The woods are gloomy, dark, and dead, and our intrepid adventurers, Quirkheart and Gotthold, have finally arrived in Darkshire. Soon, they’ll find that not all is as it appears in this cursed land, and if they wish to see daylight again, they’ll need to keep their wits and weapons about them.
“I don’t know, Quirk–somethin’s a bit dodgy ’bout these Duskwood folks,” Gotthold observed.
He’d stationed himself not far from the fountain in Darkshire’s town square, watching passerby. Everyone went about their business with a wire-tight wariness in their posture, and their eyes moved with a constant sense of vigilance bordering on paranoia. When their gaze landed on Gotthold–who was clearly not from around these parts–the skin around their eyes tightened, and more grim frowns than grimaced smiles greeted him.
“The term ‘dodgy’ is not quantifiable, friend Gotthold. Though evidence has proven that a lack of sufficient sunlight can negatively impact the moods of sentient beings. Perhaps these fine citizens merely need more sun,” she informed him.
Gotthold did his best not to bury his scarred face into his calloused palm. “Quanti-whatever, or not, this place gives me the same willies Drustvar does. What did that Commander want us to do? I want to get the job done and be gone before this gloom sinks into my bones.”
Quirkheart had moved about the shabby town, seeing what was to be done. They’d been sent to Duskwood from Stormwind, though the call board had been rather thin on the details. When they’d arrived, they found a land and people shrouded in eerie darkness, roads patrolled by people bearing torches and swords, and dilapidated buildings surrounded by dead countryside. It was a wonder anyone lived here, and subsequently it wasn’t a wonder that ‘thriving’ wasn’t in their vocabulary.
“Gloom has no capability to–”
“Quirk,” Gotthold said, stopping her before she could get much further.
“Yes, friend Gotthold?”
“What did the Commander want?”
“The Commander has tasked us with culling the Dire Wolf population surrounding the town. The death of at least twelve wolves has been requested. However, given my research of human facial expressions and speech patterns, I would calculate that Commander Ebonlocke has determined our success rate will be below a preferable percentage.”
Gotthold grunted. “She don’t know us then, do she? Wolves should be easy enough. Anythin’ else?”
“The man with black sideburns that are at least thirty-seven percent thicker than the average human male has expressed his concern over the efficacy of a group known as The Night Watch.”
“You mean the group led by Commander Sourpants? Why?”
“I cannot confirm whether or not Commander Ebonlocke’s pants can be designated as tasting sour. None of my research into human clothing–”
“Quirk,” Gotthold said. “Why does the man with impressive sideburns have concerns about the Night Watch?”
“Rationale unclear. He spoke of the expulsion of evil and heresy to keep the citizens safe, and that if we wished to assist him and one called Master Carevin, we must prove ourselves worthy.”
“Sounds like the hogwash some of the crazy tidesages spout off about,” Gotthold spat. There’d been a rare few tidesages Gotthold had gotten along with over his long life, and when people with power like that started talking heresy, people tended to start swinging in gallows.
Before Quirkheart could ask about why tidesages would be talking about the water pigs were washed with, he stood up straight from where he’d been leaning on the corner of the smithy, and said; “What do we have to do to prove ourselves worthy?”
“Kill Nightbane worgen, with the death of at least seven being sufficient.”
Gotthold frowned. “He say why these worgen deserve to be killed?”
Wolves was one thing, but worgen were allies of the alliance. Gotthold wasn’t sure he wanted to start off his journey of the Eastern Kingdoms in the Stormwind Stockades, all because some crazy, backwoods fanatic asked him to kill King Greymane’s subjects.
“He stated they were ‘monsters’. It is my understanding that some of the worgen never regained their sanity. Perhaps these worgen are some of those?” Quirkheart suggested.
“Mayhaps,” Gotthold said, still wary. “We’ll take a look-see for ourselves and decide what to do when we come across them. Is that all?”
“The cook at the inn has also offered us food, and the recipes of local delicacies, in exchange for a harvest of wolf and spider meat.”
Gotthold’s ears perked up at the mention of food. You didn’t get to be his size without harboring an appreciation for good cooking, and though spider wasn’t his first choice, the wolf recipe sounded promising.
“We’ll already be killin’ the wolves, and we’ll keep an eye out for the spiders. You ready to head out?” he asked.
“Yes, friend Gotthold–I am ready.”
“Then let’s be off.”