The heroes sat round the campfire in the wreckage of the Old Elf’s hut, discussing their plans. There were multiple routes into and about the swamp, all precarious routes across wet logs above icy waters. Eventually they decided to “take the highway” to the south. Then Cedric heard a splash in the dark swampwaters beyond the fire light. Drawing his bow, he moved to the other side of the fire. Marquis D’Annunzio “The Picador” moved to the edge of the waters and chucked a spear at the dark shapes he saw millng about the darkness. A hissed grunt was his reward as he struck home. Then Dyffyd Kinewatcher brought forth a globe of light about the head of one of the intruders, and lo they were revealed as lizard headed lurkers, skulking about the waters with nets and spears. It took the young but now seasoned warriors little time to send them back beneath the watery muck.

What would be the next course of action? There they were within the bounds of a seemingly endless swamp far from civilized lands. Somewhere lurked a dragon which may or may not have bits of Stephan D’Annunzio in its belly. In the fog to the south the knew was a large stone fortress ruled by Sondra the Witch Queen from which could be heard the sepulchral rhythmic clanging of metal on metal. Ash fell as frequently as snow.

It was bitter cold, and those fighters who had plunged into the icy waters in search of discarded weapons shivered in their damp woolens by the fire. They spoke of Delvers Dale and the comforts of the taproom, sorely missed during these fugitive weeks on the road. The Lady of the Lake crept into the conversation as well. The Finch had already absconded back there to be with his father in his time of trouble. There the weather had not seemed so harsh… Yet thoughts of either returning to Delver’s Dale empty handed or even whiling idle hours at a lake while there was evil to confront did not sit well with the fires of youth and indignation that burned within the bellies of the Brotherhood of Universal Platonitude. So it was decided to “take the highway”, due south to the fortress of the Witch Queen.

It took little time to thrash their way back to the path that led to the south end of the small island, where the clanging rhythm of industry could be heard more clearly. There, a wooden bridge stretchied across the waters, its far end lost in the fog, a light dusting of white snow covered a fresh layer of soot that hung in the air and settled on the logs. A dozen sharpened stakes lined each side of the bridge, and a skull was impaled upon each one. A crow sat atop one of the more recent craniums, picking at the vague strands of flesh that were once a man. Catching sight of the Brotherhood, the crow cawed and took wing.

Twill Bell stepped forward and a quiet song of eulogy sprang to his lips.

“Whither and wence did your end come boy?
And how’s the Otherside treatin’ ya?
Does it blow and it freeze like the winds do here?
Or is Moradin’s trencher still feedin’ ya?”

At this the skull moved of its own volition and replied:

“I’m down in the muck, buried and stuck, ruined by the Maw that ate me.
Trampled underfoot, worked to my bones, the Witch Queen our lives she has taken.
Devils bile we have dug, as our souls they have screamed
and my faith in Mother’s Mercy it is shaken.”