A hush settled over the sleeping quarters just after sundown, the only noise the soft rustling of straw mattresses and the distant croak of frogs echoing from the marshy lowlands. Those first hours at Baroldson Farm were calm and strangely comforting for a band of weary wanderers who had only recently crossed paths with the undead. Soon enough, though, the faint crows of roosters and clanging pots broke the silence, ushering in a predawn bustle. Unused to a schedule that began before the sun was properly in the sky, the travelers gathered their belongings with bleary eyes and made their way outside.
They found a communal hall at the heart of the farm, where the smell of hearty porridge welcomed them in. A swirl of conversations rose and fell around long wooden tables. At the largest one, an older man known as Baroldson sat, flanked by a few farmhands who spared suspicious glances at newcomers. Opposite him, a formidable older woman with bright, curious eyes—called Old Gran by everyone else—watched the group with an alertness that defied her many years.
Though Baroldson greeted them with a certain wariness, he made sure there was room at his table. The porridge turned out to be simple but surprisingly satisfying, speckled with smoked meat and flecks of dried fruit. Between spoonfuls, the travelers explained—or tried to explain—their intentions to lend a hand. They’d encountered horrors on the approach to the farm, undead creatures that lumbered and fused together into even greater monstrosities. If that menace had taken root nearby, there was no telling how many might still roam the bog.
Baroldson grunted, insisting that fighting the dead was a losing proposition. Then Old Gran spoke up, calling herself the Wheatspeaker and sharing whispers of her long family lineage tied to these fields. Her voice resonated with the authority of one who knew secrets few others dared to learn. She spoke of the swamp’s “miasma,” a creeping sickness that now spread more boldly than in living memory. By her telling, these lands had always walked a narrow line between prosperity and peril. She mentioned a legendary figure—a so-called Hag or Witch—rumored to dwell deep within the mire, beyond sense or sanity. Some said the woman was ancient, while others claimed she was no more than a phantom story. Either way, Old Gran was certain the farm’s rising troubles came from deeper in the bog than any of them had gone before.
Determined to help, the band took in every word. One of them, draped in spiked armor that glinted menacingly in the morning’s light, rumbled with grim satisfaction at the thought of confronting whatever lurked in the swamp. Another, who bore the patient calm of a newly anointed oath-taker, nodded along, vowing that any evil fueling the undead would find swift justice at the tip of his blade. And yet another, eyes bright as starlight, recalled the strange new revelations she’d experienced under the night sky—wisdom gleaned from constellations that now guided her thoughts.
Just before leaving the bunkhouse to depart for the bog, the small, quick-fingered goblin artificer upended his satchel in search of a misplaced trinket. Out fell five curious shards that looked for all the world like splinters of a crystal orb. Confusion flickered across his face; the shards felt both familiar and alien in his grasp, as if some memory about them had been stolen from his mind. A tall, shapeshifting bard, whose feline form was rarely parted from a playful grin, peered at the shards and recalled their ominous connection to a dark power. Memories of curses and lost recollections hung in the air like an unspoken threat. Still, after a moment, the goblin shrugged and kept the shards tucked away, determined to trust his own resourcefulness if they ever proved necessary.
Old Gran beckoned the group near the gate. “Should you find the Hag,” she said gravely, “may your hearts stay true and your wits remain your own. The swamp has ways of twisting both.” Then, in a gesture almost tender, she rested a hand upon the rough wood of the farm’s fence and whispered a quiet blessing, a momentary hush falling over them all. Despite Baroldson’s dire prediction—“Stay out of the swamp!” he barked more than once—they set off northward, already resigned to plunging into the hazardous wetlands.
The trek led them past endless rows of wheat. Under the morning sun, the fields revealed a curious truth: the grain was not at a uniform stage of growth. In one field, the stalks were tall and golden, ready for harvest; in another, the sprouts were fresh and green. No one could rightly explain such a phenomenon, though they all felt it hinted at deeper energies swirling beneath the farm’s seemingly placid surface.
Eventually, the band came upon a crude ditch bristling with sharpened stakes. Beyond that barrier, the environment changed abruptly: the crisp smell of grain gave way to fetid mud, rotting vegetation, and the tang of standing water. The bog stretched out before them like a hungry maw, heavy mist clinging low along dark pools. Within that mist lurked shapes that rasped and shuffled, issuing low moans that sent a prickle of cold dread through even the bravest hearts.
They slowed their steps and surveyed the lay of the land. The spiked ditch marked the farm’s final defense—a woefully modest bulwark between living fields and the slow, encroaching menace of the undead. Yet the barricade’s meager protection was a far cry from true safety; already, rotting forms lurched near its edges. Some wore tattered farmhand clothing, others bore no clothing at all—just grave dirt and flaking skin. Each one groaned with vacant hunger, a sign that their will was no longer their own.
Quiet but resolute, the travelers exchanged glances. The memory of the previous day’s battle lingered—a reminder of how deadly these monsters could be when they gathered in force. Nevertheless, they had come to confront the source of this evil, or at least learn if the stories of a hidden Hag were more than local legend. Each companion squared their shoulders. They knew the next steps were fraught with peril, yet they also sensed that solving the swamp’s mystery might be the only chance Baroldson Farm had to regain its fragile peace.
They braced themselves as the first of the shambling corpses came into sharper view, a hissing exhalation seeming to greet them from across the bog. Tension hung as thick as the morning fog, and they felt the slow thud of their own pulses in their throats. Ahead lay the deep mire that might hold answers—or more terrors. Grim, spiked armor, bright starlit magic, fervent oaths, sly illusions, and a curious jar of mayonnaise yet unused—all might soon prove crucial. With weapons in hand and hearts resolved, they took that final step over the ditch, prepared to meet whatever horrors the swamp had waiting.
Arrival and Rest at the Farm Memories of the Recent Battle Hat’s Forgotten Magic Items Character Advancements Nightly Scenes and Minor Interactions Morning at Baroldson Farm Old Gran’s Stories and the Hag Debate Over Helping and Payment Leaving the Farm Hat’s Shards Rediscovered Observations on the Wheat Fields Approach to the SwampSession Notes