ATCL17 Gallo to Gallivan

The date in Cerwyn calendar is 337 - Brth - Delve - Luminos (Birt - Delf - LOO-mee-nos) (337 - 2 - 3 - 8 - 108). There is full cloud cover, with light rain. The temperature is still cold (0-10C) and there is a very light breeze.

The caravan pushes on from Gallo, the cheer of the open countryside dampened by the overcast skies and the relentless patter of rain. The dirt roads have turned to thick mud, clinging to wheels and boots alike, and the once-gentle hills of Amberfield seem endless under the gray canopy. Cold winds sweep through the caravan, making even the sturdy merchants huddle in their cloaks as the oxen and horses plod along with heads bowed.
Despite the weariness and the weight of the marketplace events in Gallo, a quiet determination binds the caravan together. The merchants share rumoured stories of the bustling City League, their voices rising just enough to compete with the weather. Tales of bustling markets, warm inns, and the promise of safety and profit at the end of the journey provide a flicker of hope.
Suilven moves steadily along the caravan line, checking wheels and ensuring harnesses are secure, his stoic presence a small comfort to the others. Lina’s lute is quiet for once, tucked safely away from the rain, though she hums a soft tune under her breath as she sits beneath a tarp. Even the adventurers, used to hardship, feel the drain of the relentless travel.
The weather offers little reprieve, the rain relentless and the breeze, despite light, is unyielding. Stops are spent huddled beneath dripping canvas, fires struggling against the damp wood. Yet, the thought of the City League spurs them on—the promise of a place to dry out, hot meals, and the clamor of trade awaiting just a few more days ahead.
As the caravan trudges forward, a low lying fog starts to engulf the caravans, until it is only possible to just make out the caravan in front.

What do the characters do?

As the caravan draws closer to its next destination, the landscape begins to shift, the rolling hills and open countryside giving way to a damp, marshy terrain. The air grows cooler and heavier, carrying with it the faint, earthy scent of stagnant water and decaying vegetation. A dense fog creeps in, curling around the wagons like ghostly tendrils. Visibility shrinks until the world beyond a few paces is swallowed entirely by the pale gray shroud.
The once-firm road has turned soft and uneven beneath the wheels, its edges fringed by dark pools of water. Whether it borders a wide river or a sprawling marsh is impossible to tell through the swirling mist. The wagon masters strain their eyes but can make out only shadowy shapes—a leaning tree here, a cluster of reeds there. The air grows unnervingly still, the usual clatter of the caravan muffled as though the fog itself is absorbing the sound.
A profound silence descends, broken only by the occasional creak of wagon wheels or the quiet snort of a horse. Even the wildlife seems absent; no birds sing, no frogs croaked. Every now and then, a faint splash echoes across the water, its source unseen, sending a ripple of unease through the group.
Roll for surprise
Suddenly, a faint ripple disturbs the still swamp water. From the fog-shrouded mire, dark shapes begin to emerge. First, slitted eyes gleam with predatory intent, reflecting the faint light of the caravan convoy's torches. Then, the mist parts to reveal a band of men, the bodies covered in scales, webbed feet and hands, and a head that resembles a mammoth gheko. Their scaly forms glistening with swamp water and mud.
The warriors are imposing, each standing taller than a man. Their clawed hands clutch primitive yet menacing weapons—spears tipped with sharpened stone, crude axes hewn from bone and wood.
Their movements are unnervingly fluid, as if they were part of the swamp itself. They hiss and click in their guttural tongue, the sound echoing in the mist like the calls of unseen predators. Their leader, taller and more fearsome than the rest, steps forward with a gnarled staff adorned with dangling skulls and fetishes. His yellow eyes burn with malice as he raises his staff high.
Without warning, the lizardmen strike.

Lizardmen - 10

HD1+1 Leader hp17 Warriors 12,11,10,9,8,7,7,6,5 AC7
Move 6"; No. attacks 1; Size M

Weapon	Length	Space	Speed	Dmg (SM/L)	THAC0
Spear	-	-	-	1d6	18

The leader will not engage. When 4 remain, he will call out in their guttural language. The remaining lizardmen will disengage, and slip back into the swamp.

