As dawn breaks across the delta, Saltmarsh stirs to life under the rising heat. The Morgrave Three—Happy, Vargan, and Overhaul—shake off sleep (and for Overhaul, lingering nightmares) when a knock sounds at the door.

Standing outside are two familiar faces from Morgrave University:

• Roto, a relentless Drow monk shrouded in black,

• and M, an elegant, clockwork Warforged sorcerer.

Old bonds—and old tensions—resurface as the group reflects on their tangled histories:

• Vargan recalls Overhaul’s help crafting tools, and the botany lessons Overhaul never fully appreciated.

• Overhaul thinks of Happy as both a friend and intellectual equal, bonded through nights debating magic and reality.

• Happy eyes Roto with deep mistrust, remembering their philosophical clashes between science and faith.

• M stands apart, eager to keep the group functioning as a whole— keeping an eye on Roto but pleased to be reunited with group espically Happy who shares her views on magic as science, and all for a greater cause.

The Morgrave Three are now the Morgrave Five 

Before they can catch up fully, another summons arrives: the Governor demands their presence at noon.

At Governor Fireborn’s Hall, tensions run high. The group overhears that Fireborn has been locked in arguments with Ladrian Aashta of House Tharashk—trouble is brewing.

Roto, unimpressed, tries to turn the tables and demands Fireborn wait for him—which the Governor coolly refuses.

The rest of the group presents the telegram they received from Morgrave. Fireborn expresses cautious thanks, warning that greater dangers may be at hand. He requests their help in intercepting the smuggling ship returning in three days and, in return, grants them ownership of the Archimedes Estate—their new field headquarters.

As they leave, they spot a troubling report about missing persons left on the Governor’s desk.

At the Estate, the group barely has time to settle before another ominous knock sounds.

Opening the door reveals Olric Blacktide, a lean, shadowy figure in black. After tense negotiations, Olric offers them a lead: the location of the Temple of the Eclipsed Sun, hidden deep within the Basura Swamp in return for knowledge and information

The party marches into the swamp, sleeping poorly in the oppressive heat and insect-choked air.

At last, they reach it: overgrown ruins, a shattered obelisk, and ancient stone doors clawed open by unknown forces.

Inside the darkened cavern, torchlight reveals a four-stepped ziggurat rising from a blood-slicked river.

Atop the altar stands a lizardfolk shaman, mid-ritual, weaving bloody shadows and sibilant hisses through the gloom.

Battle erupts:

• M unleashes a devastating Cloud of Daggers, shredding a charging kobold.

• Roto cloaks the battlefield in Darkness to shield their spells.

• Happy charges the shaman head-on despite psychic assault.

• Vargan summons his magic and healing, steadying the front lines.

• Overhaul and his Steel Defender brace against a roaring lizardfolk warrior.

Victory is hard-won:

• The shaman falls to Happy’s sword after brutal strikes from Roto and divine light from Vargan.

• The lizardfolk warrior is crushed beneath Overhaul’s mace, pulled to the ground by Vargan’s Magnetobolt.

The cost of the battle is laid bare—the missing townsfolk were slaughtered here, their blood fueling the dark rite.

At the far end of the cavern, great bronze doors loom, beckoning them deeper into the ruined temple—and into darker mysteries yet to be revealed.

The blood and smoke of battle still cling to the air.

The last echoes of steel on stone fade into a heavy, suffocating silence.

At the far end of the cavern, the great bronze doors stand waiting, battered by time but unbroken. Their surface is cold and slick, engraved with ancient coils of dragons and flames — symbols long forgotten by the living.

Yet as you stand there, catching your breath, you notice the light of your torches dimming — not from lack of flame, but as if something unseen drinks the light from the air itself.

Shadows, thin and hungry, begin to gather at the edges of the chamber.

They stretch like fingers toward the doors, writhing and shivering against the stone, beckoning you forward… or warning you back.

Beyond the threshold, something ancient stirs — restless, waiting.

The swamp holds its breath.

And so must you.