Night begins to settle over the swamp, cloaking the dense undergrowth in darkness and turning the water's surface to black. With it comes a clinging, creeping fog, rising from the water like a spectral steam. The fog surrounds you, its dampness caressing you like cold, dead hands. The swamp seems to retreat from the mists, its sights and sounds disappearing into some unseen distance. All that remains visible is the cold, choking fog. Even your companions seem far away. For a moment, everything is quiet. What few sounds you can hear are amplified by the surrounding mists: your own breathing, your beating heart. Then the fog begins to dissipate, fading away as quickly as it appeared, leaving you and your companions alone in the dismal swamp. A sign sticks crookedly from the mire, reading “Marais D’Tarascon, 5 miles” and pointing down the swampy river.
