Musket fire echoes beyond the ghostlit gloom of the Swamp Land before you; eerie orbs dart between the trees. Ruined homes in colonial style have sunk halfway into the muck, their doors hung open for shambling eels and vagrants who wander in, graze upon ruined, rotting banquets in abandoned dining halls, wander out, wander in again, pause thoughtfully, wander out. Clumps of moss dangling from black tree limbs form ragged palms held open for pieces of gold. Everywhere is a misasma of rotting vegetation and old buildings (akin to the odor of a lecture hall or public library.) Grimy men are gliding through the muck now, rubbing their splattered, stubbled chins and heaving great sacks that clank full of goblets. Now they are hiding them, far from your eyes. Now they are gulping ooze from malformed green jugs and laughing cruelly over campfire roasts of giant cockroach or giant tarantula or whatever.