The Faded Dust

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2026-08-22 18:03:44 -

The Faded Dust

The damp air of the crypt tasted of wet stone and old rot. Sir Eamon stood alone, his breath shallow in the cold. In his hands, he held the Iron Censer. It was a heavy, unadorned thing, forged of black metal, yet it radiated a heat that did not spread. The warmth was localized, a tight, burning ring around the rim where his palm rested. It did not cook the air, nor did it scorch the stone floor...

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