The Tales of Quirkheart & Gotthold: The Longest Night ~~ Duskwood Chapter Five

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After speaking with Clerk Daltry, Quirkheart and Gotthold face the challenge of recovering the documents needed to solve the mystery of Stalvan Mistmantle. It’s a long shot, but the only one they have. 

~~~~

“Now,” Gotthold said, scanning the immediate area as they left the town hall, “we just need to get out of town before Ebonlocke gets nosy.”

“It’s my job to be nosy,” a familiar voice said.

To Gotthold’s credit, he barely flinched when she spoke, though his eyes did go a bit wide for a moment.

“Friend Gotthold, now would be a perfect opportunity to inquire about the perceived flavor of the Commander’s pants,” Quirkheart stage-whispered. “As stated before, none of my research into human clothing indicates what flavor designation they would have and whether that flavor would be sour.”

There was a surprised spluttering from the Commander as she stepped out from the shadows. She’d been in the corner where the stairs met the town hall entrance, instead of at the bottom of the stairs where she normally stood.

Gotthold turned a shade of crimson darker than even the scales of the dragons from the red dragonflight, and tilted his head back beseechingly at the sky.

Why me? he asked mournfully.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Commander Ebonlocke said firmly.

Gotthold looked down at her from his perch at the top of the stairs, and grimaced when he was confronted with her scowl. Her name was an apt description of her hair, dark, with the long locks parted down the middle. And just like most of the sunshine-deprived of the area, her skin was ghostly.

“Now, what business did you have in the town hall, outsider?” she asked, one hand steady on her weapon, while her other hand was in a fist and planted on her hip. Her shuttered lantern was on the ground nearby, flame snuffed out.

“Just chatting with your clerk about local history. Fascinating stuff, really,” he said, trying to be as vaguely truthful as possible.

Her scowl deepened, and her lips pursed.

“Once again, based on my study of human facial expressions, I would say she does not believe you, friend Gotthold,” Quirkheart said, her head tilting to look up at him.

“Yes, friend Gotthold, it would indeed appear that she doesn’t believe you,” Ebonlocke mocked.

The only reason Gotthold remained friendly (ish), was that her tone was aimed more at him than Quirkheart.

“You caught me. You were nowhere to be found, and we were looking for another job.”

It was still a sort-of truth, but the way Ebonlocke’s jaw tightened said she wasn’t buying what he was selling. Then her eyes landed on something beyond Quirkheart and Gotthold.

“Detlev!” she shouted.

When Gotthold followed her line of sight, it landed on the man they’d had the chat with in the tavern. The one with the ogre’s face.

“Yeah?” he answered, stopping so suddenly his buddies ran into his back.

“It’s, ‘yes, ma’am,’ to you, Detlev,” she corrected him. It sounded more rote than anything else, as though this were expected as opposed to something she truly cared about. “These two are looking for something to do. I received a report about some worgen menacing travelers near the Rotting Orchard, and Calor has been knocking down my door to get someone out there to do something about it. Take our fine adventurers from Stormwind out there, and see if they can make themselves useful,” she finished, then grabbed her lantern and walked away.

“What? No! I–” Detlev tried to say, and held out a hand as though to stop her.

Ebonlocke didn’t even break her stride, and disappeared into the gloom behind the nearest house.

When Gotthold looked back at the man, his hands were in fists at his side, and he was glaring daggers at the pair.

“Well–” Gotthold started.

“Not a word from either of you,” Detlev said, stabbing a finger at each of them. “Get your mounts and meet me at the south road out of town.” With that, he left his two very drunk friends leaning on one another as he headed for the stables.

“Well, this is a fine kettle she’s gotten us into,” Gotthold grumbled. “The only good thing about this mess is we needed to go there, anyway. She could have just given us directions.”

Quirkheart looked at the ground, then back at Gotthold. “We are not in a kettle, friend Gotthold. We are standing on the stairs of the town hall.”

“It means we’ve been put into a dilemma, Quirk,” he explained as they made their way down the stairs, then past the drunk, still immobilized pair.

“Ah, yes, friend Gotthold. That would appear to be correct. We will need to accomplish both tasks set before us. How do you propose we search for the documents without arousing suspicion?”

“We’ll need a distraction,” Gotthold said as they made their way to the stables. Then, a really awful, wickedly perfect idea came to mind as the wooden structure came into sight. “What’s that thing you’ve been researching recently?”

The blue glow of Quirkheart’s eyes brightened. “You mean the capability of sentient creatures to augment power through emotion, and what role it plays in–”

“Yes,” Gotthold interrupted her before she could continue, “that’ll do. I want you to enlighten our companion on that research and anything else you can think of.”

Any kind of non-stop chatter would likely do, but when Quirkheart started throwing big words into the mix, the effect would be too great to overcome.

“Of course! However, what will we do to distract him?” she asked, her head tilting quizzically, then there was a whirring sound. “Oh, I perceive your intention, friend Gotthold. It is rare for a layperson to fully grasp such concepts, and it will be a sufficient distraction while you search for the documents.”

“Exactly, my friend. A perfect plan, and the perfect person to execute it,” he said, then bent down to pat her shoulder.

He could have sworn he’d seen her blush, but in the perpetual darkness it was difficult to tell.

The Tales of Quirkheart & Gotthold: The Longest Night ~~ Duskwood Chapter Four

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Upon investigating talk of a man disturbing the townsfolk, our pair meet Tobias Mistmantle, who is searching for his missing brother. Thinking they can kill two gulls with one shot–helping the man find his brother, and seeing him off for the townsfolk once they do–Gotthold agrees to help. Now they just need to figure out what happened to his brother without being kicked out of the town themselves.

~~~~

“Where do you think we start our search?” Gotthold asked, as the town came back into view.

“It is my understanding that records are kept in libraries or clerk offices, friend Gotthold,” Quirk said. Despite her much shorter stature, the mechanical nature of her legs let her keep up with Gotthold’s longer stride with ease.

Gotthold responded with a rumbling hmm, as he rubbed  a thumb along his jaw in thought. “I don’ think this place has a library or clerk’s office–it’s not big enough.”

“Then the closest approximation would be the town hall.”

He snapped his fingers and grinned. “Good thinkin’, Quirk. Now we just gotta make sure that Ebonlocke don’t catch wind of what we’re doin’.”

“Why would that matter, friend Gotthold? We are attempting to help a citizen, perhaps even two.”

He grunted and shook his head. “Look, these people got the feel o’ Drustvar about them, and that makes them mighty superstitious. If their anchors are twisted in a knot over this Stalvan guy, chances are they won’t wanna talk about him, for fear of bringing something bad down on their heads.”

“That behavior is illogical, and unhelpful,” Quirk observed.

“That’s just people for you.”

“What does this have to do with Commander Althea Ebonlocke?”

“Well, I don’t fancy she’ll want us pokin’ our noses in this business. It makes people mighty angry, scared, or both. When it comes to her, my money’s gonna be on angry if she finds out about this.”

“It has been my observation that sentient beings, who exhibit such emotions in the face of their illogical behavior, are likely to be both angry and scared, rather than one or the other,” she said, her softly glowing eyes illuminating the darkness in front of her.

“Aye, you’re not wrong. Anger like this stems from fear, but I still don’t want to cross the commander,” Gotthold said. ‘Or say anythin’ like that to her face,‘ he thought with a grimace. People aren’t made commanders in forlorn places like this without knowing their way around a fight, and the commander’s blade looked sharper than her tongue.

As they made their way back into town, Gotthold kept his one good eye on the lookout for the commander, but she didn’t appear to be in the square right at that moment. When they made it past the fountain and into the entrance of the town hall with neither hide nor hair of Ebonlocke showing up, Gotthold breathed a sigh of relief.

