Session 2: The Salt-Vaults Scavenge

Winter's first breath upon the Starmetal Hills

The first snows dusted the Starmetal Hills like powdered sugar, settling over the Asymmetrical Mountain with deceptive softness. For three days, the fortress ruins had been our home—debris cleared, walls reinforced, and fifteen former bandits of the Emberfell Rejects organized into a rough workforce under Brenna's practical leadership. Stone walls kept out the wind; the deep well provided clean water. But as temperatures dropped, a more pressing problem emerged: hunger.

We gathered in the main hall, a drafty timber-and-stone chamber that had once been the bandits' common room. Firelight cast long shadows across faces that blurred daily between employees, prisoners, and allies. Brenna stood before us, her scarred face illuminated by the flames, holding a rough inventory ledger.

"Ten days," she said, her voice flat. "Maybe twelve if we cut rations again. After that, I can't keep them here. Hunger makes people desperate."

Her gesture took in the former bandits huddled around smaller fires—thin, cold, watching with a mix of hope and suspicion. Cora Flint had been doing her own calculations. The numbers didn't lie: without a sustainable food source, this entire enterprise would collapse before winter truly set in.

Garrick Kade had been patrolling with Rolf, the quiet, competent bandit who knew every crack in the stone. Yesterday, behind a collapsed section of the eastern wall, they'd found something: a partially collapsed stairwell descending into darkness. Unlike the boarded-over western passages that still exhaled faint metallic corruption, this one smelled of dust and old stone—older, more deliberate construction.

Professor Thaddeus Mercer's academic curiosity had been piqued by the fortress's architecture. The surface ruins were crude—stolen timber and haphazard stonework. But Rolf's discovery suggested something far more interesting beneath: worked stone corridors, proper engineering. The professor had been studying old prospector maps from Grimhold, and one recurring reference caught his eye: "The Salt-Vaults of the Iron Warlords"—massive dry-storage pantries built to sustain a garrison through years of siege.

Brenna closed her ledger. "So. Do we starve here, or do we find food?" Her eyes met each of ours in turn. "Rolf says there's something down that stairwell. Old stonework. Could be the vaults. Could be nothing. But it's the only lead we have."

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, fifteen people waited.

The Descent

Cora's voice was flat. "Ten days of starvation versus whatever's down that stairwell. That's not a choice, it's basic arithmetic."

Garrick hefted his maul. "They're not starving on my watch. Not again."

The professor rose from his makeshift desk, fingers stained with ink from his magical quill. "The Salt-Vaults are not mere legend. The Iron Warlords ruled these hills three centuries ago, and their engineering was meticulous."

Brenna organized a watch rotation. "If you're not back by nightfall, we'll come looking. Don't make us come looking."

Rolf led us to the eastern wall. The stairwell descended steeply—sixty feet by Garrick's estimate—carved directly into bedrock. At the bottom, military architecture: low ceilings, narrow passages designed to force attackers into single file, arrow slits at regular intervals. The air was heavy with centuries of undisturbed dust.

A branching corridor ahead. To the left, darkness. To the right, a partially ajar doorway. And from somewhere deeper: a dry, skittering scratch against stone, then silence.

Rolf, who has followed you down, points to the floor near the right-hand doorway. "Fresh scratches," he says quietly. "Something's been through here recently. Not human."

The Guardroom Trap

We chose the room first—small spaces easier to secure than open corridors. Garrick pushed the door wider with his maul, iron hinges groaning in protest.

The room beyond is a guardroom—about twenty feet square, with rusted weapon racks along one wall and a collapsed wooden table in the center. Torchlight reveals: A faded map painted directly onto the far wall, showing a network of corridors, barracks, and a large area labeled in old Common script: "THE SALTING HALLS"

But also: fresh droppings in one corner, and a pair of glowing eyes watching from a crack in the wall near the ceiling. Eyes the size of a cat's but with an unnatural iridescent sheen. They blinked once, then vanished.

The scratching from the corridor grew louder, multiplied.

Cora moved to the map. "The Salting Halls—that's our target. Three corridors deep." She began sketching a copy in her ledger.

Garrick focused on the crack. "That thing's a scout. Can't let it warn the others."

