Session 17 - The Roots of Despair

Distant Lights and Woodland Whispers

As twilight crept upon the damp pines and tangled undergrowth of the wild, Torvin first spotted the flickering lights—a serpentine procession of cloaked figures moving through the trees, each bearing a torch like a firefly wound in silence. Neither armored nor armed, they bore the weight of solemnity rather than violence.

Blackshuck, Hyrne’s uncanny hound and tireless shadow, slinked into the woods to tail the pilgrims. Aran, blessed with the primal gift of animal speech, would later coax the tale from the beast's throat. The figures, he conveyed, bore no scent of steel nor stench of blood, only the scent of old leaves and weary feet—wanderers, not warriors.

The decision was swift: follow them at distance, shadows trailing shadows.

The Circle and the Tree

Night deepened, and the forest grew silent, muffled by a magic not yet awakened. In a clearing they beheld it—a modest stone circle, not a great henge of ancient kings, but humble, aged stones arranged with purpose. At its heart, an ancient, broken tree slumped across the blackened soil, limbs twisted by time and blight. Sap—thick, red, ichorous—oozed from its bark like the blood of a wounded god.

The cloaked ones, now revealed as keepers of some old rite, stood in silence around the stones. A single figure moved with measured pace, swinging a brazier and muttering invocations that hung in the air like fog. The ritual began.

Aran and Galivan recognized its echoes—an ancient rite of woodland veneration, perhaps tied to the primordial trinity of Clay, Whale, and Nightwalker. Guardians of life, wilderness, and death’s balance. These were no cultists, but dwindling remnants of an older faith, desperately seeking to preserve what the world was eager to forget.

But the tree was dying. Worse, it was corrupted.

The Blight Unleashed

As the ritual unfolded, the air grew heavy. Each offering made at the tree’s gnarled roots drew strength from the givers. One by one, the faithful faltered, slumping to their knees, their power leeched away. The red sap pulsed with unnatural rhythm—glowing, then throbbing, before a final surge illuminated the glade.

A flare of red. A cry of agony. Then, silence.

The tree crumbled, disintegrating into black ash with a single sigh. The grove went deathly quiet. The faithful lay broken, mourning. Magic gone. Hope fled.

The companions approached and offered words—not of judgment, but of sorrow and solidarity. Galivan spoke with the voice of a healer, Aran with that of kinship. From their ranks stepped Lorian, a weary elder of their order, who shared grim tidings: the rust—the creeping, corrupting taint—was spreading, and this sacred grove was but the penultimate to fall.

One final sanctuary remained.

The Rust’s Reach

Lorian spoke of rumors—of a stronghold in the southern mountains, near the old dwarven mines. The Order of Rust, long believed to be a rogue sect of the Rust Brothers, now revealed itself as a separate entity: more primal, more driven, and far less human.

The companions made camp, shared food by firelight, and rested among the echoes of sorrow. But the dawn brought clarity. The last site, and the seat of corruption, must be confronted.

Eastward, then—towards the peaks.

Cliffs, Hunters, and the Flight of the Damned

The woods thickened, the path narrowed, and soon the fellowship stood before a rocky ascent. There, from the heights, came a figure—bloodied, breathless, pursued. A young man, half-dead and wholly terrified, tumbled down the rope toward them before fleeing into the forest, mad with fear.

Moments later, his hunters emerged.

Savage female orcs, towering and snarling, with glowing yellow eyes and iron-hard resolve. They leapt down the cliff as if it were but a step and demanded answers—had the human passed here? He had.

With no time for pleasantries, they stormed through the fellowship and vanished in pursuit.

The path forward lay open.

The Gate of Iron and the Red Banners

At last, the mountains rose before them—colossal, crowned in snow, a jagged spine on the earth’s back. At the base, a rusted iron gate stood embedded within twin towers, chains swaying in the breeze, and red banners bearing the sigil of the Rust.

It was an outpost. A bastion. A warning.

They watched from the cover of trees. No movement. No patrols. No life. But Blackshuck, faithful scout, led them to a secret: a hidden tunnel mouth disguised by a scree slope, barred by a rusted grill. A second entrance. A hope.

They made camp one last time. Summerrise dawned with the rust on their doorstep.