“Perhaps this human with the unkempt mustache and tube brush eyebrows can tell us what we need to know, friend Gotthold,” Quirk offered.

“I beg your pardon?” Tube Brush asked.

Quirk’s description was, as usual, incredibly accurate. It was why he never asked her what she saw when she looked at him. He wasn’t a vain man by any stretch, but her observations could be brutal at times, even for him.

“And our pardon you have,” Gotthold said, ignoring the man’s affronted expression. “We’ve come here on business, and were wondering if you might know where we could get our hands on some local records.”

The man sniffed, and lifted his nose in the air to look down it. “I am Clerk Daltry, and any information you might seek would come through me.”

Gotthold suppressed a groan and the desire to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are! You’re clearly a man of prominence, which was why thought it best to speak with you about the matter,” he said, trying to recover the ground they’d lost with Quirk’s comment.

Clerk Daltry’s watery blue eyes narrowed. “Is that so? You wouldn’t say it’s because I’m the first person you came across once you entered the town hall?”

“Ah…” Gotthold fumbled. He wasn’t a smooth talker, but even for him this was awkward.

“Clerk Daltry,” Quirk said, thankfully addressing the man by his name this time, “we come here seeking information on one Stalvan Mistmantle. Any help or documents you are able to provide will be conducive to our search.”

Fear flashed through Daltry’s eyes. He took a small, involuntary step backward, and brought the ledger he was holding up to his chest, as though to hide behind the blue, leather-bound book.

“You want to know about Stalvan?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Aye. His brother asked us to help track him down, and we decided to help, if for no other reason than to get an answer and get him out of everyone’s hair.” That wasn’t the real reason, of course, or at least not the main one. If they were going to spend a substantial amount of time here, getting in good with the locals was never a bad thing. What he said didn’t have to be completely true, just not a complete lie.

Daltry lowered the ledger and glanced between the two of them. “You’re not the first, you know–outsiders looking to help, that is.” Then he sighed, and looked around his small space, occupied by more barrels and pots than books. “Even if I wanted to help, you’re out of luck. Worgen broke into the town hall the other night, tore the place to shreds, and stole most of my archives!” There was outrage there, tempered by sadness. This was a man who liked what he did, and in his eyes monsters had taken that away.

“Oh!” Quirk said, her exclamation as close to excitement as she got. “We recently returned from helping disperse the worgen of Brightwood, and I discovered these documents while we were there. I thought they might be important,” she said, digging in her pack.

Gotthold had to suppress another groan. “Quirk, you think everything you find while we’re out is important. If you weren’t a mechagnome, you wouldn’t be able to haul that pack around without tipping over.”

“Was I not correct in my assumption, friend Gotthold?”

Despite how innocent the question sounded, there was an undertow of gloat there ready to drag him under, so he just glowered at his companion.

“By the Light! You were able to return from confronting those monsters? I must admit I’m shocked,” he said, gingerly taking the papers from Quirkheart. They were a little worse for wear, but the sheen in Daltry’s eyes proved that didn’t matter to the clerk. “Thank you for returning this to the archives.”

“Your thanks are not necessary. Will these tell us what we need to know about Stalvan?” she asked.

Daltry hesitated, then leafed through the pages. “Not completely.” He looked back up, then between them. “If the two of you are that serious about this, I’ll help you.”

“Sounds good. What else do you need?” Gotthold asked.

“The beasts gather in another place–the Rotting Orchard.”

“Sounds delightful,” Gotthold said sourly.

“Indeed. The other documents I need might be there, if they haven’t eaten them, or what have you,” Daltry said distastefully. “Find those, and I just might be able to give you the information you need.”

Gotthold nodded. “We’ve got a plan, then. We’ll be back with your documents, Daltry. Let’s go, Quirk.”

“I wouldn’t lay any wagers on the success of this,” Daltry said.

Gotthold just laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder, making the clerk stagger. “You Duskwood folks keep sayin’ that, and we’re gonna keep provin’ you wrong.”

With that, the two of them left the town hall.

~~~~

The Tales of Quirkheart & Gotthold: The Longest Night ~~ Duskwood Chapter Three

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After completing the tasks set by the townspeople, Quirkheart and Gotthold retire to the local tavern for a well-deserved rest. However, Gotthold’s unease lurks in the back of his mind. The more time the pair linger in this town full of whispers, secrets, and dark glances, the more Gotthold is determined to get to the bottom of what’s haunting Darkshire.

~~~~

“These wolf kebabs aren’t half bad,” Gotthold said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Though, I don’t think I care for Duskwood spider any more than I do Drustvar spider.”

The Scarlet Raven Tavern wasn’t terribly lively, but given the state of the area, Gotthold hadn’t expected it to mirror the bustling establishments of Stormwind. Still, the food was hot, the moonshine had a decent kick, and the roaring fire drove away the air’s perpetual chill.

“They are not as satisfying as Mecha-Bytes, but they are sufficient for keeping one’s energy levels within acceptable parameters,” Quirkheart said in pseudo-agreement.

When the food was brought to them, she’d pulled a canister from her pack and sprinkled something that looked suspiciously like rust flakes onto the meat. Gotthold had seen what passed for ‘food’ on the floating isle of junk, and it wasn’t anything fit for consumption by anyone but the mechagnomes and their ilk. Instead of commenting on Quirk’s opinion about the food, he raised his empty bottle toward the barkeep, asking for another. The barkeep nodded, and Gotthold turned his attention back to his food.

“–stirring up trouble again. I wish he’d just leave,” grumbled a patron behind Gotthold.

He slowed his chewing and stilled his movements. His mother had taught him eavesdropping was impolite, but his nan said that’s only the case if you’re caught.

“Have you said anything?”

“No! Of course not.”

“You’d think he’d get the message by now. Hasn’t that family caused enough pain?”

At that point, the tavernkeep walked up to their table, and put a new bottle of moonshine on the table.

“Everything turn out okay?” Tavernkeep Smitts asked, removing the empty bottle. The man was stiff as clothing covered in seawater and left to dry in the sun, and his expression was pinched.

“Aye,” Gotthold said, a pleased smile cracking his craggy features. “Best wolf I’ve had in ages, and the moonshine is almost as good as the brews back home.”

The tavernkeep’s shoulders relaxed, and a wan smile graced his face. “Well, it’s hard to compete with someone’s homeland, but I’ll pass the compliments along.”

“Thank’ee,” Gotthold said, picking up the new bottle and giving the man a nod.

Once he’d walked away, Gotthold stood up.

“Is it time to leave, friend Gotthold?” Quirkheart asked, looking up from her meticulously clean plate.

“Not quite yet, Quirk — I need to check on something,” he said, and headed over to a table with three men hunched over their plates.

They looked up at Gotthold’s approach, their eyes narrowing and mouths flattening to thin lines.

“Hello, gents. Fancy a chat?” he asked, waving the moonshine bottle at them, and laying on his thickest Kul Tiran charm.

The biggest one of the lot, who was furthest away, with a face ugly enough to scare an ogre, said; “No.” His tone was deader than his dark eyes, and almost as menacing as the hams the man had for hands.

“Now hold on a minute, Detlev,” the fidgety man closest to Gotthold said. His bloodshot eyes were darting between the bottle of moonshine and the man–Detlev. “There’s no harm in chatting.” The man already reeked of liquor, and his words held a slurred edge.

Gotthold would need to tread carefully here. It didn’t take much to incite restless and dissatisfied townsfolk toward reckless action, and he didn’t want to start any fires he couldn’t put out.

Keep ’em in hand, Got, or you’ll be drownin’ in fists and blood. The words of his old mentor echoed through his mind, from one of their many tavern trips in his younger days.

“Of course there’s no harm!” Gotthold said, clapping the man on the shoulder.

The fidgety man wheezed in response, his eyes widening just a hair at slight show of strength.

