The middle of the Goblin Islands away from Harbat is, like its brethren, plagued by rains and winds - barren hills and unhomely moors where the banshee wails you'll find here.
It is home to a rough folk that apparently have some kind of quarrel with the tax collector. Their sheep and goats graze freely amidst the crumbling standing stones all around the island, herded by the men and their dogs. When the animals grow all big and juicy, they are sold to the butchery. Lonely farmsteads and enclosed fields lie scattered throughout the island, and somewhere in a dale they have a small settlement of crude houses - with a homely hearth inside. Nothing more than a church, a store, a windmill and the Hobgoblin Inn.
Off in the distant mist, a ruined castle dominates the surroundings. Something about this keep is wrong, very wrong.