As the party moves through the southern Greenbelt, the air grows thick with humidity and the ground beneath their feet turns soft and muddy. In the distance, they spot a small, fetid marsh on the southeast bank of the Tuskwater. There is something ominous about this place, and a feeling of unease settles over the heroes as they draw closer.
Approaching the murky waters, they see a dilapidated mud-brick hut that seems to have sprouted from the ground like a weed. It squats atop a small hummock in the center of the marsh, and a thin tendril of bluish smoke drifts up from a gaping hole in its moss-covered roof. The scent of rotting vegetation fills their nostrils, and the cacophony of insects buzzing and chirping fills the air.
A wooden fence surrounds the perimeter of the hummock, festooned with crude fetishes crafted from sticks, feathers, and animal bones. The party can't quite make out the details, but there's something unsettling about the way they've been arranged. They have a sense that these crude objects are meant to ward off something, or perhaps someone.
When the heroes draw closer, a lone crow perched on a nearby cypress tree caws noisily, as if warning them of impending danger.
