Tucked away in the howling peaks of the Land of Zin, far above the reach of kingdoms and their wars, rests a secretive and ancient circle of druids known as the Grove of the Mountain. These are not druids of bark and beast, but of granite and gravity—shapers of stone and listeners to the mountain’s eternal breath.
To the outside world, they are myth. To those who dwell among them, they are the still heart of the world—immovable, ancient, and enduring.
Where other druids dance with seasons, the Grove kneels to stillness. They teach that life is not found only in what grows and dies, but also in the enduring silence of stone. The earth is old and vast, and within its bones are secrets, memories, and a quiet vitality unlike any other.
They speak of the Living Stone—a force that remembers the past, strengthens the present, and can shape the future. They do not seek to command the stone, but to commune with it. Every carved mark, every shaped wall, is done with reverence. They believe that to force the earth is to invite disaster.
Patience, solitude, and humility are core to their way. Only by emptying oneself of noise and ego can one hear the voice of the mountain.
To join the Grove is to give up everything: wealth, name, and the comforts of the lower world. Aspiring initiates must journey alone into the mountains, surviving brutal winds, stone-horned beasts, and the crushing silence that breaks all but the truly devoted.
The ascent is both literal and spiritual. The higher one climbs, the less the distractions of the world weigh on the soul. When the mountain deems the seeker ready, they are found—never the other way around.
Some who seek the Grove are never heard from again. Others return transformed, with stone-braided hair, eyes like shale, and voices soft as falling dust.
The Grove of the Mountain rarely interferes in worldly affairs, and so few know of their existence. Among dwarves, gnomes, giants, and a few selected humans tales of “Earthshapers” and “Stone Saints” still echo in old mountain songs.
They are distrustful of cities, especially those that mine too deep or too greedily. However, they have been known to offer guidance—or vengeance—when the balance of the land is at risk.
Even the most devoted Grove Druid does not know when or if the earth will bless them. Some are called within years. Others wait decades in patience and silence. A few are never called at all, becoming Wanderers of the Stone, roaming the peaks in contemplation until they fade into the snow and stone.
There are whispers among the Grove that the mountain is not a place—it is a being. Some believe it slumbers beneath Zin, dreaming, judging, and watching those who walk its bones. If that is true, then the Grove is not merely a circle of druids.
It is the mountain’s will made flesh.