrets.  No second thoughts.  These will always be my people, but I cannot hide here any longer.  If this world seeks us; means us harm - then I will rise to meet it."

"Nice catch there captain." The young blue-haired half-ef calls out to Eron as he gets back from his fishing trip. "Something to feast on when we have rid Bale Keep of it's slavers?"

"Perhaps if we risk a fight today your friends here will be able to venture beyond old Granmire's protection in time." She says to Sylrean with and encouraging smile. She is otherwise ready to depart for the keep, making plans as they walk.

[Arlynn, other than ‘watch the keep’, did your familiar have any instructions?]

Besides spending time with the Olves, Fane would try to learn about the Illusion Magic that surrounds them and keeps them safe. Her interest is academic, trying to learn and expand her magical knowledge. 

If the Grandmire is willing, Fane will talk to her about it, asking if there is anything that she can share with Fane to help her understand it, possibly help strengthen it, etc. Otherwise, she'll use spells like Detect Magic, Identify, and Absorb Elements.

[Rolls just in case it helps.]]

Arcana: 18

Persuasion: 10

Perception: 13

History: 21

(Zzplorff would have been instructed to keep tabs on movement in and out of the keep, also hopefully being able to make a mental rooster over the slavers and their routines after watching the keep from above for a fairly long time.)

While Eron is away fishing with the Olves, Fane lingers near the twisted heart of the hollow—the low, leaning hut draped in moss and heavy with the scent of herbs and damp stone.  Granmire greets her with the same placid politeness she offers to all the guests, eyes half-lidded behind the smoke of her cooking fire.

When Fane broaches the subject of the illusions—asks kindly if Granmire might share some insight into the enchantments that protect this place—the hag simply smiles, stirring her cauldron.  “Oh, child… the swamp is full of secrets, and it don’t give them up easy.  But ain’t it just lovely how the trees bend the way you need them to?  How the mists wrap ‘round you like an old cloak?  That’s not magic, dear—it’s home.”

Her tone is kindly, but she offers nothing useful.  Just riddles and metaphors.  Still, Fane watches, and Fane knows.

She walks the edge of the glade alone at first, cloaked in silence.  With Detect Magic active, the air glows in layered skeins of enchantment and illusion.  The spell shimmers across every surface, like dew catching invisible threads of spider silk.  It pulses gently, almost in rhythm with the land itself.

Casting Identify on a mossy stone near the outer edge of the glade, Fane finds no sigils, no glyphs, no markings.  But there is something etched into the Weave itself.  The illusion isn’t bound to objects—it’s as though the very idea of the place has been altered.

Later, while observing Granmire subtly from across the fire, Fane notices a peculiar thing: the magic responds to Granmire like muscle to a thought.  When she steps forward, the wind shifts to silence her footsteps.  When she looks toward a pair of squirrels inching toward her garden, they shy away before her gaze.  No gestures.  No incantations.  Just will.

Thinking back to her academic training and her long hours of tutelage back home, Fane puts the following pieces together:

• Granmire is a green hag.
• The illusions here are old and naturalized.  The magic here isn’t just clever—it’s personal, bound to her fey nature and steeped in years—perhaps decades—of reinforcement.  They are not traps or tricks laid yesterday, but enchantments that have been cast and recast until they’ve become part of the land.  The swamp remembers the spells now.  They don’t flicker or decay—they bloom and retract like a living thing.
• Her control of the illusions is more akin to the powers of a sorcerer than a wizard.  There’s no need for focus or formula; her connection is instinctual.  The magic is not a tool, it is an extension of her power - an extension of her.

[Ready to return to the keep?  If so, Eron please make a survival check, with advantage from presumed assistance from Leo and Sylraen.]

Fane is ready to head to the Keep and would have kept Leo in the camp for fear of her getting lost in the illusionary magic of the place. Once we leave, she will have Leo scout ahead, and will gladly let Eron direct her owl familiar in ways that he things make the most sense on their journey through the swamp.

She will of course share the above insight to about Grandmire.

The last thing she would do is congratulate Eron on his fishing skills. "When we have some down time, perhaps I can help you learn how to Shape Water? It could be useful for fishing. Though between you and me, I know nothing about fishing" she admits, and smiles when Leo gives out a 'hoot' in agreement.

"Between you me and Leo I guess."

Quote from Bartjeebus >>

[Ready to return to the keep?  If so, Eron please make a survival check, with advantage from presumed assistance from Leo and Sylraen.]

