Solo Expedition part 2: Dogs and Discussions
D&D Adventure: White Dragon Run - Part 2
As Jorgen rants, waving his jug and slurring half of his words, the fighter/thief quietly steps from behind the shrine stones and slips a hand toward the satchel. The leather is cracked and damp with swamp-stink, but the straps are worn—easy to loosen.
In a practiced motion, he slips the satchel off Jorgen's shoulder and fades back into the shadows behind a broken shrine wall, unseen.
Jorgen doesn't notice. He's too caught up in his speech:
As the thief pulls back and opens the flap just enough for a peek:
Contents of Jorgen's Satchel:
- Four folded maps, each on rag paper, slightly damp
- One labeled: "Safe Crossing – Greentide Flats" (matches the barbarian's)
- One clearly mislabeled (shows swamp terrain but marked as "Dry Ridge")
- A small pouch with 8 silver and 1 gold coin
- A sealed note with a wax stamp (symbol: crossed reeds)
- A scrap of rough charcoal sketch that seems to show ambush positions along one of the marked swamp paths
While Jorgen continues his slurred justifications, the fighter/thief melts back into the shadows and loops quietly around to rejoin the group. He keeps low, using the waning light and brush for cover, and arrives near the rear rank—where the mage and druid hold position with the men-at-arms.
He slips beside the druid and mage and quietly shows them the satchel contents. They exchange silent glances. This is bad.
Paladin Pushes for Truth
Meanwhile, the paladin steps closer to Jorgen, not threatening, but standing tall—his voice unwavering:
"You've spun this tale poorly. We already know the map was false. But I believe there's more. Who paid you to mark false paths? And how many have you led to ruin?"
"Speak now, Jorgen. Not for me—for the gods you desecrated when you spat on this shrine."
Jorgen Cracks
He blinks. Twice. His shoulders sag. His voice drops an octave and loses its edge.
"Wasn't just me. I made the maps... yeah. But I marked the wrong paths for coin. Some of the river boys—ones with the reed brand—they pay silver to get travelers off-course. Swamps swallow 'em. Or worse."
He looks toward the shrine and actually seems afraid.
As Jorgen finishes his pitiful confession, the paladin steps forward, his silhouette framed by the rising twilight and the ruined shrine behind him. The fighter/thief now stands beside him, satchel in hand—evidence made manifest.
"Then by your own words and these lies you've peddled, you are guilty of deceit, conspiracy, and aiding in the deaths of innocents."
He turns to the men-at-arms.
The guardsmen move quickly, flanking Jorgen with swords drawn. He stumbles backward, almost protesting, then slumps—too drunk and broken to fight. One of the men ties his hands with coarse rope while the linkboy readies a torch for the journey back.
"You'll die out there... river folk don't like paladins. Don't like anyone with eyes."
With Jorgen bound and babbling, the party retraces its steps down the muddy dirt road, the linkboy's torch lighting the path as darkness begins to settle. The air smells of damp moss and evening cookfires as the village walls come into view.
The guards at the gate squint at the bound man and step aside as the paladin leads the group through.
By the time you reach the village square, a small crowd has gathered—whispers of the earlier confrontation clearly spread quickly. Standing near the well, arms crossed and axe on his back, is the swamp barbarian.
His expression is hard to read, but he steps forward as the party halts.
"This man, Jorgen, confessed to selling false maps to travelers, leading them to danger and death. He was paid to mislead—to help criminals strike unseen. This ends today."
The paladin gestures to the satchel, then to Jorgen, who is shoved forward by one of the men-at-arms.
"Didn't kill no one... I just drew the lines...!"
The barbarian steps forward, staring Jorgen down. Then he turns to the paladin.
"You said you'd bring the truth. And you did. That... means something."
He reaches into his pouch and presses the gold coin the paladin gave him earlier back into the paladin's palm.
He steps back. Doesn't smile—but he nods. Once.
The crowd begins to murmur again, this time with respect.
A village constable steps up, offering to take Jorgen into custody. It's clear that, with public proof and the party's reputation rising, Jorgen will face real consequences here.
The crowd around the well is beginning to disperse. Jorgen has been led away in chains by the local constable. The air smells of smoke and river mud, and the torchlight flickers off the worn stones of the village square.
The paladin stands quietly, watching the barbarian linger at the edge of the torchlight. There's a moment of stillness between them—two men who live by different codes, but recognize strength and honor in one another.
The paladin steps forward, his voice low, not for the crowd but for the man alone.
"You faced danger for your truth, and you endured humiliation rather than hide your pain. I am Rupert Braveheart."
He places a fist over his chestplate.
The barbarian squints through the torchlight. A long pause. Then:
"Drask."
"Of the Black Fen. Dog-handler. Swampborn. I never gave it to a man with clean hands before. You earned it."
