Peeling the last of the leaches from his hairy calves, Brunnor surveys the mound of mud and moss that the party has picked for tonight’s camp-site. The woodsman’s been gone for far too long, and the sound of sucking mud and splashes blend with the Priestess’ sobs.
“How am I supposed to stay clean in this wretched swamp,” her voice whispers.
The halfling is soaked to the neck, and the mound itself is covered with angry, biting ants. Numbly, what little dry wood that can be found is soon lit into a sputtering pale flame.
“I just hope we never have to come into these Swamps ever again, Dragon or no, I hate this place.”