“I just couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, and thought my companion and I could be of some help,” Gotthold said, and put the bottle firmly down on the table.

The fidgety man, and the other who’d been quiet during the whole ordeal, both looked to Detlev. If looks could kill, Gotthold would be as skewered as those wolf kebabs, but Detlev must have seen something in his companion’s expressions, because he waved a hand for Gotthold to sit.

“Thank’ee. Now, who’s this person who’s causing problems?”

~~

The cabin in front of them was a shabby, one-room affair on the outskirts of town, not far from the gryphon roosts. As the two approached the front door, there was movement inside–a steady thunk of boots, moving back and forth in the small space.

When Quirkheart knocked on the door, the steps stopped, and there was a long moment before a man opened it. He was handsome enough, with blond locks and blue eyes, but his face was lined with worry, aging him beyond his years.

“Yes? What do you want?”

“Name’s Gotthold, and this here’s Quirkheart,” he said, jerking a thumb toward Quirk, who waved. “And we heard you was causin’ a spot of bother for the townsfolk.”

The man’s expression immediately turned to fury, setting off a spark of life in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“I have done no such thing! They refuse to tell me anything about my brother, and I’m just trying to find out what happened to him,” he shouted at Gotthold. By the end, his chest was heaving, and he’d taken a step toward Gotthold without realizing it.

Gotthold kept his expression calm, and he could tell the moment the man realized he was nearly close enough to bump…well, not chests. Gotthold was getting a bit round in the middle these days, but the principle was the same. The man’s eyes widened, and he took a step back, covering his face with his hands.

“I’m at my wits end here,” he said, shoulder shaking. “I received this letter from my brother, and when I showed up, the townsfolk told me he was dead, but refuse to say anything else on the matter.”

Gotthold’s heart twisted. He wasn’t sure there’d be a town left standing if he’d been treated the same in regards to his sister.

“The people of this town would very much like you to vacate the premises,” Quirkheart stated, when Gotthold said nothing. “How can we bring this situation to a peaceful conclusion?”

The man looked up from his hands, face wet with tears, and sighed. “I will not leave until they tell me my brother’s fate, and they refuse to do so. Perhaps the two of you could be mediators and look into this? I’ll be more than happy to get out of everyone’s hair once I know the truth.”

Quirkheart and Gotthold shared a look, then both of them nodded.

“Aye, we can do that. What are your names, by the way? They refused to tell us.”

The man scowled once again, but said; “I’m Tobias Mistmantle, and my brother is Stalvan. They act as though speaking my name or my brother’s is some kind of curse.” At that, he cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Thank you, by the way. It’s been a while since anyone has spoken to me with any kindness.”

“Bein’ kind costs you nothing in the long run. There’s always room for mean later,” Gotthold said with a grin.

The man managed to crack a small smile in return. “Too true.”

“Should we depart, friend Gotthold?” Quirkheart asked, heading toward the door before he could respond.

Instead of answering, Gotthold waved to the man and followed Quirk outside. Once they were out of earshot from the cabin, Gotthold shook his head.

“He spoke of a curse, and I can’t say I disagree. This whole town’s got a bodement hanging over it, mark my works,” Gotthold said, then spat on the ground and made an X across his heart.

“Do you have data to support your hypothesis, friend Gotthold?” Quirkheart asked.

“Of course not, Quirk,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s just a gut feeling.”

“Then there is nothing to substantiate this ‘bodement’ you speak of. It is likely just the lack of sunlight I mentioned earlier effecting your brain chemistry. We should focus on gathering all information related to one Stalvan Mistmantle, so that we may assist the townspeople and the outraged crying man in the most efficient manner possible,” she said.

Gotthold just sighed and said; “As you say, Quirk.”

~~~~

The Tales of Quirkheart & Gotthold: The Longest Night ~~ Duskwood Chapter Two

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Having arrived in Darkshire, Quirkheart and Gotthold were quickly put to work by the townspeople and local militia known as the Night Watch. However, Gotthold is unsettled by more than just the endless night, as whispers of heresy and evil ring in his mind as they head out to complete their tasks.

~~~~

“There seem to be a substantial number, friend Gotthold. However, they are spaced out in such a way, combined with the low visibility, that we may efficiently cull their pack,” Quirkheart observed.

They hadn’t gone far from the town before encountering the Nightbane worgen. In fact, all they’d had to do was crest the hill to the west before finding them. Gotthold had gone into a prone position, and waited for Quirkheart–who didn’t really need to crouch–to use her mechanized-enhanced sight to scan the area.

“It still don’t sit well, this killing worgen,” Gotthold grumbled.

“Do you wish to enter into a discourse with them, friend Gotthold?” she asked, facing him.

Her mechanized goggles glowed a cold blue, and the soft whirring of her arms and legs was barely discernible over the wind rustling the leaves overhead. Her armor and tabard were cut to keep from interfering with the gears that powered her every action, and she was always moving in some form or fashion. Despite her analytical nature, though, it was the slight head tilt along with the question that proved, deep down, mechagnomes still harbored echoes of their gnomanity.

He turned from Quirkheart to scowl at the worgen down the hill. He wasn’t big on moral quandaries, in engaging in them, or thinking about them. Yet, here they were.

“Maybe, but we should be–”

There was a soft whoomph of sound, followed on its heels by a much louder thud, as Quirkheart leapt right into the camp of the two worgen below them.

Gotthold’s eyes widened. The worgens yelped and snarled in shock at the sudden intrusion, and they scrambled backwards to get away from the tiny creature who stood before them. One of them barely missed singing themselves on the campfire, dancing away from the flames just in time.

“Greetings, worgen of the Nightbane pack, I am–”

Two things happened at once: one of the worgens rushed forward, claws raised in the air to slash downward at Quirkheart, and Gotthold, who had charged down the hill not long after Quirkheart, intercepted the blow with his axe.

The worgen yowled in pain and staggered back, clutching the remains of its bloody paw. After that, things turned from bad to worse for the surprised campers. By the end of the encounter, there were two dead worgen, and Gotthold was swearing between strained breaths.

“I hate running,” he groaned, sitting down heavily on a log not far from the camp. The handles of his two, two-handed axes weren’t far from his reach, and he kept one wary eye open as he drank from his water skin, just in case more showed up.

“You have not been following the exercise regime I created for you, friend Gotthold,” Quirkheart observed, standing at an angle from him, her back to the hill they descended. She scanned the night around them, not looking at him as she spoke, and certainly not out of breath with nary a hair out of place. While her words were nothing more than observation, Gotthold could almost detect a slight air of accusation in them.

“I’m too old to spend my days runnin’ around in circles that go nowhere, for no better reason than the pleasure of bein’ prepared to follow your fool-lead into battle. Why’d you do that?” he asked, his annoyance getting the better of him.

“You said you wished to enter a discourse with them–”

“I said ‘maybe’,” he interrupted her, “and if you’d have let me finish, I would have suggested a more cautious approach than leaping into their midst and scaring the fur from their hides.”

Quirkheart turned her attention to the corpses of the worgen. “Their fur is intact, friend Gotthold.”

Gotthold put his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands, while muttering; “Tides give me strength.” Then he sighed, and stood from the log. “Either way, I think we can safely say these worgen are not from the same stock as King Greymane’s people.”

“Yes. They do not appear to have been cured of their mindless state,” she agreed. “Does this mean we will do what the man with impressive sideburns has asked of us?”

Gotthold scanned the darkness around them, his thoughts still not settled about the men who spoke of heresy and claimed righteous justification for their actions.

“Yeah, but I want you to keep a weather eye on, and a keen ear out for anything shady,” he said, and picked up his axes.

“Based on data collected before our arrival, the weather patterns in the area remain unchanged–”

“Nevermind, Quirk. Let’s just watch each other’s backs, eh?”

