“Eight miles east of Stonehell, just off the old ridge trail, there’s a place the map doesn’t like to name. Locals call it Brassgate—an old Dominion ruin sunk half into the mountain and half into itself. Looks like a courthouse married a mausoleum and got buried in paperwork. The stones hum if you get close, and the air smells like copper and dried ink.
They say it used to be a waystation for prisoners—high-value ones. Not your average cutthroat, mind you. Planar fugitives, star-sent heretics, things that screamed in equations. The Dominion built it to sort them—strip their names, rewrite their destinies, ship them off to other realms through magic brass doors. Most of that magic's dead now. Most.
But not all of it.
Scout parties report movement there lately—organized fires, watch patrols, goblinoid banners. Hobgoblins, likely. Disciplined sort. They’ve built camp in the old gatehouse and are sniffing deeper. Whatever they're hoping to find down there, you can bet it's not just dusty files.
Avoid the front path. Watch the ridgeline for scouts. And for gods’ sake, don’t speak your full name within the walls. They say the brass remembers.”