Professor Mercer examined the map's warning glyphs. "They're not about traps, but about containment. 'Keep sealed' in old military shorthand."

Then the creatures attacked.

Iridescent Vermin

The first rat burst from the crack—a Giant Rat with fur that glowed faintly in torchlight, eyes shining with that same unnatural iridescence. Larger than any rat had a right to be, it launched itself at Garrick. Two more scrambled into the room—one through the doorway, another through a different crack. They moved with coordinated aggression, flanking positions as if they'd done this before.

The guardroom became a chaotic tableau. Garrick took a bite to the leg but crushed the doorway rat with his maul. Professor Mercer's magic missiles struck true. Cora's crossbow bolt took another through the eye.

But the real danger was the sound from the corridor: dozens of tiny claws on stone, moving closer. And a new sound—a deeper, guttural chittering. The reinforcements weren't just more giant rats.

Rolf pressed his back against the wall. "More coming! Lots more!"

The Rat King Revealed

Professor Mercer's academic knowledge saved us. His fingers traced geometric patterns around the murder holes, recognizing them as Iron Warlord maintenance access symbols. A specific sequence of pressure points, and a stone panel slid inward, revealing a narrow tunnel angling downward and eastward—directly toward the Salt-Vaults.

We scrambled through just as the horde arrived. First a wave of smaller iridescent-eyed rats, then three more Giant Rats, and behind them...

A creature the size of a large dog, with multiple tails fused together into a grotesque, twitching mass. Its fur shone with an oily iridescence; its eyes burned with malevolent intelligence. The Rat King.

We emerged into the Salt-Vaults proper—a chamber so vast torchlight couldn't reach the far walls. Stone shelving carved directly from the mountain stretched floor to ceiling, twenty feet high. The air was dry and cold, smelling of ancient salt and preserved foods long past their prime.

But we'd brought the infestation with us.

Containment and Retreat

Combat erupted among the shelves. Garrick pinned the Rat King in the tunnel entrance, taking vicious bites in return. Professor Mercer's magic missiles found their marks. Cora's crossbow bolts struck true.

But the Rat King unleashed an Iridescent Shriek—a sound that seems to vibrate through the stone itself. All of you within fifteen feet (Garrick, Cora, and Rolf) must make DC 12 Constitution saving throws or be stunned until the end of your next turn! As the swarm poured through the tunnel, Professor Mercer made a desperate calculation.

"Thunderwave!"

The concussive force slammed into a decorative stone shelf. With a thunderous crash, it toppled perfectly across the tunnel entrance, creating an impassable barrier. The Rat King and its swarm were trapped on the other side.

We had minutes before they dug through.

Working with desperate efficiency, we gathered what we could carry: six large jars of salt-cured meat, four crocks of preserved grains, two sealed stone containers of rock salt—enough to feed fifteen people for weeks.

As the scratching at the rubble grew frantic, we found the vaults' main entrance: a massive iron-banded door slightly ajar. We pushed through just as the Rat King burst through the rubble barrier.

Together, we slammed the door shut, dropping the massive iron bar into place with a final, resonant clunk. The furious scratching became muffled, frustrated.

Return to the Surface

The upward-sloping corridor led to a loading bay—stone ramps, rusted pulley systems, and massive doors. One stood slightly ajar, revealing daylight.

We emerged on the eastern face of the Asymmetrical Mountain, about two hundred yards from the fortress. The journey back was tense but uneventful.

Brenna was waiting. "You found it."

"Enough for weeks," Cora confirmed. "And there's more down there. Much more. But it's defended."

That night, the fortress ate its first real meal in days: rehydrated ancient grain porridge with shreds of salt-cured meat so old it predated anyone's grandparents. It was tough, salty, and absolutely delicious.

Around the fire, Brenna sat with us. "The food buys us time. Maybe a month if we ration carefully."

Professor Mercer looked up from his journal, where he'd been sketching the vault layout. "We've secured food, but we've also confirmed a threat. The Rat King's mutation suggests prolonged exposure to magical contamination. The Iron Warlords built containment for a reason."

The fire crackled. The winter wind moaned around the stone walls. Below us, in corridors only partially explored, an intelligent, mutated colony waited. And deeper still, whatever the Iron Warlords had feared enough to seal away.

We had survived. We had provisions.