He offers no handshake, but instead taps his chest with two fingers and nods once.
Then he slings his axe over his shoulder and turns, disappearing into the fog-shaded road beyond the village.
Day 2
Weather: Showers for the next 3 days
With Jorgen secured and the crowd dispersed, your party regroups at the inn's common room, or perhaps a rented room above a tavern lit by a single oil lamp. The satchel lies on the table between you, and the fighter/thief produces the sealed note, its wax sigil bearing the symbol of two crossed swamp reeds—crude but deliberate.
The paladin ensures Jorgen is under watch, the druid clears a corner of the table of spilled ale and dried herbs, and the mage carefully cracks the seal.
The parchment is coarse and water-stained, but the writing is bold—inked in thick strokes with a reed pen. The dialect is lowland trade pidgin, but readable.
The Note Reads:
"Mapman—
Two more groups come from the east road. Mark the crossing by the willow snag near Dead Man's Sink. Give them a tale about buried silver or temple ruins.
Our eyes will be on them. Don't lead them too far north—the lizards patrol that ridge now.
Payment enclosed—standard rate.
Burn this.
—[No name, just the symbol again: the crossed reeds.]"
What the Fighter/Thief Learns (Success by 6)
The Crossed Reeds
- The crossed reed symbol belongs to a group called the Low Reeds, sometimes called Reedmen or the Wet Ones.
- They're a bandit-slaver gang operating out of the southern fens, especially the Greenveil Marshes.
- They often pay locals (like Jorgen) to guide victims into traps.
- Few people see them and live—some say they cover themselves in mud and moss, moving like shadows.
- It's whispered they trade captives to someone deeper in the swamps—"the buyer", who no one has seen.
Dead Man's Sink
- A sunken stretch of swamp, infamous for ambushes, soft mud, and the remains of a toppled watchtower.
- Named for a mercenary captain who drowned there trying to recover a stolen pay chest.
- Locals avoid it—no one crosses that hex willingly.
- You learn of an old hunter's path that runs just east of it, marked by twin willow trees carved with sigils—might allow a sneak approach.
Lizardfolk
- There's a tribe of lizardfolk northeast of Dead Man's Sink—the Siltclaws.
- They're territorial but not openly hostile unless provoked.
- Long ago, a paladin or druid negotiated safe passage through their lands—some sort of old truce may still exist.
The druid leaves the tavern behind, crossing the mud-slick village square with his hood drawn low. Rain patters off the thatch roofs and splashes into troughs. He makes his way to the edge of town, where the animal handler's lodge stands—a weathered barn with a lean-to shelter and a carved wooden sign showing a pawprint and bridle.
The smell hits first: damp hay, wet fur, old leather, and oats.
The animal handler, a lanky man named Werrin, is inside brushing down a muddy pack pony. He looks up as the druid enters, eyeing his cloak and staff, then gives a knowing nod.
"Not many come to visit in this weather. You here about the pup with the crooked paw, or just wantin' to talk?"
Animals in Werrin's Care
Werrin shows the druid around, motioning toward stalls and kennels under the eaves:
🐎 1. Pack Pony ("Thistle")
A sturdy, gray-coated pony with calm eyes. Used for short-haul trade runs between villages. Currently resting a strained fetlock.
🐕 2. Hound Pup ("Scrap")
Young and feisty with a slightly twisted paw. Friendly to the druid—wants attention. Was meant for hunting, but "not worth the feed," says Werrin. Druid might adopt or bond with it (option!).
🐐 3. Marsh Goat
Broad-footed and used to swamp travel. Belligerent. Has eaten Werrin's herb pouch twice. Could be useful for scouting tough terrain.
🦉 4. Caged Swamp Owl
Injured wing, being treated for a torn tendon. Very intelligent eyes. Not tame, but not afraid of the druid. Could be released later with Animal Empathy or Animal Handling for messaging, scouting, etc.
🐍 5. Reed Snake (Terrarium)
Harmless to humans, venomous to rodents. Worshipped in some backwater swamp cults. Werrin doesn't know why someone dropped it off, but it's been docile and seems... watchful.
"I don't ask questions much, druid. Folk bring things broken, I patch 'em up. If you want one of these beasts—just promise you'll treat 'em better than the ones who left 'em."
The druid kneels beside the caged swamp owl, murmuring soft words in Druidic while laying fingers gently along the perch. The owl watches—alert, unblinking—but doesn't resist.
The familiar glow of minor healing begins to gather... then flickers out like a candle in the wind.
The owl ruffles its feathers and lets out a quiet clicking screech—not hostile, but perhaps a warning. Werrin raises an eyebrow, folding his arms.
"Hmm. Might be that the bird's pain's deeper than it shows. Or maybe she just don't trust you yet. She's got the eyes of something that's seen cages before."
