After an incredibly delicious meal (including the eel, which turns out to be a tasty delight), you all retire to an inn for the evening. The next morning dawns, and with it the last leg of your trip. A week long trek through the swamp. The journey leaves you covered in mud and soaked in sweat. Hungry insects harried you the whole way, and the air has been warm and wet the whole week. Finally you reach the village of Blackroot, a hamlet tied to the Dorrm and Veladaar clans. The sun is beginning to set when the settlement comes into view. Like most villages in the Marches, the small community offers few amenities and no dragonmarked house services. There is no central authority in the Shadow Marches, and the village reeve is responsible for administering justice in the local region.
Blackroot derives its name from the dark trees that thrive in the area, their tangled roots rising up from the soil on all sides. The ground here is relatively solid for the Marches, and the village sits on a rocky rise. Its huts sit directly on the ground instead of being raised up on stilts above marshland, as is common elsewhere in the swamps. Orcs, humans and half-orcs work together in nearby orchards or pass along the main street. None of them seem particularly pleased to see you.
Within moments you are approached by a lean and muscular orc. His skin is weathered and streaks of gray line his long black hair. He bears no weapons and wears loose peasant clothing, but carries himself with confidence. "Greetings," he says. "I am Toraash'Dorrm, the reeve of Blackroot. I don't know what brings you here, but we've no inn, no tavern, and no time for strangers. I suggest you move on."
