Sticky-heat had sweat clinging to the scholar’s skin as he stumbled through the swampland. Fetid water seeped into his already soaked clothing, as the buzzing of gnats and other insects deafened his ears. A ripple disturbs the scummy surface, possibly from his own struggles—it barely registers as another slip lands him waist deep in the liquid. As he frees a foot from the limb-strangling swamp bed, he looks up from his exertion and is met by a large draconic face, angered emerald eyes within a foot of his own. It rises from the water, scum and moss clinging to its serpentine body as it’s chest vibrates, summoning a miasma of pestilence and death from the swamp bed. The scholar’s lungs become choked, eyes sting, his limbs flail . . . Will he succumb to the Wyrm of the swamp?