The hobgobelin deserters

In the windswept wilderness south of Lomidar, where jagged hills cut the horizon and the earth bears the scars of ancient fire, a most unusual enterprise has taken root.

Once part of the feared hordes of Surt—marching under banners of flame and conquest—these hobgoblin deserters have abandoned war for survival. Here, far from the clash of armies and the will of their former master, they have carved out a fragile existence not with blades, but with picks and iron resolve.

Their settlement rises from the dust like a stubborn defiance of fate. Rough palisades encircle a cluster of mining shafts, each descending into the dark veins of the land. The air carries the sharp tang of metal and ash, mingled with the steady rhythm of tools striking stone. What was once a warband is now a workforce—disciplined still, but driven by necessity rather than conquest.

Yet peace is a relative thing.

These deserters are not welcomed neighbors. Travelers speak in low tones of uneasy encounters: of watchful eyes beneath battered helms, of tense negotiations over supplies, of a community caught between redemption and relapse. Old instincts linger, and the shadow of Surt’s dominion has not fully loosened its grip. Some among them still wear their past like armor; others strive to shed it with every swing of the hammer.

Beneath their feet, the mines themselves hold secrets. Strange ores glimmer in the deep, and echoes sometimes travel where no voice should carry. Whether these tunnels promise wealth, danger, or something far stranger is a question that draws adventurers as surely as any legend.

For those who venture south of Lomidar, this place offers more than a simple encounter. It is a crossroads of choices—conflict or cooperation, suspicion or trust. Will you see enemies in exile, or survivors seeking a second path? And in a land shaped by fire and war, can such a transformation truly endure?

In Arche Terre, even the quietest corners hum with tension. And here, among the hobgoblin miners, the story is still being written—one strike of the pick at a time.