The jungle swallows the party quickly after they leave Caspian and the skiff behind—dense with humidity, buzzing with insects, and thick with vines that tug at their boots and cloaks like fingers. The deeper they go, the more the air thickens with enchantment: flowers that blink shut as they pass, mushrooms that glow faintly underfoot, and leaves that shimmer with dew that smells faintly of citrus and salt. The path they cut winds unevenly along the ridges around Lake Menehune, forcing them to scramble over moss-slick logs and duck beneath curtains of roots that sway gently, even when there's no breeze.
Sounds follow them—unseen birds with voices like windchimes, something sloshing through distant underbrush, and once, a low melodic hum that fades the moment anyone turns their head.
Cordey leads, sword in hand hacking gently—for the large half-elf fighter—not wanting to provoke the foliage. Jin mutters about cursed fey forests, while Mischa and Tasya tread lightest, Tasya’s eyes alert for shifting glamour or the flicker of wings. She mentions to Mischa that she hopes her friend Petalwing has found comfort in this jungle.
When the ground finally begins to rise, the party welcomes it—elevation means clearer sightlines, a place to rest the senses.
Climbing the mossy rocks, Cordey suddenly drops low, signaling a halt. The others join him, crouched at the vine-draped edge of a cliff, where the canopy parts—and below, the jungle reveals a strange and menacing procession of boggles and eel-like-wolf hounds threading in the direction of the lake.
The cliff is a ledge where the thick overgrowth parts, revealing a sheer drop framed in mossy vines and slick, ancient stone. Sunlight slices through the canopy below in shafts, catching on the glint of moving figures—the procession in motion.
Cordey, crouched low, points out,
"Movement. There—below."
The others gather silently beside him, eyes narrowing through the curtain of ferns and fog. What is seen below is alerting.
A winding caravan—more than two dozen figures—threads through the jungle path below, flanked by gnarled trees and murky underbrush.
Boggles, hunched and twitching, shuffle and snicker as they prod three human prisoners forward.
The first: a striking, muscular woman, shirtless under her bindings, her tattoos like river-ink across bronze skin. She walks tall and confident despite her shackled hands. Her eyes burn like fire beneath sweat and bruises.
"That barbarian, she carries herself like a monk," acknowledges Taresh.
The second: a young agile looking man, limping slightly, lip split, but still turning to shield the small
third figure—a boy of perhaps less than ten, his shoulders shaking, a silver chain barely visible under his collar.
They're flanked by the sinuous beasts with the lean frames of wolves and the slick, scale-glinting hide of eels. The cretures weave through the caravan, their long jaws bristling with needle-teeth and frilled fins twitching along their spines. Some have boggle riders who cling to them with fishbone tack, swaying as their mounts slither-lurch with uncanny rhythm.
To the party above, the sight is grotesque—like river nightmares bred with hunting hounds, now parading through the jungle under fey command.
Among the pack, one boggle stands out—taller, lankier, festooned with coral bangles and seaweed braids. He waves a crooked trident-like spear and barks commands in a bubbling, choked language. The other boggles obey with eager cackles.
At the rear, a sled dragged by a beast ridden by a boggle draws Cordey’s eyes.
"There. Weapons."
Half-hidden under a reed tarp are a monk’s quarterstaff, and a pair of blades—one curved, one straight.
Beneath them, the boggles halt as the leader raises a hand. One hound howls—low, eerie, rippling through the undergrowth. The caravan pauses, sensing something—perhaps the party’s presence above, perhaps the stillness in the air.
For a moment, the jungle is quiet.
Then the procession moves again, heading steadily downhill—toward the edge of Lake Menehune.
[ +- ] Note for oopsylon
Reaver, that had been gently confirming the latern's guidance, goes bonkers with energy at the sight below. Admiral can sense it is the warrior woman that Reaver is drawn to.
