Morgid unfolds his map, the damp parchment crackling softly in his grip. He traces a finger along the route they've been following, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, he points to Sosen's recommended path branching off from their current course, a path that weaves through a denser network of reeds and deeper patches of swamp water. "Look," he mutters, his voice low and raspy. "This way leads around those Dwendalian guards. It's a rougher path, mind you, more bogs and nasty critters to avoid. But with a bit of luck and some careful maneuvering, we could lose them in an hour. At worst, we maintain the same distance, but at least we won't be bumping elbows with those Dwendalian dogs." He taps the map again, a glint of determination flickering in his yellow eyes. "In about an hour, we would either lose them completely, or at least make it a real pain for them to keep following us through this muck." A beat of silence hangs in the air as Morgid folds the map with a sigh. "It ain't the most comfortable option, but it might be our best bet to avoid a fight. What do you all say?"

"What is preferable, a guaranteed fight with a group of organised savages, or a possible fight with some beasts who live in the swamp and therefore get a terrain advantage? Normally I would take the possible over the guaranteed, but in an unfamiliar territory, I defer to those who know the unknown enemies better." 

Sosen listened closely to all.  "Morgid, forgive me for having any doubts.  You are a stout companion to have at one's side."  Looking about she continues, "I would prefer a 'known' versus an 'unknown', however, the odds are stacked against us going up against those seven Dwendalian.  As Lanu said, we would need a large advantage to even have half a chance." 

The goblin looked at the map once again.  "Unless someone has an objection, I suggest we follow our scout's advice."

"Indeed." He looks at Morgid, "Perhaps your stubborn attitude will help against any of these 'critters' you mentioned."

He looks around, then down at the mud encasing their feet and legs, "And we must be quieter. Though the sounds of the marsh should aid in masking our noises with its own, we shouldn't tempt fate by stomping around in this mud loudly."

Folsen afternoon, 5th Thunsheer

Morgid, his back slick with sweat despite the oppressive dampness, brings the party to a halt with a raised hand. His keen senses honed by a lifetime in the swamp scan the surroundings, searching for any sign of the Dwendalian patrol. After a tense moment of silence, a relieved grin spreads across his orange face. "Looks like we shook those Dwendalian dogs," he mutters, his voice raspy but laced with satisfaction. "They must've gotten bogged down somewhere back there. We've gained ourselves an hour at least; we'll have to remember they're out here and keep our eyes and ears alert in case we cross paths with them again." He consults his tattered map, its edges curling slightly in the humid air. "Figure we got about three hours of travel time left before we start to risk exhaustion, enough to push ahead a little before we need to make camp for the night. Sosen, where do you think we should go? But...look..." his voice trails off as his gaze settles on the unsettling scene to the northwest.

Morgid lowers the map, his brow furrowing in concern. He points a clawed finger towards the shaded thicket of withered mangrove trees. The sickly veil of rotted kudzu and creeper vines hanging from their skeletal branches creates an atmosphere of decay and despair. A dark and lonely copse, it seems to exude an unnatural stillness. "See that?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "Over there, by the water. Looks like a raft... and something else." He squints, trying to discern the details through the oppressive mist. "Looks like... a body?" Morgid hesitates, his hobgoblin instincts screaming caution. He glances at each member of the party, his yellow eyes filled with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. "What do you say we do? Investigate, or give that place a wide berth?"

Much to Morgid's chagrin, after a brief deliberation the party agrees to carefully investigate. The oppressive atmosphere of the withered grove intensifies as the party cautiously enters. Sunlight struggles to penetrate the dense canopy of skeletal mangrove trees, casting eerie shadows across the stagnant water. The sickly sweet stench of decay hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the musky aroma of damp earth.

Morgid leads the way, his senses on high alert. His gaze scans the murky water near the moldering wooden raft, where a single withered post juts from the surface. A dark silhouette clings to the base of the post, sending a shiver down the spines of the adventurers. As they draw closer, the horrifying truth reveals itself: the skeletal remains of a Dwendalian soldier, his bony fingers gripping the post in a final, desperate attempt to stay afloat. A collective gasp echoes through the grove, broken only by the unsettling drone of unseen insects.