“From my limited understanding of human colloquialism, you want us to make sure that nothing unfortunate happens to each other, correct?”

Gotthold couldn’t resist a small smile. “Aye, Quirk–that’s what I meant.”

“Then we will do so, friend Gotthold.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, let’s get this over with. Those wolf kebabs won’t make themselves.”

“Of course not, friend Gotthold. Food requires at least some level of–”

Gotthold turned from the camp and headed deeper into the grove, with Quirkheart and her chatter trailing not far behind him.

 

The Tales of Quirkheart & Gotthold: The Longest Night ~~ Duskwood Chapter One

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.”

~~~~

World of Warcraft Class Micro-Stories ~~ Warlock

A quiet humming fills the exceedingly tidy and small work space. A fel green glow gives off barely enough light for anyone save a Night Elf, or the occupant, to see by. There’s a short break in the humming, which is replaced by grumbling and harrumphing.

“The combination is still too unstable.” The voice is raspy, as it tended to be for some Forsaken, but most days Alzira was thankful she’d been left with her jaw, if not her joints.

“I don’t like this place,” a deep, yet wispy voice calls from the doorway.

“Me neither. Too much damp. We’ll have to set up shop somewhere else, and soon,” she responds absently.

The hulking void creature, bound into shape through its heavy-plated vambraces, made no response. Not that Jhazgorg ever did to something that wasn’t a command or question. And not that Alzira ever noticed.

“I need something to stabilize it,” she said, and sat back from the desk.

Though she didn’t feel the cold, Alzira still had a preference for long-sleeved robes, as a bygone comfort from her previous life. She folded her hands into the sleeves, bony fingers tracing the now familiar paths of sinew, patches of skin, and exposed bone. She hummed a nonsensical tune again, as her eyes scanned over the parchments on the wall. It was more from habit than actually reading the notes, as they’d all been committed to memory at this point.

After many long moments, she shook her head and sighed. “There’s no use for it. I need to talk to Grelx. No fighting with Yaznar this time, Jhaz.”

“Cannot resist,” Jhazgorg rumbled.

“Fine, but don’t break anything in Grelx’s workshop, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“As you command.”

 

***

 

“How many times I gotta tell ya, ‘Zira. The fel and the arcane just don’t like to play nice. We can brute force it, but don’t expect nothin’ delicate,” Grelx said, examining the vial. “Without order and control, the arcane is unstable, and won’t work. Fel energy is chaos, and naturally destabilizes the arcane as it subjugates it. The line where the arcane goes from useful to useless is finer than fancy elvish underwear.”

“Are you telling me it can’t be done?” Alzira asked, watching the goblin swirl the fluid.

The amethyst liquid was iridescent and sparkly, and was immiscible with the bright green portion, like oil and water. They churned as though agitated; a visual example of what Grelx had said.

“Now, now,” Grelx said, looking up, a gleam in his void dark eyes. “I never said that. We’ll either come up with this miracle potion, or a combustible so powerful the Horde and Alliance both will scramble to get their hands on it.”

“Aren’t we at peace right now?” Alzira mused.

Grelx snorted. “Like that’ll ever last. I mean, they even got the peace, love, and panda people to choose sides,” he said, and put the vial on the cleared space of his alchemy table. “No, it won’t last, and they’ll need something else to kill each other with. Especially now that the over-sized doorstop has outlawed the use of azerite except for his pets.”

“I think you mean, ‘champions’.”

“Hah! Champions of chaos, maybe. Half the messes they clean up are their fault in the first place,” he said, then shook his head. “Anyway, let’s see what we can come up with.”

Just as they were getting settled around the table, Alzira tilted her head.

“Does it seem quiet to you?”

“Hmm?” Grelx said, then his head shot up. “Jhaz! You fat, lumbering blueberry! Did you eat Yaznar again?”

“I must feed,” came the reply from somewhere outside.

“Well, at least they weren’t fighting,” Alzira said, an edge of humor to her words.

“Whatever. Dismiss that walking garbage bucket so we can get started,” Grelx said.

Alzira knew the only reason he didn’t blow up about the newest tally in Yaznar’s death counter, was because he had a puzzle in front of him. The only thing that could garner his ire now would be interrupting him while he worked.

“Go for now, Jhaz,” Alzira said, her mind already turning in the same direction as Grelx’s.

“I…am…void…where prohibited,” Jhaz said, then diminished in size before disappearing through a portal.

“What a comedian,” Grelx muttered. “Yaznar! Get back here, and bring some fel with you!” Then Grelx looked to Alzira. “Can you get more of this?” he asked, and pointed to the purple liquid.

“Of course,” she said.

“Good. We’ll need plenty, and cross whatever fingers you have left that we don’t blow ourselves up before figuring this out.”

“This is why I came to you Grelx: you’re an optimist.”

Slimy Pet Crystal Farm Coords & Screenshots

If you’re not familiar with the Slimy Pets, Hazelnutty did a wonderful, comprehensive YouTube video on it here.

All I’m adding is my farming/feeding route I take for the Prismatic Crystals & Slimes. If all you want to do is go in, feed your slimes, and get out, this route will take 5-7 minutes. This will depend on how many crystals you come across, and whether or not you hit the extra two spawn points between Slime #3 & #4.

Here are the Slime locations:

I’ve also added screenshots just in case you need a little extra help on finding them.

All Coords:

Start at Slime:

/way 32.82, 39.58 (Slime)

/way 29.41, 40.30

/way 29.97, 35.99

/way 29.56, 36.16

/way 32.16, 32.98

/way 45.62, 24.14 (Slime)

/way 44.08, 21.62

/way 43.12, 19.44

/way 42.19, 18.02

/way 38.71, 18.25

/way 38.33, 18.27

/way 44.74, 21.20 (Potentially 2 Crystals)

/way 47.82, 27.73

/way 48.20, 28.05

/way 49.04, 27.70

/way 70.28, 24.72

/way 71.95, 22.59

/way 71.78, 25.76 (Slime & Crystal)

/way 71.30, 31.50

If you’re good on Crystals, skip down to the next Slime coord. If not, there’s a couple more points to check.

/way 72.36, 47.66

/way 73.40, 50.44

/way 54.98, 48.72 (Slime. For this one, I keep a /tar Aquafly macro on my action bar)

/way 52.94, 52.72

/way 52.26, 51.87

/way 50.96, 51.39

/way 46.79, 52.09

/way 45.47, 53.65

/way 43.42, 55.48

/way 39.70, 59.46

/way 39.08, 59.49

All done! Hopefully you now have plenty of Prismatic Crystals for your Slimy Pet farm.

In addition to the route above, here are some additional reported spawn points. Special thank you to Corgi for sending me their screenshots and cords!

/way 47.28, 69.06

/way 47.61, 85.47

/way 48.39, 86.25

/way 40.64, 71.20

/way 40.70, 65.99

/way 26.27, 30.96

/way 45.82, 38.04

/way 45.77, 42.36

/way 45.60, 40.59

/way 51.53, 73.19

/way 44.69, 72.94 (Potentially 2 Crystals)

/way 50.57, 69.39

Best of luck, and happy battling to you!

32.82, 39.58 (Slime)
29.41, 40.30
29.97, 35.99
29.56, 36.16
32.16, 32.98
45.62, 24.14 (Slime)
44.08, 21.62
43.12, 19.44
42.19, 18.02
38.71, 18.25
38.33, 18.27
44.74, 21.20 (Potentially 2 Crystals)
47.82, 27.73
48.20, 28.05
49.04, 27.70
70.28, 24.72
71.95, 22.59
71.78, 25.76 (Slime & Crystal)
71.30, 31.50
72.36, 47.66
73.40, 50.44
54.98, 48.72 (Slime. For this one, I keep a /tar Aquafly macro on my action bar)
52.94, 52.72
52.26, 51.87
50.96, 51.39
46.79, 52.09
45.47, 53.65
43.42, 55.48
39.70, 59.46
39.08, 59.49

 

Additional Spawns:

/way 47.28, 69.06
/way 47.61, 85.47
/way 48.39, 86.25
/way 40.64, 71.20
/way 40.70, 65.99
/way 26.27, 30.96
/way 45.82, 38.04
/way 45.77, 42.36
/way 45.60, 40.59
/way 51.53, 73.19
/way 44.69, 72.94 (Potentially 2 Crystals)
/way 50.57, 69.39

World of Warcraft: Safe Haven Observations & Sylvanas Windrunner Theories

Hello everyone, and thank you for joining me for some fun theorycrafting and observations! I’ll preface this by saying: this is LONG. There were so many hints pointing toward certain things, that I needed to give some background information and some extra here and there. It also doesn’t help that, perhaps, I can be long-winded. Ehehe.

Anyway, buckle up and I hope you enjoy!

 

Safe Haven, and the Implications