 22 Eron and Leo seem to have a great repartee with one another, body language and bird calls…

Quote from HunterOrien >>

Quote from Bartjeebus >>

[Ready to return to the keep?  If so, Eron please make a survival check, with advantage from presumed assistance from Leo and Sylraen.]

 22 Eron and Leo seem to have a great repartee with one another, body language and bird calls…

 'hoot'

With most of the farewells already spoken, the party leaves Granmire’s hollow quietly, the misty air cool against their skin in the early morning gloom.  Sylraen walks close to Arlynn, the young Olve girl's silver hair damp with the swamp’s heavy dew, but her step sure and certain.  She leads them through the labyrinthine waterways and knotted thickets nearest the hag's lair with an easy, almost instinctual grace.

Above, Leo the owl circles, a small dark shadow against the lightening sky.  His keen eyes pick out safer paths where the moss drapes thick, avoiding deeper pools hidden by reeds or tangling roots.  Communicating obstacles through Fane to Eron, the group is able to make good time with sure footing.

The swamp is alive with its low, murmuring chorus: the distant croak of frogs, the soft buzz of insects, the occasional plop of something unseen sliding into still, black waters.  Pale white flowers bloom on mats of floating greenery, and the air smells of damp earth, sweet rot, and something faintly metallic.

At one point, a herd of swamp deer—small, long-legged, and ghost-pale—watches the party pass from the shadow of a fallen tree.  A crane lifts silently into the air as they near a narrow waterway, its wings scattering the mist like torn veils.  There is something idyllic about this place.  Surely there are dangers here - crocodiles, hydras, trolls and perhaps worse - but absent any actual threats, this is a beautiful, natural setting.

The three-hour journey is slow but sure, the party moving carefully, silently, until at last the incomplete silhouette of Bale Keep rises ahead of them—low stone towers jutting from the murk like uncapped teeth, walls half-swallowed by vines and swamp grasses.

As they crouch low behind a stand of thick cattails and fallen logs, Arlynn’s eyes sharpen—her bond with her familiar clicks back into place.  She feels the invisible creature’s excitement flutter through her mind.

With a few whispered words and a tightening of her fingers, Arlynn focuses, and the familiar’s thoughts and impressions flow into her:

Arlynn:

Arlynn thanks her servant for his report and relays to the others what it has conveyed. "We have some options here but I suggest we take out those inside the keep first and then lay in ambush as the others return. I admit I would feel better knowing more about where that group in the marsh is. Can you help out with locating them Sylraen?" She turns and asks the young Olve girl.

"I wonder if the group is heading to look for the others? Let's hope Grandmire's magic keeps them away" Fane says.

"I agree, let's find a way into the keep while there are just a few of them. I can turn some of us Invisible if it helps, but not all of us unfortunately. Perhaps while the guard is watching the sea, we make our move?"

Eron weapons ready nods as Arlyn & Fane lay out a plan to invade the keep.  “Let’s try not to get separated.”

Sylraen listens closely as the others speak and she fidgets slightly, arms folded tight across her chest.  Her eyes flick toward the direction the group had marched off into the swamp.

“If you want to pursue them… I think I can help find them,” she says softly.  “If they’re heading through the marsh, the animals might know.  Birds, frogs, even the dragonflies—they see more than people think.”

Her voice is hesitant.  “I want to help.  Truly.  But I can't promise I can lead us straight to them—not before it’s too late.  The marsh is big and we don't know how much ground they've covered by morning.  We’d need luck to find them before they find the village... or something else.”

Sylraen then glances back toward the keep.  “Granmire has always protected us before.  I can trust that she can hide the others a little longer.  I’ll follow your lead. If you want to move on the keep, then if we take it quickly... maybe we still have time to stop the others, too.”

She looks to each of them, then rests her gaze briefly on Fane and Arlynn.  “I don’t want them to hurt anyone else.”

From your observations and those of the familiars, the walls of the keep - though poorly maintained -  are intact.  The only obvious way in is through one of the two gates, (the one on the northwest side facing the marsh, or the small portcullis facing the sea - both closed) or over the wall.

The party is currently lurking in the marsh to the north of the map.  Karg is inside his tower (northeast tower) and the other member of his band is on the southern platform, currently watching the sea.

"I too believe Granmire can hide and protect your kin. I'm just concerned with if the group that left are in fact not going into the marsh but rather are waiting for us to reveal ourselves before they return to the keep and surround us. If we can somehow make sure they have actually gone into the marsh and are not waiting closeby I would feel more confident going into the keep." Arlynn quietly explains. "When we enter the keep we should perhaps go after Karg first. If we defeat him the others might be more interested in simply leaving rather than fighting. What do you think?" She asks the others.