Ahead, wrapped within the shifting blanket of mist, stretches fields of partially submerged grapevines, which bubble up from the muddy bog like clusters of fat ticks, mottled and brown. Beyond the fields, the silhouette of what looks to be a small hamlet rises from the muck, like many of those stick-legged swamp deer you've passed to get here.
Mist Morning, it can be no other location, and for a village built solely upon piers in a swamp, it is far larger than one might expect. Arrayed around the singular balk of the enormous warehouse stands numerous other buildings, a tavern for one, and a temple to the god of wine and good cheer as another.
Landing on the boardwalk, the moisture-leaden boards, thick with fungus, hardly make a noise underfoot. You shudder to think what life must be like in this cold, damp hell for those that call this home, but then… where are those that call this home.