With the release of a new cinematic short, Safe Haven, we’ve had yet another nail driven into the proverbial coffin of Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, Warchief of the Horde. As High Overlord Varok Saurfang is talking with Thrall, they’re attacked by two Forsaken rogues. The attackers are quickly dispatched, and Thrall accuses Saurfang of being followed. To which Saurfang replied; “I followed them.”

 

Now, there’s nothing to indicate Saurfang is lying about this. In fact, when Thrall declares this place is; “Home. And family,” Saurfang looks around, somewhat wary, and asks; “And where are they?” To which Thrall replies; “Not far.” Some might say this is just to make sure Thrall’s family doesn’t hear Saurfang accuse Thrall of being absent in the face of what Sylvanas has done to the Horde. It can also be said that he was making sure Thrall’s family wouldn’t get in the crosshairs of the attack from the rogues he was following.

On the other hand, Sylvanas declared to your character in Queen’s Favor: “Let me be perfectly clear. You will find the traitor Saurfang. You will deliver him to me. And you will not fail me again.” In this, she might have dispatched more subtle forces than Dark Rangers and Deathguards, like rogues. A couple of points that might indicate Saurfang was simply turning a situation to his advantage are this: Why wait to kill Thrall until Saurfang is there? And, Saurfang was in the Swamp of Sorrows when Lyana and your character encounter him, which feeds directly into the Blasted Lands and the Dark Portal. Indicating Saurfang was probably already heading in that direction, and the rogues simply followed him

Rogues operate on subtlety, and would know that attacking when both orcs are there would put them at a disadvantage despite Saurfang having no weapon. If Thrall is truly the target, chances are they’d have just killed him and left. However, if they were following Saurfang, and heard the High Overlord trying to convince the former Warchief to fight for the Horde again, they may have felt obligated to take both of them out. They couldn’t take the chance of both orcs leaving there, united in their efforts to overthrow their Queen.

Plus, who is Thrall more likely to believe here? An honored war veteran, or Sylvanas? The rogues certainly can’t dispute what he’s said. I really don’t want to doubt Saurfang, and would love to take his words at face value, but at this point Saurfang may be willing to do whatever it takes to convince Thrall to fight for the Horde. Including luring two rogues he knows were following him right to Thrall’s door. The wariness we see when Saurfang asks about Thrall’s family, may have also been him making sure his actions wouldn’t end up with Thrall’s family dead.

We’ll have to wait and see, but at the moment I’m going to say that Saurfang manipulated the situation to his advantage. Either way, this does not reflect well on the Banshee Queen.

Is Sylvanas going to be Garrosh 2.0?

 

So, this question has been answered by Michael Bybee at Gamescon, stating that she won’t, but as her actions become ever more warmongering some players are struggling to believe this. However, I’m inclined to put my faith in the writers at Blizzard and I have a few reasons for this.

  1. Vol’jin, the loa, and hunting shadows

At the very beginning of Legion, Vol’jin is struck down by a demon and Sylvanas calls for the Horde to retreat to try and save the Warchief. Unfortunately, Vol’jin was beyond saving, but before he died he stated he’d been granted a vision:

Now, this decision has had major consequences for Horde and Alliance alike. And, until recently, we believed that the loa wanted Sylvanas in power for some reason or another.

However, in Battle for Azeroth and Tides of Vengeance specifically, we find out that this is 100% not the case. Vol’jin is summoned by Baine, Talanji, and company to hear who it was that told Vol’jin to make Sylvanas Warchief. However, Vol’jin’s memory is muddled, and you go back through his final hours to see if it will jog his memory:

Now, what I find most interesting about the above is two things. Vol’jin has declared his death was no accident, and he was, and still is, cut off from the loa. And there was a power lurking in the shadows. It took him somewhere to see this vision, but he can’t remember what this power is, or where they took him.

As a little side-note, one of the shades being fought says; “We tried…to spare you…the truth.” It might seem small, but this could be a huge part in some of the theory I’ll get down to below.

Having declared that he thinks it might not be the loa who granted him the vision, there’s only one thing left to do: visit a loa. Specifically, Bwonsamdi.

Bwonsamdi states he can’t hear Vol’jin either, and that he wasn’t the one who sent the vision. He cites ‘the balance’ as to why he would never suggest Sylvanas, because she, ‘tips the scales too far.’ Now, this isn’t the first you’ve heard of the Balance, as we get it, ad nauseum, from druids and anyone in touch with nature. However, this is another potential arrow pointing to who, or what, did send the vision.

However, that’s for later.

Moving on from here, Bwonsamdi tells us that he might know a couple different ‘people’ we should talk to, to see if it was them. His competitors, if you will, who deal in the dying and the dead.

So, first stop is Icecrown:

What I find so incredibly amusing is that even the Lich King says the Banshee Queen is too extra, and again we hear someone bring up ‘the balance’. We also get our next clue that something has gone awry with Vol’jin’s afterlife. That Vol’jin has been changed ‘more than you know.’

Then, in the true spirit of Lich King hospitality, he sics some ghouls after you, and tells you to remain with him forever or kick rocks.

Having fled Icecrown, we make our way back to the Broken Isles to visit Eyir:

Eyir gives us an interesting piece of information, that whoever has elevated Vol’jin beyond a ‘mere spirit’ is ‘a hand of valor’. She also indicated that such a force would not be interested in schemes for mortal thrones. We’ll get to that little tidbit later, because while I think that is factually true in letter, it is not true in spirit. See what I did there? Eh? Eh?

Yeah, okay, moving on.

So, here we’ve established that whoever granted the vision is not the same entity that elevated Vol’jin to…well, whatever he is. Bwonsamdi has no claim to him, the Lich King states he is not Undead or Damned, and Eyir says whatever has elevated him is beyond even her power. And, oh boy, this is getting good!

After Eyir says she knows what the thing probably is, but she won’t tell us, she also tells us to kick rocks. Man, these immortal beings are freaking rude! Anywho, we then hear this from Vol’jin:

Having established how little we know, Vol’jin says that he’s going to continue searching for answers, and that he’s going to hunt the potential new enemy before it’s hunting us. Which I think is going to bring a whole new facet to the title of Shadow Hunter for Vol’jin.

So, what, might you ask, does that incredibly long bit of exposition have to do with Sylvanas not being Garrosh? This leads me to #2.

2. New Powers that Probably Aren’t so New

One of the things you’ll notice with almost all the big bads we face in WoW, is that they tend to pull from ye olde days. They’re bad guys we’ve either faced in the past, or the beings of Azeroth have faced in the past in the RTSs and Lore:

  • The Old Gods (Vanilla, War of the Ancients, and more)
  • The Burning Legion & Illidan (Burning Crusade, War of the Ancients, The Opening of the Dark Portal)
  • The Scourge and the Lich King (Wrath of the Lich King, The Scourge, Warcraft III)
  • Cataclysm & Deathwing (Cycling back to Old God influence, and Deathwing seemed to have his fingers in a lot of pies)
  • Sha & Garrosh (Old Gods…Again. Sensing a theme, yet? The Sha were spawned from Old God essence. Garrosh brings us back around to the original sentiment of Orcs vs. Humans)
  • Warlords of Draenor…eh, wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff. But really, it’s just more Through the Dark Portal-esque stuff, right?
  • Legion (The Burning Legion again)
  • Battle for Azeroth (We’re still angry at each other, Azshara the Sunderer, and the old gods are still trying to kill everyone)

Now, after the original game and seven expansions, all featuring heavily with themes and bad guys from the past, what’s on the horizon?

Fresh blood.

Every franchise needs an infusion of fresh types of enemies to face to keep a storyline going. You can only re-use the same baddies so much before it gets stale. Now, Blizzard knows this, and I think they’ve been leaving hints along our storyline paths for what kind of fight we can expect post-N’Zoth.

Light versus Shadow and…More?

