Solo Expedition part 3: Journey to the Lizardfolk Camp

Scene: Seeking Out Orvid the Scout

Lord Carenhald gives a sharp whistle to a nearby guardsman.

"Send for Orvid. Tell him he's needed—not for war, but for warning."

You're directed to a squat stone cottage just outside the keep's south gate, past a storage yard where peat bricks dry on stacked racks. The air here is damp and heavy with moss and woodsmoke. The guards leave you at the gate with the warning:

"He don't like strangers. Or talking."

You knock once, and after a long pause, the door creaks open.

Orvid, the Swamp-Eyed

A wiry, leathery man stands inside, cloaked in a patchwork of faded gray and green oilskin. His left eye is clouded, but his right gleams sharp as a hawk's. He's barefoot, holding a long, curved bone knife and chewing on a root.

Orvid (gruff):
"If Carenhald sent you, it ain't for a dinner invitation.
What d'you want?"

the paladin explains why they are there and makes a npc reaction roll with a -2 for orvid initial state. The result was a 9 which is poor.

The paladin speaks clearly and honorably, explaining the group's mission, their encounter near the old willow tree, the owl they tried to heal, and their interest in the Reed Bandits. He holds himself with the noble bearing of his station…

…but Orvid's brow furrows, his mouth tightens, and his stance grows more defensive.

Orvid (growling):
"Words. Just words. Same as them templars who thought they could hunt in the marsh with books and banners.
You want my help, you earn it. Swamp don't care for titles or shining armor."

He turns back inside and motions as if to close the door, though he hasn't quite slammed it yet.

As Orvid begins to shut the door, the paladin calmly but firmly steps forward.

Paladin:
"Name your price, Orvid. We understand your time—and knowledge—are valuable. We're not here to waste either."

That gives the old man pause.

He doesn't turn around right away, but you hear the door creak back open an inch or two. A moment of silence, then:

Orvid (gruffly):
"Coin, is it? Hmph. Most come with silver and leave with less than they came. Still… not fool enough to turn it down."
(He turns, looking the party over with squinting eyes.)
"You want answers about the Reed Bandits, you'll pay 50 silver up front. I tell you what I know, and not a word more until I see it."

The paladin reaches into his pouch and counts out 500 copper pieces, placing them in a small cloth bag and offering it forward.

Orvid's eyes flick to the bag, then to the paladin's face.

Orvid:
"Copper, eh? You folk really do come with the long way around."

He snatches the pouch, weighing it in his hand with an experienced feel. A nod.

Orvid:
"Alright then. You paid, you get the truth. Or what passes for it in this swamp."

He motions for the party to step inside the shack. The interior is dim, cluttered with swamp tools, wooden charms, bundles of dried herbs, and worn maps. He clears off a stool with a grunt and gestures toward a crude reed-drawn map nailed to the wall.

What Orvid Shares:

❖ The Reed Bandits' Territory:
"They move through the Green Sigh—a patch of thick fog and slow-moving water out past the ash cypresses. The fog there never lifts, not even at noon."

❖ Their Sign:
"You'll know you're near when you see reeds tied in a double loop—like an eye closed in sleep. Sometimes left floating, sometimes tied to trees."

❖ Rumors of a Leader:
"There's talk of a man—some call him Whist. Others just say the Piper. Claims he can charm birds and beasts with a flute made of bone. Nonsense maybe, but folk gone missing claim to have heard music in the fog…"

❖ The Owl and the Reeds:
"An owl near the Green Sigh? Strange thing. They say the bandits mark creatures with reeds when they take 'em as scouts or spies. If it had reeds, it might have seen something... or been seen."

He finishes and leans back in his creaking chair.

"That's all I got, and more than most get. If you plan to walk into that fog, best say your farewells here."

Back in the Village

Time: Late afternoon, approaching evening.
Village Mood: Calm. Children chase dogs between carts; the blacksmith's forge clanks rhythmically; the tavern lanterns are already being lit.

Rest

The party books a night at the local inn, paying the modest fee (2 silver per person for a clean bed and meal, 1 silver for a shared room and simple stew). They eat a hot meal of stewed root vegetables, smoked fish, and dark bread.

---

Day 3

Weather - Showers for next 2 days

Rainy Morning in the Village

The second day dawns dim and damp, with a steady cold rain falling from a slate-gray sky. Puddles ripple under each drop, and villagers move under cloaks and wide hats, muttering about the weather.

