About this 3D model

[Medium Sized Model - 25mm Base] (Three Variants Included) [Presupported with LYS files in 32mm & 75mm Scale] The Cult of Seroca that lives among the desert plains of Sudd Tohst. This particular sect was once a nomadic tribe of Sun Elves, lured to the service of the Dark Spawn of Secrets. Discordant whispers set them against their Hinatali brethren, those in golden towers and manses who lived in luxury while their kin beyond their walls suffered in the agony of the desert. Now they are Seroca’s tools, enacting the will of the dark divine to undo Hinatal from within. Seroca’s Devout were not born in shadowed temples or raised on doctrine. They were once the Osmari, a nomadic tribe of Sun Elves who lived by the desert’s rules and took pride in surviving them. Life was harsh, but it was theirs, and they endured it through discipline. The Osmari were militaristic even by Sun Elf standards. Combat was tradition, duty, and identity all at once. They trained from youth, and they taught their women sword and spear before marriage, not as novelty, but as necessity. The desert did not care for ceremony, and neither did their enemies. This creed kept them alive for generations. Seroca found them through division, not temptation. It began as dissent that sounded reasonable at first, complaints that the tribe’s drills were wasteful, that rigorous training consumed too much water and food in dry seasons. Voices multiplied. Warriors refused their duties, took to idleness, and mocked the old ways. Vilryn Kaedrys, a respected defender of the tribe, tried to cut the rot out before it could spread. He issued an ultimatum that was meant to save them, but it became the spark that lit the schism. A skirmish followed. Blood was spilled between kin, and when the dust settled, the tribe needed a villain more than it needed truth. Vilryn was blamed and banished. He wandered until he reached Hinatal, where he buried his past beneath steel and sand, fighting for coin in the city’s pits. Years later, the Osmari were no longer merely divided. They were gone. Not slaughtered, not scattered, but taken. Seroca had been in their midst long before the schism, whispering into the cracks, turning discontent into certainty, certainty into betrayal. When the tribe finally broke, the Spawn of Secrets offered what looked like salvation. They accepted. Now the Osmari move as Seroca’s Devout, stripped of memory and identity, bound to a will that is not their own. They drift among the desert plains and into Hinatal itself as traders, labourers, and pilgrims, wearing familiar faces but no longer recognise their own. Their purpose is not to sack the gilded city in a single night, but to erode it quietly, to make Hinatal doubt itself until it unravels from within. Vilryn tried to warn the city for years, but he does not know who is listening, and he does not know who is already lost.