Okay, this isn’t a new concept completely, I mean, we’ve had paladins since day one, right? But I think it goes deeper than that.

When you see enemies like Old Gods, Titans, the Burning Legion, and so on, do you go toe-to-toe with them, or do you do the smart thing and work in the background and try to take them down through proxies? Like, you know, heroic adventurers? Demi-gods? You would also use these proxies to enforce your will.

Now, let’s get something clear: the Light is not ‘good’ and the Shadow is not ‘bad’…”but such concepts do not apply to the Light and the Void, they are simply primal forces with their morality characterized by how they are wielded” — Gamepedia ‘Light’

This is getting well into theory, but there are a few hints that I think support this:

  • Going back to Legion with the disastrous Xe’ra versus Illidan encounter, we get to see what kinds of lengths the Light is willing to go to. Khadgar has theorized that, during the great ordering of the cosmos or the ordering of Shadow and Light, Xe’ra was created by Elune. Xe’ra, and other Naaru, are agents of the Light. Illidan is known as the Child of Light and Shadows, but we see him forsake this birthright when he kills Xe’ra and remains at the Seat of the Pantheon. So, the Light is looking for new ‘Champions’.
  • We sort of see this happen with Calia Menethil, an undead brought back by the Light. Who may be put in place to battle Sylvanas once she’s deposed? (Because, trust me, if she’s not dead by the conclusion of certain events, she will likely be banished).
  • Vol’jin was shown a vision by something in the Shadows, maybe not the Shadows itself, but elevated in status by the Light, and will become a true ‘Shadow Hunter’.
  • Sylvanas becoming Warchief at the will of something, but I’m not so sure it’s the Shadow, or Void. We see the Void essence in Alleria warning her about Sylavans; “This one is dangerous. She is a threat and must be ended. Beware this one. She seeks the death of all things…All possibilities.” This is likely the Void trying to keep the balance.
  • Alleria is created as an agent of the Void by another agent of the Void, the Locus-Walker.
  • Night Warriors created by Elune.

I’m sure I could dig up more examples, but this’ll do for now.

So, coming back around to Sylvanas, how does this create a storyline different from Garrosh’s?

3. Destroying the Balance

Because, ultimately, I think this is what whoever gave Vol’jin the vision is going for. We’ve had three heavy hitters–Bwonsamdi, The Lich King, Eyir–stating how bad Sylvanas is for the Balance. This also implies that these beings work to keep the Balance, or maybe they are even bound by the tennets of Balance.

The Light and Shadow or ‘Void’ might be bound by these same rules, or they have to follow those rules when exerting their will in our world. Not totally sure. This brings me back around to Eyir’s comment about the hand of valor not scheming for thrones, which might be true in the strictest sense, but it sure tries to influence things behind thrones. *cough* Boy Wonder himself, Anduin. *cough*

The Void is no different. However, what these two shimmering seas of energy situated outside the barriers of reality share is this: they aren’t overt. They influence from behind the scenes. They whisper. They guide the hands of their proxies toward the outcome that suits them best. They do not orchestrate the death of a Warchief, kidnap his spirit to show him a vision, and force the appointment of the Warchief that would suit them best.

That’s where our third party comes in: The Gray. While the reason behind why The Gray would want the Balance thrown out of whack at best, or at worst destroyed, is unknown, we can see that’s what they want. And who, you may ask, are the first beings we encounter that were likely agents of The Gray? I’d have to say the Scourge Val’kyr all the way back at the end of Wrath, when Sylvanas kills herself from jumping off the top of ICC.

They show Sylvanas a vision of what would happen to the Forsaken if she truly died. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think Val’kyr are known for having visions. Who is? The Gray.

This has me asking so many questions:

  • Is the Balance bad for us? The Light and Void manipulate us to their own ends, and we can see in certain cases (Illidan) that they don’t care about the people, as long as their goals are met. Perhaps The Gray is doing us a favor by trying to shatter that balance through Sylvanas.
  • Maybe The Gray are simply a faction of the Void unhappy with the Balance, and are seeking to destroy it? We’ve seen other examples of beings going rogue from their faction, like Kairoz from the Bronze Dragonflight when he helped Garrosh.
  • What has The Gray Seen that has compelled them to take these actions? Is keeping the Balance going to cause more harm than good? Is shattering it the only way we keep ourselves from annihilation?

4. Who Else has The Gray Influenced?

I think we get this answer in that amazing trio of cinematic shorts: The Warbringers, Sylvanas, Azshara, & Jaina.

Yes, even Jaina.

Azshara: The female voice that whispers to her when she looks at the fish isn’t male, like N’Zoths. Also, who has been seen to control spirits, like the ones she sees accusing her? The Gray. It isn’t until she shouts about a ‘deal’ that we hear from N’Zoth. The Gray knows it can prod Azshara’s pride into taking N’Zoth’s deal.

Jaina: Again, we see spirit manipulation with Jaina’s father, forcing her back into the confrontation when she’s been absent from it for so long. She even says, ‘I’m listening now, Father’, which might not be her father at all, but The Gray.

Sylvanas: Destroying the home of the Night Elves, as a result of much plotting from various sources like Elegy, A Good War, and Before the Storm, is a major attack on the Balance, since the Night Elves are agents of Elune. Agents of the Balance.

Remember, it isn’t trying to make all of those it’s influencing work together. In fact, the more war they bring, the more likely it is that the Balance will suffer.

Conclusion:

First off, I have to tip my hat to the team at Blizzard. I have never been so invested in the lore of the game, and it has been amazing to join them for this ride. I am truly looking forward to each new addition as we go along.

Many thanks to you all.

As for The Gray, I could be totally wrong on all points. If that’s the case I’ve just wasted hours of my life, and maybe ten-ish minutes of yours, from this whole thing. If that turns out to be true I apologize profusely, but I had fun, and I have no one to discuss this with so you were all stuck with this post, heh.

I do think, with the harping on about the Balance, that is what will be under threat and Sylvanas is that threat in physical form. Now, if it turns out The Gray has set her up to destroy the Balance because it’s the only way we’ll be saved from annihilation, then do her actions justify that end? We had that question with Illidan: do you justify the murder of the few to save the many?

Or, is The Gray doing this to gain an upper hand, consequences be damned?

I have to think it’s the first, to be honest, and one of the reasons is shown from earlier, when Vol’jin is making his way back through his final hour. The shade said; “We tried…to spare you…the truth.” That doesn’t sound like something a being would care about if they just wanted mayhem and murder.

With that being my guess, I had my own sort of ‘vision’:

At the conclusion, when the Balance has been shattered for their benefit, Sylvanas is confronted by all the leaders. They see why she did it, because in the end it was the only way to save the most people, but as Vol’jin stated as he was dying: “Many will not understand.” And they don’t. Some will want her true death. Some will want to grant her mercy. All acknowledge that she cannot continue as Warchief, and will likely have to step down as queen of the Forsaken.

In some ways, I see her returning to ICC, and staring down from the top. Trying to decide if she will end her Undeath there as she had those many years ago. Perhaps the Lich King is still there, and offers for her to stay there forever, as he did for your player in the cut scene.

Perhaps The Gray offers her an alternative to the damned afterlife she saw when she jumped from ICC after Arthas’ death.

Either way, the only thing I see Sylvanas sharing with Garrosh, is that after this storyline comes to its end, she will come to hers in the game. One way, or another.

World of Warcraft Class Micro-Stories ~~ Warrior

Crald shoved the spade deep into the soil, hitting the root of the stubborn plant for the tenth time.