Morgid, ever the pragmatist, scans the area for supplies or clues, oblivious to the more sinister inhabitants. However, a flicker of unease crosses the faces of the others. Suddenly, Sosen's eyes widen in alarm. With a silent point towards the tangled mass of roots at the base of the trees, she discreetly communicates to the others using hand gestures. Her message is clear: danger lurks unseen. Lanu, her reflexes honed by years of wilderness survival, reacts instinctively and grabs Morgid by the shoulder, stopping him before he steps any further. Peregrine's keen eyes follow Sosen's gaze, finally discerning the telltale flick of forked tongues within the knotted root system. A barely audible hiss pierces the silence. Two swarm of poisonous snakes, their scales shimmering a sickly green, lie coiled amongst the gnarled roots. They seem undisturbed by the presence of the dead soldier, their attention now fixed on the living intruders.

A grim realization washes over the party. The Dwendalian soldier wasn't simply lost; they were trapped. Starvation likely claimed them last, their final moments a desperate struggle against the relentless threat of the venomous serpents lurking beneath the surface. A tense silence descends upon the grove. The party stands frozen, caught between morbid curiosity and the very real threat of a swift and agonizing death. Morgid, clearly shaken by his close call, asks "What should we do? Investigate further, risking a deadly encounter with the venomous snakes? Or should we choose to leave the unfortunate soldier and his secrets undisturbed?"

Sosen hears Morgid's concern and rising unease.  "Hold fast, Morgid.  If we turn tail at every turn, we might as well just return to Urzin and admit our self imposed failure."  The goblin cleric gave a wry smile, " While I can not guarantee utter victory in every encounter, I will do my best to gain what advantage I may."   

So saying, Sosen looks at the raft and the two knotted swarms of snakes.   Doing a bit of mental estimation, she points a finger and speaks a string of words in an ancient dialect >>   Faerie Fire     

The cleric strains to see if the bright blue light outlines both masses of snakes.

Swarm 1 dexterity save 14

Swarm 2 dexterity save 23

Quote from vetallica >>

Swarm 1 dexterity save 20

Swarm 2 dexterity save 17

Sosen's young eyes blaze with determination as she points a finger towards the menacing shadows beneath the mangrove roots. A low chant erupts from her lips, the ancient dialect of the twilight realm flowing in a torrent of arcane syllables. With a flick of her wrist, she unleashes a shimmering gout of energy. It crackles through the air, aiming for the hidden swarms.

For a fleeting moment, hope flickers in the party's eyes. They envision the sickly sweet faerie fire bathing the grove in an otherworldly blue light, revealing the exact locations and numbers of the venomous serpents. This knowledge would have been invaluable, allowing them to formulate a plan with advantage. But fate, it seems, had other plans. The faerie fire, usually a beacon of illumination, is met with an unexpected resistance. The sickly green flashes from within the roots betray the swiftness of the creatures. The moment the blue light nears, a flurry of movement erupts. Coiled bodies unwind with surprising agility, forked tongues flickering in defiance. The faerie fire darts through the rapidly shifting shadows, managing to brush against only a few scales before dissipating harmlessly, illuminating nothing but the damp earth and tangled vines. The grove remains shrouded in its oppressive gloom, the venomous inhabitants frustratingly obscured.

A collective sigh of disappointment ripples through the party. Sosen lowers her hand, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. The failed spell hangs heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the limitations they face in this treacherous environment.

"Maybe we should retreat. The raft would likely get stuck in the bog anyway, and I don't see anything other than the body. Unless someone is desperate for their armour we should focus on survival and our task. We might manage against half as many snakes but that there is a lot of poison."

Sosen, still frowning after her spell failed, slowly shakes her head in agreement. "Lanu has the right of it.  We would be swarmed in no time.  And anything on that raft and body obviously wasn't enough to save their hides..."   

She looks about slowly for any movement toward them.   "Snakes before us and that patrol behind us... perhaps we should move back a goodly bit and head westward toward our main goal, the Fort?"

"Whatever it is we decide, we should do it quickly," Peregrine eyed the snakes. "I don't want to find out what happens when the snakes get agitated. Or what happens when the Dwendalian guards catch up to us."

He looks around, eyes trying to focus on any obstacles to the west, " Westward seems like our best option right now."

With a heavy sigh and shared glances of disappointment, the party concedes the two swarm of poisonous snakes are too dangerous to engage right now. The grove's oppressive atmosphere clings to them like a shroud as they turn their backs on the hidden dangers and the Dwendalian soldier's grim fate. Morgid, still visibly shaken by his close call with the snakes, lets out a grumbled sigh of relief, muttering something under his breath about the importance of picking battles wisely.