The druid, wrapped in a damp cloak, squelches through the mud back toward the animal handler's shelter at the edge of the village. Chickens huddle under awnings, and steam curls from the stable roofs into the rain-heavy air.

Animal Handler's Shelter

Inside the roughly built lean-to, the smells of wet fur and hay dominate. The animal handler, a wiry man in a patched leather vest, looks up from feeding a pair of goats and nods at the druid.

"Rain's no kindness today. But the owl's still with us… and the pup's had a good appetite."

The wounded owl sits still but alert on its perch, feathers a little more fluffed than yesterday. Scrap, the puppy, wobbles over and gives a hopeful yip.

The druid does as he did the day before casting minor healing at 3 times longer to increase skill to 13 and rolls a 9

As the druid murmurs the incantation, rain dripping from the eaves in a steady rhythm, the glow of natural energy flows into the wounded owl. The bird shifts, feathers settling more smoothly, and it clicks its beak softly — the clearest sign of awareness since its injury.

The animal handler's brows lift, impressed.

"Well I'll be... That owl just might fly again if you keep at it. Didn't expect that."

The druid promises to provide additional healing when he returns from the swamps.

The animal handler nods respectfully as the druid makes his promise.

"You're a rare one, druid. I'll keep 'em safe until you return. Swamp's no place to linger long — watch yourself out there."

The druid leaves scrap in the care of the animal handler until his return.

The rain continues to drizzle as the druid pulls his cloak tighter and makes his way through the muddied streets of the village. The faint clop of hooves and distant hammering at the smithy echo through the misty morning air.

He soon arrives at the inn, where the rest of the group is finishing breakfast and checking their gear.

Your party is now regrouped and rested. The storm still looms, and the road ahead leads toward the swamp — and whatever trouble the Reed Bandits have stirred up.

Exploring their way through the first Hex of the swamp the party Rolls a Hostile Encounter at close distance:

Pushing aside some bushes the party comes straight into contact with Catoblepas

The Catoblepas begins to stare intently at Flint the fighter as he approaches. (casting dehydrate)

Flint Steps up and attacks with his sword (Skill 12 - Rolled 6, Cat Dodge + PD 8, Rolled 11, Shortsword damage D6+2, Rolled 6 -3 for DR = 3 x 1.5 Cut = 4 damage)

Sevrin the mage steps aside and orders the men at arms to advance

Fajor the Druid urges every one to try not to kill the creature it should flee if it realises it is out numbered against a superior foe

MaA #1 - Moves 4 spaces and takes a wild stab (Spear Skill -5 = 7, Rolled 9 miss)
MaA #2 - Does the same (Spear Skill -5 = 7, Rolled 13 miss)
MaA #3 - moves to get into a better position for next round

Rubert the Paladin moves up next to the beast

The Catoblepas finishes its innate spell (skill 18 -4 for damage taken =14, rolled 5 success by 9 | Flint Rolls to resist by HT 12, Rolls 13 failure 3d6-3 = 7 damage)

Flint has taken over half his hits in a single blow of dehydration and must make a HT 12 save or be knocked and stunned (HT 12, rolled 13)
Flint goes down from the sudden loss of water from his muscles

Sevarin begins to concentrate on a foolishness spell (cast at start of next turn)

Fajor moves over to flint so he can attempt to heal him in 2 turns.

MaA #1 - Stabs (Skill 12 - Rolled 8, Enemy Dodge + PD = 8, Rolled 18) it tried to dodge but tripped over itself (damaged roll 1d6+2 = 6 -3 DR = 3 x2 impaling = 6 damage)
MaA #2 - Stabs with +2 due to it laying prone now (Skill 14 - Rolled 12, Enemy Dodge + PD -2 prone = 6, Rolled 9) (damaged roll 1d6+2 = 6 -3 DR = 3 x2 impaling = 6 damage)
MaA #3 - Stabs with +2 due to it laying prone now (Skill 14 - Rolled 12, Enemy Dodge + PD -2 prone = 6, Rolled 10) (damaged roll 1d6+2 = 3 -3 DR = 0 damage)

Rubert Makes himself look as big and as imposing as he can roaring and beating the handle of his sword against his armor in attempt to scare the creature away

The Catoblepas turns to leave the aggression completely gone. Fajor urges the rest of the party to let it leave it in peace.