Whoever said gardening was the path to happiness should be buried alive in their own garden, Crald thought, and growled with bared teeth. After the words crossed his mind, though, he closed his eyes and sighed.

He’d been out here three days, clearing land for a…Well, he wasn’t feeling charitable enough at the moment to call them a friend. It was bad enough the gnome was more stubborn than the large weed in front of him, but that trait was coupled with a perpetual optimism that made Crald’s tusks ache.

That’s the last time I complain to Fixza about being tired of fighting, he grumbled, and stabbed at the root with a little more force.

“Crald! I got the wood, just like you asked!” the squeaky voice rang out over the now bare ground.

Speak of the demon and it shall appear. Crald turned around.

He didn’t know what went into gnomish engineering, or any engineering for that matter, but Fixza was a genius with all the little gizmos. She could craft just about anything from things most would consider junk. Of course, basic things, like raised garden beds, were apparently beyond her.

One of her little robots was pulling the wagon behind it, full of an assortment of wood. Crald wasn’t exactly a master carpenter, but his father, a blacksmith, had taught him how to work with his hands. He glanced over to a pile of assorted metal plates, bolted together in a haphazard manner. Well, I can’t do much worse than that, anyway.

Fixza and Crald had been friends since they were both children, and kept in touch throughout the years via a robot parrot she’d made. She liked to make little recordings for the bird to screech out for all the world to hear. Good thing Crald didn’t give two coppers what the other soldiers thought about him. Though, if anyone were close enough to him when the parrot, Pollary, showed up, they’d catch sight of the green skin on his cheeks darkening from an emerald green to juniper. Crald, on the other hand, simply wrote letters.

Crald held back another sigh. The last letter was what got him into this mess. She’d been talking about starting a garden, since supply lines weren’t reliable at the moment, what with all the war going on. Crald, in turn, had spoken of how his term of enlistment was over, and he was just old enough that no one would look sideways at him not continuing among the ranks of the Horde. So, in typical Fixza fashion, she suggested he stay with her for a while to mull things over.

He got a break from blood, guts, and a glory that tasted more of ash than victory, and she got a garden. Win-win for them both. Crald snorted. That had been the idea, at least.

When he’d arrived at her workshop in the Lower Wilds of Feralas, tucked into the side of a hill just off Wildwind Lake, the place had been in shambles. The metal plates, now in a heap, had been jumbled together, as though all the shelves in a multi-story building had tried to fall into some semblance of garden beds.

“Fixza?” he called. Dread wormed its way through his stomach at the sight. He sent a prayer to whatever being happened to be listening, that she wasn’t at the bottom of this mess.

“Crald!” she called, from the bottom of the mess.

 Crald sighed.

That had been the start of a full two days of dismantling and moving all her ‘hard work’ off to the side, and for Crald to start clearing and leveling the hill above her house. She’d tried to get some of her robots to help, but after the fifth time Crald’s face was hit with a clump of soil and grass, he’d firmly told Fixza the little demon machines had to go. He’d rather deal with the Broken Shore imp infestation again, than have to work with those mechanical monstrosities.

“Good work. Bring them over here,” he said, and motioned to the edge of the cleared ground.

Her eyes, which were the tropical blue of the waters near Booty Bay, widened as she took in all the work he’d done.

“Wow! And you didn’t even need my robots!” she exclaimed, her tiny body seeming to vibrate with suppressed excitement. Even though her robots had likely done most of the heavy lifting, her face and hair were wet with sweat from the humidity. Of course, nothing could keep her hair, which was the pink of a child’s confection and seemingly styled with lightning, from sticking out every which way.

“No, I did not,” Crald agreed. He headed over to her wagon, and shoved the spade deep into the earth to keep it upright. Fixza set the robot to removing the wood from the wagon, and Crald began sorting through it.

“We can either go into one of the nearby outposts, and find a blacksmith willing to make nails for us, or we can just make notches in the boards, and keep them steady with wooden stakes and supports,” Crald said, his mind busy with a making a plan.

Fixza didn’t answer him. That alone should have put his hackles up, but he blamed the heat for his lack of awareness, as well as five days of work not seeing another person or creature around. He’d grown complacent.

“Crald,” Fixza said, her voice strained and squeakier than usual.

That got his attention, and his head snapped up. Fixza’s back was to him, and not far from her was a poison green and shiny black wasp that had no business being outside of Silithus. It was easily four or five times her size, and its stinger matched her height. The low buzzing of its wings finally hit his hearing, and its head twitched side-to-side as it considered the two of them.

Fixza was trembling. One of her greatest fears was made large and put directly in her face. She’d been stung by a whole nest of the much smaller versions when they were kids, and the fear of wasps had been embedded deep in her mind. As a result, one of her first successful inventions had been a bug-swatting robot.

Crald cursed his lax behavior, and the fact that his sword was in the house with the rest of his stuff. He hadn’t thought gardening would be that dangerous. His mistake.

Before Crald could reassure Fixza, the giant bug darted forward, stinger at the ready to impale the tiny gnome. Fixza let loose a shriek that by all rights should have made Crald’s ears bleed, but he didn’t flinch.

He’d already started moving, snatching the shovel up from the dirt, jumping over Fixza’s frozen form, and charging to meet the wasp. He parried the stinger on its body, ducked the ones on its mouth and arms, and swung the shovel upward in a two-handed grip to try and chop its head off. He missed as the wasp darted backward, but one of its arm blades managed to scratch along his forearm. As his blood welled, his vision went red, and he roared at the bug, charging forward again, but this time his swing caught the bug right on a wing joint. Once the flying menace was grounded, it was over. He made quick work of it with the spade, which was dripping with green goo and carapace bits.

He’d have to bury the body nearby if he didn’t want other creatures, or worse, its friends, sniffing around Fixza’s workshop. He blew out a breath at the prospect of more digging, but when he turned to see his still-shaking friend, he found he didn’t mind all that much.

He put the shovel down and knelt in front of her, her eyes still glassy and wide. He put his hands on her shoulders, engulfing them, and gave her a little shake. “Fixza? It’s okay, I killed it,” he said.

She looked up to meet his eyes, and her lower lip trembled. “You were supposed to get away from killing! I ruined it!” she said, and wailed with despair as tears ran down her face.

Crald’s eyebrows went up in surprise, but he pursed his lips before the words, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ left them. She was trying hard to help a friend, and he didn’t want to undermine that. He scratched at the shadow of scraggly black hair on his cheek, and then tugged on the long braid of his beard in thought.

“Bugs don’t count, though,” he said, trying to think quick on how he was going to spin this.

Fixza stopped crying just enough to gasp between sobs; “What—do—you—mean—bugs—don’t—count?”

Crald snorted, and smacked a mosquito that landed on the bare skin of his scalp. “See? Same thing,” he said, and showed her the squashed bug on his palm.

Her lip still trembled, and the look in her eyes told him she wasn’t completely convinced, but her voice was small and hopeful when she said; “Really?”

Crald nodded, internally sighing in relief. “Really.” Then he stood up, brushed some of the carapace bits from his pants, and headed toward the workshop. He’d start burying the body in a moment, but he needed to grab something first. Gardening or not, he wasn’t going to be caught with his proverbial pants down again—his sword would remain within arms reach at all times.

