Venture into the most hostile, ash-choked corners of Eastern Taladas. From the toxic, warped volcanic slopes of the Steamwall to the skeletal ruins of Old Aurim and the misty cliffs of the Rainward Isles, we explore the brutal survival of Krynn’s most merciless civilizations. Discover how the scrawny, ancestor-worshiping hobgoblins of the mountains compare to the heavily armored, nomadic war-tribes of the plains. We also unearth the dark experiments of the goddess Erestem, the rise of the proto-draconian Traag, and the elusive, bone-strewn Field of Dragons. Buy Time of the Dragon: https://www.dmsguild.com/en/product/16960/time-of-the-dragon-2e?affiliate_id=50797
Transcript
Cold Open
Surviving on a diet of poached gnomes and toxic mountain moss, the merciless, scrawny war-tribes of Eastern Taladas have turned the ashen ruins of a fallen human empire into a feral playground of bone armor and blood feuds.
Intro
Welcome to another DragonLance Saga episode. My name is Adam, and today we are deep-diving into the ecology of the volcanic Steamwall, the apocalyptic dust-bowl of Old Aurim, and the misty refuge of the Rainward Isles. I’d like to take a moment and thank the DLSaga members and Patreon patrons, and invite you to consider becoming a member or patron — you can even pick up Dragonlance media or get $10 by signing up to StartPlaying.Games using my affiliate links. I’m referencing the Time of the Dragon boxed set for this information. If I leave anything out or misspeak, please leave a comment below.
Discussion
To understand the sheer hostility of Eastern Taladas, we must first look at the Steamwall. This massive volcanic mountain range completely blocks Southern Hosk from the east. For humans or elves, it is an uninhabitable nightmare. Corrosive steam rolls up from the Indanalis Sea, mixing with the ash and sulfuric gas of active volcanoes to create a toxic, perpetual rain that erodes the lifeless rock. Black, poisonous streams rush down the peaks past boiling mud pots, forming rivers where the banks are entirely dead except for eerie clumps of red and gold moss.
As these waters flow down the lower slopes, they warp the very rules of nature. Mighty oaks become gnarled and tortured. Animals—from squirrels to giant bears—develop ulcerous skin patches and bizarre physical deformities. Their temperaments shift drastically: the meek become aggressive, and the aggressive become vicious. By the time these brackish, sour rivers reach the foothills, the poisons dilute enough to be non-lethal, but the land remains a breeding ground for fearsome monsters. Yet, among the beasts, three intelligent races struggle to survive: the beleaguered Traldor Dwarves, the hardened Marak Kender, and the true masters of the muck—the Steamwall Hobgoblins.
Unlike their burly cousins elsewhere on Krynn, the Steamwall hobgoblins are scrawny, skeletal fellows with loose, deep red-brown skin hanging off their frames and large, bloodshot eyes. Standing six feet tall, the males wear nothing but a loincloth, and both sexes deck themselves out in macabre ornaments: teeth, fingers, and toes harvested from their victims, mixed with bright cloth and feathers.
Because earthquakes routinely collapse the mountain caves, these hobgoblins build drafty longhouses on stilts to escape predatory vermin. These flimsily thatched roofs offer miserable protection from the freezing winter rains, and entire clans frequently burn their own homes down by carelessly building indoor fires just to stay warm.
What truly defines this culture is their obsession with death. When a hobgoblin dies, their skull is cleaned entirely by captive nests of flesh-eating ants and placed into a dedicated niche on the front wall of the longhouse. Taking heads is the ultimate metric of valor. Tribes frequently raid the nearby Marak kender and Traldor dwarves to bring back enemy heads, stacking them in gruesome pyramids outside their doors to face their ancestors.