He takes extra time as he did with the owl and casts a minor healing on flint (Skill 13, rolled 10) Spending 3 fatigue and healing Flint back up to 7.

The Group decides to find a safer location under an outcropping of trees to allow flint some time to rest, drink some water to begin the process of rehydrating before heading on.

The group travels on into the next hex and partway through roll an encounter with travellers:

Swamp Encounter: Mysterious Travelers

As the party pushes through knee-deep muck and reeds under the dripping canopy, movement is spotted ahead: several cloaked figures are traveling along a narrow causeway of packed earth and broken stone — the remnants of an old trade path. Their lantern glows a faint green in the foggy mid-morning light.

As the rain patters steadily on the swamp canopy and mist hangs low over the brackish trail, your party comes across a small band of travelers slogging through the muck from the opposite direction.

There are four of them:

A haggard-looking human man in traveling robes with a staff strapped to his back.

A dwarven woman in scale armor carrying a heavy pack and a longspear.

Two younger men — likely laborers — each hauling a cart loaded with crates and reed-wrapped bundles.

The paladin raises a hand and calls out, his voice calm and clear despite the rain. "Well met, travelers. We mean you no harm — may we share words before continuing on?"

Reaction Roll

We'll make a reaction roll to determine their response. Since the paladin is being respectful and diplomatic, there's a +1 bonus. Roll: 9 + 1 = 10 (Neutral).

The robed man steps forward slightly, squinting at the party through the drizzle. "You've the look of adventurers. Not bandits, then? Good. This swamp has been less than welcoming lately."

He gestures to his companions, who relax slightly. "Name's Brenno. We've just come from the southern mire — the trails are passable, but be cautious. Something's stirring in the deeper reeds. More than just gnats and gators."

The paladin asks if they know anything about the location of the lizard folk tribe

Brenno wipes water from his brow and glances toward the eastern haze where thick reeds and drowned cypress begin to dominate the landscape.

"The lizardfolk?" he says cautiously. "We skirted their territory, though not too close — they've been... testy lately. Traders say they've pulled back deeper into the swamp, and even the reed-bandits are steering clear."

The dwarven woman adds, "Aye. Their old encampment was two days southeast from here by foot, following the spine of that black cypress ridge yonder." She nods to a barely visible rise of twisted trees to the southeast.

"But I wouldn't march in flying colors," Brenno warns. "They're not looking to talk. Word is they're gathering — maybe for war, maybe just scared. Either way, they've set snares and hidden trails. You'll need sharp eyes and a light step."

He pauses. "There's a druidic marker we passed near the midway point — carved into a split log — looked like a warning. If you find it, you're halfway to their borders."

Rubert wishes them well and begins to head on

Brenno nods and offers a rough but respectful salute.

"Safe travels, friends. Mind the boglights — and the silence. Sometimes it means something's listening."

The dwarf woman gives a small wave, her crossbow still resting across her lap. "And may the wind stay behind your backs. You'll need it."

With that, your party pushes forward into the deepening swamp, guided southeast along the black cypress ridge. The rains persist, soaking cloaks and muffling the sounds of movement. Strange bird calls echo across the marsh, and tangled undergrowth gives way to pools of murky water and floating mats of moss.

After a few more hours of travel, visibility drops as fog coils between the reeds and drips from overhanging branches.

You press on, moving deeper into the heart of the swamp.

The ground grows treacherous, with deep sucking mud and hidden pools beneath mats of vegetation. Each step forward risks a stumble or worse, but your group presses on cautiously.

Marching Order

Let me know if you want to change it, but I'll assume something like:

Front: Paladin (for heavy armor and leadership)
Middle: Druid and any ranged/support characters
Rear: Rogue or scout-type (if applicable), watching for threats behind

After about another hour of careful travel, the terrain begins to change subtly — the reeds part more frequently to reveal waterlogged trails, and carved stakes begin to appear, sunk deep into the mud. Some bear crude totemic decorations: skulls of frogs, feathers, and what may be alligator teeth tied with wet twine.

This is lizardfolk territory.

Ahead, through the fog and vines, you spot a rise of land slightly above the waterline. Crude wooden palisades form a semi-circle around a series of reed huts and a central mound that may be ceremonial or defensive.

