The two adventurers had lost count of the days, which they beleaguered in this tepid biting, wasteland, that Borderlanders called The Marshes. Both men had long since discarded their heaviest, most cumbersome items. Since the small wreck of a boat they had confiscated from Ishtar’s Treasure Horde had split upon a devil’s rock in the southern bend of The River Lech. They had lost many of their possessions, and many more still set to wandering by foot.
Somewhere, probably in some fetid quicksand Argosa’s hauberk was lost to rust into nothingness. Now he wore but a few fabrics, light but worn ragged by the snagging vines, and jagged rocks. His mind was set to the task, faith in something beyond his trappings had stuck with him since the The Tower of the Black Pearl and it stuck with him now.
Tinaroth however, was not so mild about these circumstances. Certainly the terrors of the tower were there in his mind, but more imminent was the harrowing imprisonment by the evil Naga Ishtar. The swamp was far more vast then either had supposed looking upon it from the Main Gate of the Keep. Tinaroth looked to Esmeralda, the lute that had passed to him from Abaroth his father, a talented spellbinder of no uncertain renown. It had certainly suffered the presence as had all fine things each man possessed.
Tinaroth held the lute in shame, as he contemplated their damnable state his sorrows gathered. He knew that nothing short of a miracle would ever insure that Esmerelda would ever sing again. Consigned to a life of eating fish and frogs, and the menu of any number of predators was no tale of a bard. It wouldn’t be long before the two would begin a daily deathwatch for the other, though they deeply hoped to find the Marshes end before that…