The Hobgoblins were brewing war in the northern part and had sent an army to retrieve Vraka, the slain Shaman.
"Vraka was slain?" The Hobgoblin King's roar echoed through the darkened hall, his eyes burning with fury. He turned to one of his generals. "Gnarlock, you and your army investigate the south. There must be an enemy we are unaware of. We can't afford any mishap, not when we're nearing our conquest."
A fearsome-looking Hobgoblin, towering like a Goliath, growled in affirmation. His body was a canvas of scars, a testament to countless battles, and his head was encased in a helmet said to hide his disfigured face.
Leading a battalion of 1000 of his personal elite soldiers, Gnarlock marched south, determined to purge any threat that dared to challenge their dominion.