Figures can be seen — tall, scaled humanoids with thick tails and wide mouths, some bearing spears, others dragging nets or hauling fish.

You haven't been spotted yet. You estimate about a dozen visible lizardfolk, but that may not be all of them.

The paladin steps forward from the group, emerging from the misty reeds into view with his hands open and clearly away from his weapon.

He advances slowly, deliberately, his armor glinting dully in the swampy light, a symbol of peace and strength.

The lizardfolk spot him quickly.

A trio of warriors immediately move to intercept — tall, thick-scaled, and alert. One bears a bone-plated breastpiece and steps ahead, raising a clawed hand for the paladin to halt. They speak in a hissing dialect that the paladin does not understand, but the tone is unmistakably cautious — not yet hostile, but tense.

The lead lizardfolk gestures for the paladin to wait and turns to bark something toward the encampment. Moments later, a shorter, older lizardfolk female approaches, wearing reed-woven sashes, carrying a long, curved staff. Her manner is less aggressive — more curious than confrontational.

She stops a few feet away from the paladin and speaks in broken Common:

"You walk into Sshar'sh'kath land. Why you here? Hunters? Thieves? Or... peace-walkers?"

The paladin bows his head slightly in deference, speaking calmly and clearly:

"We come not as hunters or thieves, but as peace-walkers. We've heard of unrest in these lands — and of those who may prey upon others. We seek the truth. If we can help bring balance, we will."

The lizardfolk elder narrows her eyes, studying him carefully.

Modified Reaction Roll (original 11 + 1 Charisma) = 12 (Good)

Her posture softens.

"Words like that are strange from smooth-skins. But... maybe true. Maybe."
She looks back at the three warriors and waves them to lower their weapons.
"Come. Speak near the fire, but no tricks. You are watched."

The party is cautiously invited into the edge of the lizardfolk encampment — a half-sunken collection of reed huts, wooden walkways, and murky fire pits built around a partially drained pond.

The paladin, maintaining a respectful tone, asks:

"We've heard troubling rumors — of reed-band slavers operating nearby. Do you know of them? Have they harmed your people or taken any from these lands?"

The lizardfolk elder's eyes darken, and a low hiss escapes her throat.

"Reed-band... yes. Cowards. Take hatchlings in the dark. Took my brother's mate — many seasons past. We tried to hunt them, but they vanish into the fog."

She gestures to one of the warriors, who slaps the butt of his spear against the muck and growls.

"They do not fight. They trap. Use nets, darts. They come from the east. A place with smoke and bones."

She pauses, then adds more quietly:

"Some say they serve something worse. Something that watches without eyes."

The paladin lowers his voice, sensing the weight behind the elder's final words.

"This… thing that watches. What do you mean by that? Is it a creature? A spirit?"

The lizardfolk elder's crest flattens slightly, and a shiver runs down her scaled neck. Even the nearby warriors seem uneasy.

"It is not flesh. Not spirit. It knows. We feel it when we are near the slavers' place — a pressure in the skull, a shadow over the heart. The shamans call it The Hollow Eye."

One of the younger lizardfolk spits into the swamp and mutters a warding phrase in Draconic.

"Some say the slavers serve it. Others say it uses them, like puppets with bones full of smoke."

She narrows her eyes.

"If you go east, guard your mind. The Hollow Eye does not bleed, but it can kill you just the same."

The paladin's voice rings with righteous purpose:

"We seek to end the slavers' evil. If this Hollow Eye and the reed bandits threaten your people as well… would you stand with us?"

The elder looks at the others. There is a long silence, broken only by the splash of distant frogs and the soft hiss of rain. Finally, she speaks.

"We have fought them alone for many seasons. Lost warriors. Lost hatchlings. But you come with strength… and honor."

She rises slightly, supported by a carved staff of driftwood and bone.

"We cannot send all our warriors. The tribe must be protected. But I will give you three hunters, skilled in swampcraft, javelin, and tooth. They will guide you, strike with you — and watch for the Hollow Eye."

The lizardfolk behind her nod solemnly. One steps forward — a tall, green-scaled warrior with gator-hide bracers and a wicked barbed spear. His name is Vasthik.

"We move at dusk. We'll take you by the waters the bandits do not watch."

Severin purchases a healing poultice from one of the shamans (heals 1d-1 hp, takes 10 second to apply)

the group is invited in to stay for the night and will begin again the next morning.