Gobtown, the Palisade
There's a distinct smell in Gobtown that marks the district for what it is - a refuge for waste of the Goblin kind and the closest they could ever get to civilization. Situated at the western end of the Palisade, built right over the stone walls and snaking downwards to the flat-lands below. The Palisade cuts Gobtown in half between the fortunate and the utterly miserable who live in chaos and outside the protection of the authorities. The construction in Gobtown is notoriously shoddy. Small, bent rooms fit for Waste Goblins, the small kind, and nothing more except for some halflings, which happen to be the prime costumers of a certain establishment named "Green Delight". That same place, run by none other than Crongi, the pimpiest pimp that ever pimped the wide-road of Gobtown, the district's miles long whore-mongering mecca. Crongi was of middling height for a waste Goblin - roughly the size of a twelve year old human child. His skin was green and rough, his eyes yellow and bloodshot, ears long as an elf and wide as a fig-leaf and teeth shoddier than a fifteen year old dog. He was wearing Outpost clothes - clean leather over linen, dyed red and purple, practically a peacock among crows.
It was the man that brought eight pimps together and offered up a contract to the Adventurer's Guild, hoping some clever wanderer will catch the killer that had been taking out his working girls. It so happened that some big-folk were walking down the wide-road of Gobtown, perhaps to catch a killer.
Caravan outside the Outpost
'Alright, we're off'. The sergeant called all of the hired thugs to follow him, woke up the cart-drivers and walked all the way up to the front of the caravan. Nine empty carts set out from the Outpost, out to the wasteland surrounding them. The view changed from rundown buildings and dark alleyways to farmsteads, mills and graveyards. Slowly those vanished, and with them any man-made structures. An occasional hut sprung out from the wilderness, an emergency station for stranded wanderers, or the site of a gruesome massacre by sentient evil trees. You wouldn't know till you've opened that cabin door.
The Outpost disappeared behind them as the road wound down a valley, and then up again to a barren hill. The view shifted away from green to brown, the earth rose up and crumpled in front and small holes began to appear in the ground and to the sides of the hills. Goblin Country, they call it, on account of all the sodding Goblins. Here live all sorts of Gobs - Waste and Bigs, Browns and Whites. They erected their settlements inside the hills and mountains, but from time to time the keen eye of an adventurer could catch smoke rising from afar. Bigs didn't give a fuck about wildlife in the wasteland - they ate them for breakfast, lunch and supper.
The carts would get stuck more often, requiring the help of the adventurers to pull them out and forward. The air grew thicker and nastier, with the smell of charred meat and dung often assaulting their noses. The sergeant was leading the Caravan towards the abandoned Goblin town - one which much more experienced adventurers cleaned up all by themselves. There weren't any war-parties or raids expected for the trip, since the locals were already warned with an incursion and several heads on spikes. The caravan would pass unharmed to the town underground, pick it clean, and then allow more damned Goblins to squat there. That was the plan, but as always, nothing goes as planned in this wretched place at the end of the world.
