Dawn’s pale shimmer filtered through the hedge-wall of Sylgwyn Grinroot’s enchanted garden, and the companions stirred from their unnaturally dreamless rest. The bog beyond still hissed and bubbled, but for a heartbeat the world inside the hedge felt hushed—dew clung to emerald leaves, and heavy pink fruit gleamed like polished opals. Grinroot herself emerged from her crooked cottage, tall as reed-grass, her parchment skin folded into a bemused smile. A single enormous leaf served as her tray; upon it wooden cups—grown, not carved—steamed with fragrant tea.

Waer’dara accepted her cup first, nodding with solemn courtesy, while Bart­hole­meow stretched his feline limbs and admired the pink fruit. Thalmiir Brukur, always suspicious, eyed the tea as if it might sprout fangs, yet even he could not deny the mint-bright aroma that wafted upward. Grinroot, sensing their hunger, gestured to the laden boughs. “If you are comfortable devouring another creature’s reproductive organs,” she teased. Hat’s goblin grin widened—“Very comfortable,” he chirped—and the breakfast began.

But the hag’s hospitality came laced with intent. She spoke of the foul presence brooding in the ruined castle and of the undead spilling from the swamp like infection from a wound. The companions admitted their purpose: protect the distant grain farm, save the villagers, perhaps earn a few muffins along the way. Grinroot’s laughter rustled like wind through dead reeds. “Saplings,” she mused, “you meddle in systems you scarcely comprehend—yet brashness sometimes moves the world.”

She set before them two tasks, deceptively simple, undeniably strange:

  • Ashes of one who died protecting others.
  • A blade that has never kissed blood.

With these she would prepare the soil, cut clippings of the Lurian hedge, and teach them to weave a living wall strong enough to turn shambling corpses. Acceptance came on a rising chorus of clinking cups. Thalmiir drained his tea—binding or not, courtesy must be paid—and Pebblesong bit thoughtfully into the fruit, juices bright against her lips.

The hag’s sense of time drifted like mist; centuries, she implied, might pass before she personally uprooted the rot at its source. That languor nettled Thalmiir’s warrior heart. When Grinroot at last traced a long finger across their map—marking Decay’s Rest, the hill where a lieutenant named Sarith lingered—he felt purpose coil in his chest. Bart­hol­e­meow, ever courteous, gifted the hag an iron needle whose eye would admit no thread; Grinroot accepted the paradox with a delighted hiss, and the heroes set out.

Through the Bog

They stepped from manicured lawn into mire. Beast trails twisted beneath drooping willows, yet each forked path wound back upon itself, and by mid-morning they found footprints where their own should never be. Soft groans rippled through distant fog—four zombies had followed their aimless circuit. Steel flashed; rotted sinew fell. Yet frustration settled heavy.

Soon the sun’s weight pressed them beneath a swarm of biting flies. Heat baked the marsh to fetid stew, and even Hat’s half-formed plan to fashion netting from spare shirts proved futile. Waer’dara dropped into spider-shape, scuttling along with predatory delight, snapping insect after insect from the air, but the rest wilted beneath the onslaught. New quarrels sparked; more of the dead smelled their weakness and shambled nearer.

By ten bells the ground itself rebelled. Mud rose to Thalmiir’s thighs, sucking at greaves. Determined, he hoisted a suddenly diminutive Bart­hol­e­meow—now a frail halfling lass no heavier than a sack of onions—onto his shoulder. Pebblesong answered by shrinking into a mottled green frog, bounding ahead in joyous leaps. Hat fought the mire with Mage Hand and the futile tug of his owl Puppet; Waer’dara’s spider legs churned forward, laden with fattened flies. Against odds they conquered the sucking earth, though at the cost of more undead drawn to their splashing struggle.

When the sludge receded, they paused for elevenses. Bhakris Edge planted his stone-like frame between friends and encroaching cadavers, bearing the brunt of their flailing claws. Blade and spell silenced eleven foes; breath returned in ragged bursts, and wounds knotted shut beneath hurried bandages.

Yet the swamp was not finished. A low mist of noxious vapors slithered around ankles, seeking lungs. The company marched with held breath, timing gasps upon hummocks of firm ground. All succeeded—save Pebblesong, whose thoughts wandered to forgotten druidic runes for clearing air; one errant inhale burned her chest and stung her eyes, but the party pressed on.

A Cloud of Living Hunger

By early afternoon a hill rose from the flats, crowned by a shifting darkness. At first glance it was a storm-cloud dropped too low, but Pebblesong’s sharp eyes pierced the gloom: a swarm of insects, tens of thousands, buzzing twenty feet above the crest, their center drifting as though tethered to an unseen heart.

Among the tall grasses two hundred feet distant, the companions crouched. Shapes moved upon the rise—half a dozen figures and a cart silhouette. No alarm yet sounded. Plans whispered like wind through reeds. Waer’dara spun silken mitts—flimsy hand-webs to bat aside any stray gnats—while Bart­hol­e­meow volunteered for stealth. Hat’s fingers danced arcane sigils; invisibility wrapped the shapeshifter in translucent calm.

Invisible, Bart padded across muck and stone. His muted footfalls carried him between cat-sized hummocks until he reached the hill’s flank. There he beheld the guardians: a ring of standard corpses, unnaturally still, their torsos swaying in silent rhythm. Beyond them towered a gaunt commander—skin like brittle parchment clinging to bone, tattered robes draped over a frame that seemed too long for mortal memory. Two golden cords adorned its shoulder. Flanking it scurried two ghasts each marked by a single cord, obeying silent orders to haul fresh corpses from a ramshackle cart.