The lizardmen swarm the caravan from all sides, though their leader stands back out of the way of any action. The adventurers, who are on guard and had weapons ready, immediately release arrows and bolts. Matrox's first arrow finds it target, embedding itself in the shoulder of the lizardman (#3) approaching for 5hp. It's hard to find the scaly targets as they flit in and out of the mist, and arrows and bolts all fly from the weapons of Asus, Zalman, Suilven and Suzi but disappear into the swamps beyond their intended targets.
However the party and the wagon travellers who are capable of handling weapons are better able to compete in direct confronttation in hand to hand melee. Ben swings his mace, and it finds it target (#6) for 2hp. Boris and Fiona both lunge but their opponents are nimble. Jasper however has better luck, connecting his hammer (#4) for 2hp. The lizardmen have their fair share of luck, Matrox takes a hefty jab below the ribs with a spear taking 4hp of damage (5hp left). Suilven and Asus both suffer too, and badly as well, but not enough to put them down. Suilven takes 2hp (6hp left) and Asus 5hp of pircing damage.
Asus and Matrox, with the adrenaline kicking in in response to the pain, deliver damaging blows with their swords. Asus swings low and upwards against his opponent, opening a gaping wound across the lizardman's chest and guts spill out as the beast crashes to the floor (#2) taking 9hp of fatal damage. Matrox follows the lead, his sword slicing open a lizardman at the neck (#6) for 6hp of fatal damage. Frantic flurries of swinging weapons and parrying spears. Fiona connects with her hammer, delivering (#6) 2 more hp of damage. But her opponent remain of heir feet.
The lizardmen are strong and determined, and they fight on despite losing two. Suilven suffers another piercing 1hp of damage. Boris takes 3hp and Fiona 1hp of damage too. Asus' parries and swings in response, delivering another (#9) 3hp of damage. Suzi's short sword gives out (#7) 4hp. Boris connects (#5) with a crushing blow that gives 7hp of damage, but his opponent staggers back ready to respond. Jasper however, in a screaming blow, take out (#4) with 5hp of damage.
The lizardmen, now shaken but still resolute, step forward, but the party with an upperhand, and with an awe inspiring yell, deliver blow after blow. Suzi takes down her opponent (#7) with 3hp, Fiona gives 2hp of damage to #6. Boris, his muscles bulging flattens #5 with 7hp of crushing damage. Asus who is fighting #9, delivers 7hp of damage that proves fatal. And despite his small stature, Zalman once again shows his skill, casting a Magic Missile and #6 bursts into flame for 4hp, screaming while encased in a fatal ball if fire.
The lizardman chieftain realising the futility of the situation calls out to the remaining lizardmen. Obviously a signal to retreat. The creatures try to disengage and return to the cover of the mists and swamp, but not without suffering hits while the remain unprotected. Matrox catches #8 for 4hp more, but Suilven has more luck delivering 4hp of fatal damage to #4.

Damage delivered to lizardmen
Asus 9+3+7 - 19hp total - 2 kills
Ben 2 - 2hp total - 0 kills
Matrox 5+6+4 - 15hp total - 1 kills
Suilven 4 - 4hp total - 1 kills
Suzi 4+3 - 7hp total - 1 kills
Zalman 4 - 4hp total - 1 kills

Zalman casts Magic Missile
Ben casts Cure Light Wounds x 2

Relieved to escape from the lizardmen's ambush, and after Suilven has checked all the wagon teams and passengers, the caravans roll on cautiously, the mist pressing in like a living thing, disorienting and oppressive. Shadows dance in the corner of your vision, tricks of the fog and dim light, but enough to set everyones nerves on edge. As the road follows the water’s edge, you keep your hands close to your weapons, the eerie atmosphere gnawing at your sense of security.
Ahead, the vague outlines of Gallivan begin to emerge—a cluster of weather-worn cottages slumped against the misty backdrop, their thatched roofs sagging with age. Wooden docks jutt crookedly into the water, their planks warped and rotting, remnants of a time when bustling trade once brought life to this village. Now, the silence is broken only by the soft lapping of water against the posts, as if the marsh itself were mourning the lost prosperity of this desolate place.
As the caravan creeps closer, you can't shake the feeling that the fog carries more than just moisture—it carries the weight of forgotten stories and unseen eyes watching from the shadows.

Parent Plot

337-088 Arncastle to the City League