As they step out of the withered grove and back into the oppressive swamp air, a distinct change washes over them. The oppressive silence that hung heavy within the grove is replaced by a cacophony of sound. The rhythmic croaking of frogs teases their ears, a chorus that grows louder with each step they take westward. At first, it's a distant rumble, a deep, guttural symphony emanating from somewhere ahead. But as they press on, the sound intensifies, becoming a relentless crescendo that fills the air. The swamp floor underfoot squelches with each step, the humid air thick and heavy with the scent of decaying vegetation. The skeletal branches of dead cypress trees claw at the sky, their silhouettes stark against the bruised orange glow of the setting sun filtering through the dense swamp canopy. The vibrant green wall of foliage that surrounds them seems to pulsate with unseen life, the source of the ever-louder amphibian symphony.

A sense of unease creeps over the party. While the sound of frogs itself isn't inherently threatening, the sheer intensity and volume of their croaking creates an unsettling atmosphere. Is it a mating call of such magnitude, or something more sinister? Perhaps the frogs are disturbed by the party's intrusion, or maybe they're warning of some unseen danger lurking ahead. The oppressive swamp, once again, shrouds them in uncertainty, leaving them to navigate not only the physical dangers but also the unsettling mysteries that lie hidden within its depths.

The already oppressive atmosphere in the withered grove takes a sharp turn towards the bizarre. The previously incessant croaking of frogs suddenly clicks into place – they weren't simply serenading the swamp, they were a signal. Four figures emerge from the twisted mangrove roots, not with the slithering grace of snakes, but with a more comical waddling gait. Bullywug. Four of them, each a grotesque caricature of a frog-man, their warty skin adorned with a mishmash of shiny trinkets and mismatched baubles: a dented brass horn hangs from the neck of one, a rhinestone tiara sits askew on the head of another. These aren't your typical, swamp-dwelling bullywugs. These are dandies, their pride only slightly diminished by the mud clinging to their oversized bellies. One puffs out his chest, inflating a surprisingly large throat pouch. "Halt, travelers!" he croaks, his voice a parody of authority. "This here be the domain of King Grognack the Magnificent! Pay the toll, or face the wrath of the Boggy Bottom Brigade!" The other bullywugs, emboldened by their leader's proclamation, brandish crude spears and rusty daggers, their beady eyes fixed on the party's weapons and coin pouches. Morgid lets out a sigh, his face a mask of annoyance. The others exchange glances. These bumbling amphibians present an unexpected obstacle, adding another layer of frustration to their already tense situation.

"Toll? How much are you after? We don't really have much at the moment, but if you let us pass, we can get some more that we can give to King Grognak. We are headed to Fort Venture" she spits on the ground after saying it "and I am sure they have much treasure that we can steal from them. Maybe you wish to help us? Make sure we are true to our word?"

The leader's chest expands like a bullfrog inflating its throat pouch, threatening to burst from the sheer audacity of the party's offer. "We will not be tricked by the likes of you!" he bellows, his voice cracking slightly under the strain. "Dispense with your fancy words and provide tribute worthy of His Majesty, King Grognak the Magnificent! Or," he continues, his voice taking on a menacing tone, "surrender yourselves and your belongings. We will take you before the king himself to plead for mercy… or face the consequences!" A bead of sweat rolls down his warty green temple, tracing a glistening path through the mud clinging to his oversized belly. The other bullywugs tighten their grip on their rusty weapons, their expressions morphing from a show of bravado to genuine anger. The threat of capture hangs heavy in the air, a prospect that raises eyebrows amongst the party members. The bullywug leader taps his foot impatiently, the cruel glint in his beady eyes shining ominously in the dim light. "Well? You gonna cough up the treasure, or are we gonna have ourselves a little swamp tussle?"

Lanu makes a show of patting her pockets looking for tribute while whispering to the party. "How dangerous are four frogs? Might be a good opportunity to witness each others fighting styles?"

Sosen   Combat Log > Initiative Roll = 14 

The goblin cleric looked to her left and right, judging the body language of her compatriots.  Seeing muscle tensing and hands slowly moving toward weapon hilts (or in Lanu's case.. the corded muscles showing beneath the sweat and marsh grunge), she shrugged her shield arm shoulder and dipped her own hand in preparation for an attack and response.

Peregrine notices the rest of their party slyly reaching for their weapons. Sosen's question had clearly been answered. He slowly brought his hands behind his back, gripping his weapon in preparation.

Initiative Roll = 10

Morgid's sly smile evaporates faster than swamp mist under a midday sun. He glances around the party, catching the flickering flames of defiance in their eyes – Sosen's hand tightening around her holy symbol, Peregrine's shadow shifting as he subtly adjusts his position, Lanu's stance widening into a fighting crouch. An exasperated sigh escapes his lips. Here he was, thinking a bit of harmless bartering could avoid a needless fight, and his companions are already spoiling for a scrap.