He tosses a strip of dried fish into the cage. The owl grabs it, still watching the druid.
The druid turns from the wary owl and approaches the kennel where Scrap, the crooked-pawed hound pup, lies curled on a pile of old cloth. The rain patters gently on the barn roof above. The little dog lifts its head and lets out a faint, eager whine—recognition, or maybe just hope.
Kneeling beside it, the druid places his hand gently over the twisted joint and begins chanting in low, earthy tones, the smell of moss and wet cedar subtly rising in the air.
The glow is soft but steady this time. Scrap's paw twitches once, then stretches straight, the swelling visibly receding. The little dog lets out a yip and tries to stand—this time without the limp.
It bounds in a circle and nearly knocks over a feed bowl.
"Well I'll be spit on by a bog toad... That pup's been limping since birth. Never thought he'd run straight."
He looks at the druid with newfound respect.
Scrap pads over to the druid and sits beside him, tail wagging rapidly.
As the druid scratches Scrap behind the ears, watching the once-crooked paw move freely, he looks back up at Werrin, the animal handler. Rain drums steadily on the barn roof above.
"You patch up what others abandon. Ever patch up anyone with a reed mark on them? Or hear the name 'Low Reeds'?"
Werrin stiffens for just a moment—subtle, but not missed. He pulls a pipe from his belt, chews on the stem.
"Don't say that name loud. Not here."
He leans against a post and lowers his voice.
What Werrin Knows (Based on Prior Rolls + Bonus Context)
- "Low Reeds" are real, and active—especially near Dead Man's Sink and the southern trade path.
- They move at night and "don't leave much behind but blood and missing folk."
- Werrin treated a mule once that came back with reeds jammed into its harness and human blood dried under the saddle. No rider ever claimed it.
- He's seen swamp hounds disappear in the same areas where "Reed Men" are said to walk beneath the trees.
- Someone once tried to bribe him to help store or tend animals for passing "clients"—he refused. The man was found dead in the mire a week later, with his boots missing and his tongue cut out.
"Folk say the Reeds are just swamp-ghost stories. But I've seen enough not to doubt the dark corners. They use folks like Jorgen. Cowards with ink and coin. Never show their own faces till it's too late."
"If you're thinkin' of goin' after them... don't just bring steel. Bring someone who knows the land. They vanish like smoke if you don't know how to follow sign. And whatever you do—don't follow willow carvings at night. That's how they lead you in."
"Aye. She ain't easy, that owl—but if you get through to her, she'll remember. Birds like her… they don't forget faces. Or kindness."
He reaches down and tosses Scrap a chunk of dried meat, which the hound devours mid-bound.
The druid lifts his hood again and steps out into the wet gray dusk, Scrap padding loyally at his side, tail wagging.
Return to the Group
The rest of the party has gathered in the tavern's back room—maps unrolled, the reed-marked note laid out, and tankards half-full beside oil lamps that flicker in the storm's wind.
When the druid returns, Scrap trots in behind him, already soaking wet but looking proud as any battle hound.
"New recruit?"
"Not yet. But he already walks straighter than some men we've crossed."
The druid shares what he learned from Werrin: the stories, the warning about willow carvings, and the missing mule with bloody tack—further proof of the Low Reeds' violent and subtle methods.
The paladin steps forward from the dripping cloaks and dim torchlight. With a nod to show respect but no trace of deference, he begins.
"Lord Carenhald, we come not with tales of glory, but with evidence of rot. Your people are being preyed upon by slavers who mark their maps with reeds and feed honest folk into traps beneath the marsh. We have the words of a confessed agent, forged maps, and warnings from a local hunter. This is no rumor."
He unrolls the reed-marked letter and places it on the table beside the fire.
Lord Carenhald strokes his beard as he reads the letter, frowns at the inkwork, and then stares into the fire.
"I remember the Low Reeds. Fought them at Saltmarsh during my third year in saddle. Swamp dogs with more blades than honor. Thought they were broken a decade ago—but rot grows quiet before it spreads."
He sets the note down and straightens.
He nods toward the paladin.
What Lord Carenhald Offers
Map Access:
He provides an old military map of the surrounding marshes and outposts—including one abandoned watchtower near Dead Man's Sink.
Gear:
Offers the party 2 swamp-ready oilskin tarps, 4 vials of marsh-sting salve (cures infections and leech bites), and 1 lantern with extra flasks of oil.
A Retired Scout:
A grizzled man named Orvid, who once mapped the trails out to the lizardfolk's ridge.
"You're not just adventurers now. You’ve drawn a sword in my name whether you meant to or not. So if you do this, you finish it. No half-measures. Bring me names. Bring me heads, if you must. But bring my village peace.”
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