The commander’s rasping voice slid through dead air, words guttural and ancient. From a blackened chest at its feet it drew unseen implements, arranging them with ritual care upon the earth. The insect cloud above thickened, as though summoned by each syllable.

Hidden, Bart­hol­e­meow felt an icy prickle crawl across his fur—Sarith had begun some foul working, and the air itself vibrated with necrotic expectation.

Suspended Breath

Back among the reeds, the others waited—Thalmiir gripping his axe, Pebblesong’s frog heart thundering in tiny ribs, Hat adjusting the lenses of his goggles, Waer’dara’s many eyes glimmering beneath shadow. They could not yet see the ritual, but they felt the swamp hush, as though every bulrush and black-backed fly paused to listen.

And on the hilltop, beneath that seething crown of wings, the parchment figure’s ritual entered its first dark stanza…

Session Notes

  • Opening Banter & Setting

    • The session begins with lighthearted player chatter about dialing in from distant locations and time-zone math.
    • Current situation: The party awakens in an enchanted garden in the bog, having been magically transported there by Sylgwyn Grinroot, the hag of the swamp.
    • They gain the full benefit of a long rest (all exhaustion removed).

  • Hospitality of Sylgwyn Grinroot

    • Grinroot emerges carrying a large leaf that serves as a tray for grown wooden cups of steaming tea.
    • She points out a tree bearing glistening pink fruit, describing it as another creature’s “reproductive organs.”
    • The party thanks her and partakes of both tea and fruit after brief jokes about muffins and weapons.
    • Thalmiir’s high Insight confirms Grinroot’s power and that refusal would be rude rather than dangerous.

  • Discussion of Goals & Problems

    • Grinroot questions whether the party intended to visit the ruined castle and become “mind-slaves of the foul one.” They deny it and explain their mission to halt undead spilling from the swamp toward the grain-producing village/farm.

    • She expresses delight in protecting the Grainspeaker’s descendants and offers help, but reveals she has three problems (only two material components are specified):

      1. Ashes of one who died protecting others.
      2. A blade that has never touched blood.

    • With these she can perform a protection ritual using clippings from the Lurian hedge to repel undead and will teach them its cultivation.

  • Tea, Etiquette, and Tasks Accepted

    • The group drinks the tea to avoid offending their host. Pebblesong, Hat, and others eat the nourishing fruit.
    • They formally accept the two-item quest. Grinroot notes success or failure of the ritual will be evident only after it is attempted.

  • Cause of the Undead & Name Revealed

    • Grinroot philosophizes about causality and suggests the castle’s inhabitant is a link but not necessarily the key cause.
    • She introduces Sarith, a lieutenant of the castle dweller who is “facilitating the rising of the dead” through a forgetting.
    • Pebblesong’s Insight reveals Grinroot’s difficulty lies in experiencing time on a much longer scale.

  • Gifts and Map Guidance

    • Bartholemeow presents Grinroot with “an iron needle whose eye refuses any thread”; she accepts it with amusement.

    • Using the party’s map, Grinroot locates:

      • Their present position near the willow and prior campsite.
      • Decay’s Rest – a hill where Sarith is often found.

    • She requests secrecy about her home’s location.

  • Travel Toward Decay’s Rest (Skill Challenge Sequence)

    • Distance: Roughly half-day through swamp; party begins at ~9 AM.

    • Checkpoint 1 – Animal Trails (DC 12 Survival): Group fails; 4 zombie followers accumulate.

    • Checkpoint 2 – Heat & Insects (DC 13 Con): Group fails; Waer’dara’s spider Wild Shape counts as one success; +3 failures → 7 total zombie followers.

    • Checkpoint 3 – Thigh-High Mud (DC 14 Athletics):

      • Thalmiir (disadvantaged) carries a miniaturized Bart; success counts for both.
      • Pebblesong Wild Shapes into a frog for auto-success.
      • Hat and Waer’dara fail; overall group success, progress gained; +2 zombies → 9 followers.
      • 11 AM Short Rest: Party expends Hit Dice; Bhakris absorbs 7 damage from the attacking zombies as shield; zombies cleared.

    • Checkpoint 4 – Bog Miasma (Con saves): Group succeeds except Pebblesong; +1 zombie follower; progress continues.

  • Approach to the Hill (≈1 PM)

    • Party spots a dark “cloud” 20–30 ft above the hill.
    • Pebblesong’s natural 20 Perception: Identifies the cloud as a dense swarm of flying insects whose center slowly shifts.
    • Figures and a cart are visible on the hilltop; no sign they have noticed the party.

  • Scouting Plan

    • Group remains roughly 200 ft away, concealed among trees and tall grass.
    • Hat casts Invisibility on Bartholomeow (10 min duration).
    • Pebblesong’s familiar tails him within 100 ft for telepathic relay.
    • Bartholomeow stealths forward (advantage roll 12).

  • Bartholomeow’s Observations on the Hill

    • Several standard zombies stand evenly spaced around the hill, swaying.

    • Three distinctive undead:

      • One tall, parchment-skinned leader draped in rotting clothing, bearing two golden cords on its shoulder.
      • Two ghast-like attendants each with one golden cord. The leader issues raspy commands to them.

    • A cart atop the rise is stacked with fresh corpses; the two attendants shuttle between cart and hilltop.

    • At the leader’s feet sits a chest or box; it lifts the lid and begins an unknown ritual.

    • Insect swarm remains centered above the ritual site.

  • Session Cliffhanger

    • The ritual’s details and outcome are left unresolved as the session concludes.