Session 16 - The Fire Beneath the Rust

The Echoing Grove

Morning light filtered weakly through the twisted boughs of the Groveland Woods, a spectral radiance more memory than warmth. After a restless night amidst Edric’s hidden cave, the companions stirred—grateful, if wary, of the hermit’s wards that held back the prowling dark.

Torvin, ever watchful, noticed smoke drifting faintly from the east. Not careless, not open. Controlled. Hidden. With Black Shuck stalking the underbrush and Aran’s eyes sharp as razors, the group veered off the main trail, following hidden paths lined with strange symbols—warnings and wards etched by old hands.

They found a hovel nestled against a rocky outcrop, the facade of a hermit’s cave concealed beneath hanging herbs and drying game. Within, Edric greeted them. Paranoid, standoffish—but kind beneath the years and isolation. He spoke of the Order of Rust, of villagers dragged off in chains, and of a place whispered on the wind: The Iron Gate. A name cloaked in dread.

But Edric knew the woods, and the woods knew him. When asked of water, he spoke of a tributary downstream. South-west, toward the river's fork.

The Forgotten Shrine

As they traveled, deeper into the Groveland, a strange stillness settled on the air. The wind stilled. Birds held their tongues. Trees leaned in closer.

It was Hyrne who found it—half-sunken in moss and root, the broken stones of a shrine, choked in ivy and time. Once it may have stood proud, a beacon to the gods. Now, it was a thing forgotten. Desecrated.

Symbols of the Rust had been daubed in crude ochre over ancient engravings. Bones lay scattered at its base, and black ichor wept from a split idol.

Aran stepped forward, muttering a quiet invocation to the old spirits. Something stirred in the undergrowth. Something watching.

Torvin cleared the shrine, casting aside the bones with a grim frown. Galivan, curious, traced the markings—recognizing sigils not just of the Rust, but of twisted invocations, warped from the true rites of the old faiths.

The companions made offerings—water, coin, a whispered prayer—and redrew the circle in clean earth. For a heartbeat, the wind returned. Leaves shivered. And the ichor stopped flowing.

The corruption wasn’t gone. But it had recoiled.

The River’s Betrayal

By midday, they reached the river. It wound like a scar through the land, sluggish and dark.

On the far bank, three figures: two foot soldiers, and a rider. Patchwork armor, rusted sigils, crude weapons—Order of Rust.

As one man approached the water, sack in hand, ready to pollute the stream, Aran’s arrow flew. Hyrne followed. The man staggered. The sack dropped.

Combat erupted.

Torvin charged across the water on horseback, sword raised. Black Shuck darted ahead. Galivan’s voice rose in arcane fury. Flames danced across the rider's armor. Screams echoed through the glade.

But the Rust Brothers struck back. A crossbow bolt pierced Hyrne’s foot, knocking him into the mire. He would not rise easily.

Torvin cut a soldier down with steel and fury. Galivan burned another to cinders. Aran’s arrows sang. One fled.

He would not escape.

The Reckoning

The final soldier limped into the trees. Torvin gave chase, blade drawn. Aran loosed another arrow. Galivan—merciless—summoned flame again. The fleeing cultist fell, consumed in the forest’s judgment.

When it was done, silence returned. Hyrne lay wounded, his foot torn, his strength faltering. The others gathered spoils: rusted coin, worn armor, an iron-bound crossbow.

But it was the shrine that lingered in their minds. Not the battle. Not the kill. The gods were not absent from this land—they were watching. Wounded. Angry.

And the Order of Rust had woken something far older than themselves.