The road ends at the banks of a rushing river, where a small camp of tents is protected by a badly-damaged wooden palisade. A wispy column of smoke rises from the center of the camp. The smell of roasted meat and the low grumble of rough voices emanate from this lonely outpost…
You are welcomed into the camp. Its currents occupants include:
Harrisa Fordridge
A lively spark in a land choked with gloom, Harrisa Fordridge is a young halfling archaeologist with boundless curiosity and more courage than sense. She hails from the distant port city of Wavehaven, far to the west, driven by a theory most scholars dismiss as nonsense—that the now-forgotten Altevir Basin was once the heartland of a halfling kingdom. Armed with maps, old songs, and an infectious enthusiasm, she’s come to the edge of the Black Marsh hoping to unearth lost truth in a place most would rather forget.
Ode “Treeless”
A broad-shouldered half-orc with arms like felled timber and a heart just as heavy, Ode earned his nickname after he clear-cut a forbidden grove—land that, unfortunately, belonged to the mayor’s son. Banned from Haver’s Fen, he now scrapes out a living cutting peat and avoiding trouble. But the light in his eyes has dimmed of late. Two nights ago, his loyal golden retriever, Stew, vanished during a crocagon ambush near the Rafts. Since then, Ode’s been quieter than usual, his melancholy as thick as the marsh fog.
Ria Fletcher
Lean, sharp-eyed, and silent as falling snow, Ria Fletcher is a seasoned human trapper who knows the Black Marsh better than most. Her lean frame is wrapped in patchwork leathers, and her bowstring never sings without purpose. After tracking signs of a recent raid, she’s uncovered the location of a nearby hostile camp—and she’s already making preparations to slip in and reclaim stolen supplies. Ria isn’t out for blood... but she won’t shy from it, either.
Ernest Coppertail
Old even by dwarven standards, Ernest Coppertail is all gristle, gray beard, and grudges. Once a famed big game hunter from the mountains beyond Hammerfall, he now stalks the marshes, driven by a single obsession: crocagons. The massive, scaled beasts that lurk where the Rush meets Poison Lake have eluded him for years, but Ernest swears he’ll bring one down before the marsh takes him first. With his battered musket, a pouch full of black powder, and a growl for every greeting, he’s the kind of man the marsh respects—or devours.
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