Out of the Iron and into the Fire is a short piece of fiction from The Invocation of Bael-Kharn, a Pathfinder adventure for Sundara: Dawn of a New Age.

A band of five warriors clad in scarlet cloaks and dragon steel armor made their way forward, each walking with his sword drawn. Ahead lay a wide, barren, gently rounded foothill that might have gone unnoticed were it not for the yawning cavern that dominated its front-facing side. It was toward that cavern that the members of the Scarlet Company approached. Beyond stood the rest of the Dragonsbreath Mountains, their rugged peaks veiled in the ethereal mist of early morning. Ironfire stood a few miles beyond; thick columns of dark smoke rose from the fortress-city of stone and steel.

Rumors about increased bandit activity had sent the squad forth, and if the rumors were to be believed in their entirety, the bandits were members of the Widowmakers, the most bloodthirsty, cutthroat and altogether most volatile mercenary company ever to blight the face of Sundara. A few Widowmakers housed themselves in Ironfire’s Ghostborough district; their presence in the hot, damp, steam-laden slums was a tacit admission by the Scarlet Company of their limitations – even though they were Ironfire’s standing army and police force, they couldn’t be everywhere at once. Still, it was concerning that so many bandits, Widowmakers or not, were gathering so close to Ironfire and being brazen enough to accost small merchant caravans who couldn’t afford a sellsword or two to protect them.

The warriors of the Scarlet Company swerved to the right as they closed the distance to the cavern. Bright, fiery light flickered and danced within, the jaunty motions like eager hounds prancing with the anticipation of their next hunt. The scarlet-cloaked men came a little close, making sure that they weren’t directly in front of the cavern. Gurvaldt, leader of the squad, held up his fist. The other warriors arranged themselves in a loose, defensive circle, their swords at their hips and pointing outward in a vague approximation of a thorn-bearing rose. Gurvaldt craned his neck to peer into the cavern.

Within stood a hulking, humanoid being of pure flames with a horned, demoniac face, white-hot wings, and cloven hooves. Its pauldrons and breastplate were made from calcified ash, and it held an axe of the same in each hand.

For a moment, the elemental was perfectly still, a molten statue.

Its gaze snapped upon Gurvaldt; its blazing eyes of infernal hatred bored into him. The elemental rolled its shoulders and started stalking forward, leaving a trail of glowing hoofprints behind it. With its voice of crackling flames, the elemental gave a declaration in the language of its kind, a language that Gurvaldt had learned from the wizards and sorcerers of the Scarlet Company. And what the elemental said sent shivers down Gurvaldt’s spine:

“You are not prepared.”