Yet, surprisingly, they are hospitable to foreign merchants. Wise traders who don’t offend their hosts can barter metal weapons for rare mountain hides, toxic tree sap, or bizarre spell ingredients requested by mainland wizards. They worship no gods, only their ancestors, believing in a simple afterlife judged by a figure they call Mwarg—the hobgoblin name for Erestem, who they cheerfully assume overthrew their old god, Hiteh.
East of the Steamwall lies Old Aurim. Once the greatest empire in Taladas, it vanished in a single instant during the Cataclysm when a cosmic rock shattered the land and threw up volcanic peaks. The dark, ash-choked age that followed scoured the survivors with black rain and horrific plagues like cholera and dysentery. Lacking holy priests and sanitation knowledge, the citizens piled their dead in town squares, intensifying the epidemics until the human population completely dwindled to nothing.
Today, Aurim is a barren dust-bowl of petrified trees, grand ruins, and a totally different, nomadic breed of feral hobgoblins. But they are not alone. Before the Dark Queen Takhisis perfected her creation of draconians in Ansalon, she used the shattered isolation of Aurim as her private laboratory. Most of her early experiments were twisted failures or infertile aberrations, but one vicious breed managed to breed and prosper: the Traag. These proto-draconians are unique to Taladas, and their brutal success has recently piqued the dark gods’ interest once more. While the hobgoblins dominate the open, dusty plains, the Traag claim absolute domain over the ancient stone cities. No love is lost between them; any Traag caught on the plains becomes dinner for the hobgoblins, and any hobgoblin caught in the ruins is tortured by the Traag for weeks.
The nomadic hobgoblins of the Aurim plains are far more violent and bloodthirsty than their mountain cousins. They have no concept of family; females will kill their own unweaned infants, and children regularly murder elders as a rite of passage. Power is the only law. Tribes are ruled by chiefs who maintain control purely through terror, and multiple tribes are loosely held together by a Great Chief who keeps his crown by constantly tricking his subordinates into warring with one another.
These plain-runners wear nothing but scrounged, mismatched armor taken from ruins or corpses. They are strict carnivores who hunt sparse game, frequently resorting to cannibalism. They consider human meat tough and stringy, but they actively hunt gnomes, claiming gnome meat is tough, flavorful, and keeps for a long time. They live in squalid leather tents, migrating whenever the water dries up or a stronger tribe bullies them out of a prime camping spot.
Because they view death as a failure and fear as cowardice, these hobgoblins employ bizarre, contradictory battlefield tactics. While they love a sneaky ambush if the odds heavily favor them, an even match demands that they march openly, slowly, and incredibly loudly toward the enemy to prove they do not fear death. They completely ignore advanced tactics like feints or flanking maneuvers in favor of a brutal, straight-on frontal attack, suffering cataclysmic casualties without ever breaking formation.
Despite the grim savagery, Old Aurim holds legendary wonders. Brave or foolish treasure hunters risk the hobgoblins to plunder ancient imperial artifacts, lured by the myth of the Field of Dragons—a hidden valley where the oldest dragons of Krynn supposedly go to die, its floor buried completely beneath mountains of bone and gem-encrusted scales.
For those seeking a reprieve from the ash, the northern Rainward Isles offer a misty, cold sanctuary of gloomy pine forests and craggy rocks. Though battered by fierce winter ocean storms and guarded by hidden, jagged reefs, these islands are a treasure trove of wild orchards, berries, elk, and beaver. Here, out of the ruins of Aurim, communities of humans, dwarves, and kender have done something entirely unique for Krynn: they have cast aside ancient racial prejudices, working in absolute trust and cooperation to defend their lonely farms from giant winter wolves, wild centaurs, and the restless, wandering spirits of Old Aurim that haunt the misty nights.
Outro
But that is all the time I have to talk about the Hobgoblins of Steamwall and Old Aurim. Would your campaign style lean toward the hyper-survival of the Rainward Isles, or a high-stakes heist into a ruined city ruled by the proto-draconian Traag? Leave a comment below.
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All we have are children’s stories.
