The Marsh War of Rotting Reeds was won on a moonless night when Puddlegulp's poison-dart brigade eliminated three enemy commanders in perfect silence. The celebration that followed was legendary—fermented dragonfly nectar, victory songs that made the mangrove roots shake, stories shouted until dawn. Puddlegulp woke to silence. His entire squad—twenty-three grung who could hit a gnat's eye at fifty paces—had been slaughtered while they slept. The enemy had simply walked into camp and slit throats. No watch. No sentries. Just corpses with smiles still on their faces.
He left the marshlands the next morning, his vibrant orange skin seeming to dull with grief, though it never truly faded. For five years, he wandered human settlements, watching adventurers make the same mistakes over and over: charging without scouting, drinking before dangerous rituals, trusting strangers with suspiciously perfect timing. He began interrupting them—pinning boots to floors with grasping arrow vines, shooting smoke arrows to obscure 'definitely safe' treasure chests, physically blocking doorways while he inspected for traps. They called him a coward, a buzzkill, a party pooper. They also called him when their friends came back alive.
Now he travels with a water-stained ledger he calls 'The Ledger of Lost Toes,' meticulously documenting every preventable injury, every avoidable death, every time someone said 'it'll be fine' and it very much wasn't. He doesn't do this for coin, though he accepts it. He does it because somewhere, in a mass grave beneath black mangrove roots, twenty-three grung still smile in their sleep. And Puddlegulp refuses to let anyone else join them.