Innerhold Hearthstead

There are no banners hanging above its gates, for there are no gates at all. Only the long, winding stair climbs the inner wall of Umperas Hull—golden, broken, and towering—like the spine of some colossal, buried beast. From below, the curve of the ancient scale stretches into a circle, so large that clouds often catch on its jagged rim.

Those who reach the top and peer into the hollow find a city not of wealth, nor conquest—but of welcome.

Innerhold Hearthstead, cradled entirely within the Hull’s protective curve, is no crown jewel of empire. It boasts no flag, no nobility, no claim to power. What it offers instead is belonging—to those who have nowhere else to go, and no one left to follow.

A Refuge Forged in Loss

Stories say that the first to settle here were a half-orc widow and her goblin daughter, fleeing a village razed by war. They arrived at the Hull, guided by whispers in dreams and the glow that never fades. The mother climbed the wall with the child strapped to her back. When she reached the summit and looked down into the empty cradle of the scale, she wept—not from despair, but for the first glimpse of peace.

Soon after came others:

• A fallen aasimar, wings clipped by his own people for denying prophecy.
• A dwarven stonemason accused of heresy for crafting a statue in the image of an elf.
• A trio of halfling siblings who fled across a continent to escape a contract forged in blood.

Each found the Hull. Each stayed.

The Rules of the Hull

There are no kings here. No lords. No temples with tithed silver. Only The Concord Ring, a rotating circle of volunteers who settle disputes and keep the stair watched. Laws are agreed upon by common speech, carved into the Stone of One Voice in the central square. Enforcement is handled by the people—firm, fair, and never cruel.

Neutrality is sacred. Bounties are forbidden. Hunters are turned away at the stair. Those who come bearing violence find themselves ignored by the ground itself—the Hull glows brighter