“Where are you going?” Fixza called after him, her voice gaining some of its usual cheer back.

Without turning around, he responded; “Grabbing my bug swatter.”

World of Warcraft Class Micro-Stories ~~ Monk

(This one isn’t so much a micro-story because it’s almost 2k words, but we’ll fudge a bit for the sake of the series’ title)

 

 

So-Ra knew Zheng was in trouble. Again. She knew it the same way her yehyeh knew the rain was coming when his knees ached. Except with Zheng it was a churning in her gut like a hundred snakes coiling around each other, and she bit her lip to keep a nervous laugh from escaping.

When she’d woken from her afternoon nap, he was gone, and though he’d left no note there was only one place she was likely to find him: the bar. Before heading out of the room she grabbed her staff, not knowing what she’d encounter when she found Zheng. When she got to the door of their room, the raucous noise from the downstairs and upstairs drinking areas made her pause. However, it was a particularly loud voice that caused her white and grey ears to twitch.

It was nearing dusk, and as she made her way across the plank bridge to the second floor of the Salty Sailor Tavern, she found the bar full to capacity with pirates. So-Ra didn’t have any particular issues with pirates, per say. However, when the barkeep in Orgrimmar suggested this place to Zheng, she didn’t believe he’d done so from a kind, helpful place. Zheng had, to be fair, annoyed the orc with all his talk of pandaren brews. Zheng, oblivious to the orc’s growls and bared teeth, had jumped immediately on the idea, and So-Ra reluctantly followed him out of The Broken Tusk.

“Pirate brew, Ra! I can’t wait!”

Zheng was excited to hop on one of the zeppelins on the middle rise of the Horde city, and then grab a couple of wyverns from Grom’gol down to Booty Bay. If So-Ra was being honest, she enjoyed flying over the lush jungles, as the salty, humid wind made her nose twitch and eyes water. It was a vast improvement over the smell of ale she swore would never leave her nostrils, but all too soon it was over.

After all the travel, the two agreed to a nap before he’d drag her down to the bar. Apparently, the excitement had been too much for him, and he’d left her upstairs. While she’d been snoozing away, there was no telling what kind of trouble he was getting into.

She nimbly made her way through the first set of tables, avoiding patrons who were already well into their drinks, and stopped dead in her tracks at the top of the stairs that led to the main floor. Zheng wasn’t difficult to find, being the only pandaren, but even if they’d been in a bar back home, she’d be able to pick him out. His onyx black and ash grey fur wasn’t too terribly common among the black and whites and reds. His short hair was pulled back with a spring blue tie that matched his eyes, one of which had a black marking that made him appear as though he perpetually had what furless races called a black eye.

“—and I only managed to make it away from the hozen with nothing but my staff. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing.”

So-Ra rolled her eyes. If there was one thing Zheng enjoyed almost as much as new brew, it was new people to tell his stories to.

The tauren next to him, whose fur closely resembled Zheng’s in color, threw his head backward in an uproarious laugh. His steel nose ring glinted in the cheery lantern light, and his one, ivory horn gleamed dully. The other was broken close to his skull and capped off. When he brought his head forward again, he raised one of his large hands and clapped Zheng on the shoulder.

This was where it all went to pot.

When the tauren hit Zheng’s shoulder, it caused him to take a step back and knock into a goblin sitting on a stool. When he hit the goblin, the goblin’s face was knocked into his drink, and he came back up, spluttering and coughing. While coughing, he knocked his drink over, which spilled all over the back of the dwarf next to the goblin. The dwarf shouted and jumped back, knocking into the table closest to the bar. The wood of the table against the wooden floor let out an unholy screech, and the jarring motion knocked every single drink over onto the group of human pirates.

It was like So-Ra was witness to the worst-luck game of dominoes, and with each event her horror and panic grew like a balloon ready to pop.

There was a moment of silence from all who witnessed the event, and then the brawl started.

So-Ra made her way down to the main floor, dodging and slipping through a crowd full of jabs, kicks, and elbows. More than once she used her staff to deter anyone foolish enough to square up on her, and one hit was usually more than enough. When she finally made it within sight of Zheng, she stopped in her tracks and clenched her fists around her staff.

Back-to-back with the tauren, the two of them were laughing and throwing punches as though this were all part of some grand game. However, before she could get through the rest of the crowd to Zheng, there were cries of genuine pain instead of the grunts of a brawl, rippling from the front door. So-Ra turned just in time to deftly avoid the spiked mace of one of many of the town’s bruisers pouring through the door.

Zheng and the tauren hadn’t noticed yet, though, and both managed to take a hit or two that had So-Ra cringing. Not just from the imagined pain, but from how much work it was going to be to heal the two fools.

The bruisers went about their work, sussing out what happened with practiced efficiency. In short order, Zheng and the tauren were thrown from the tavern without so much as a by your leave. So-Ra, though, had started upstairs the second after the first mace hit landed. She gathered their things, since she was reasonably sure they’d be asked to leave, anyhow, and made her way outside after not finding them at the bar.

Despite the smell of fish and seawater, So-Ra’s keen nose managed to follow the scent of blood from outside the tavern door to one of the ramshackle shops. The sign on the door proclaimed; ‘Closed! Go Away!’ in a way that came off as very goblin, and she shook her head at the general lack of manners the race possessed.

When she ignored the sign and knocked, a grumpy voice called from the other side; “Go away! We’re closed! Don’t you know how to read?”

“I’m here to help,” So-Ra said, just loud enough for her words to travel through the door.

“It’s So-Ra!” Zheng said, his words slurred. Though if it was from drink or injury, So-Ra wouldn’t know until she could see him.

There was some scuffling, and as she waited for the person on the other side of the door to open it, she shifted the heavy packs on her back. After more time than she deemed necessary, the door finally opened.

In the doorway, and backlit by the lantern in the room, was a grumpy goblin face to match the grumpy voice.

“Yeah? Whatdya want?” the male goblin asked, and tilted his pointed chin up so he could meet So-Ra’s blue eyes with his black ones.

“To heal these two idiots, unless you have another trained healer at your beck and call. If so, I’d be more than happy to leave them to you,” So-Ra said, biting the words off in clipped tones. Then she smiled wide, meeting his sharp-toothed scowl with her own set of sharp canines.

“Oh, cousin, please don’t be that way,” Zheng mournfully slurred this time.

Probably drink instead of injury, then, if he was sounding that put out at her.

The goblin growled, but then moved aside to let her in.

The sight in front of her made her grimace inwardly. There was blood, of course, but pandaren, and apparently tauren, had tough hides. So, despite the maces being spiked the damage was minimal. Still, it wasn’t the busted knuckles, swollen faces, or cuts that had her frowning.

It was the fact the two of them were leaning on one another and giggling. Like two sprites who managed to get into some brew and set about causing mischief in town.

“Monag and this fluffy monstrosity busted through my door not a few minutes ago. They’ve done nothing but cackle like drunk witches since. I’m guessing the state they’re in has to do with all the bruisers running toward the tavern?” the goblin asked So-Ra.

So-Ra nodded, and set her packs down. She didn’t want to know how the goblin knew what a drunk witch cackled like, but she’d take him at his word. She was sure stranger things happened across the lands outside of Pandaria.

“He is not a fluffy monstrosity, Syxkes. He’s my new friend. Zheng!” Monag said between breathless laughter.

The goblin, Syxkes, snorted and shook his head.

“You got anything to put them under?” Syxkes asked, his tone pleading.

“I do, but it will have to come after the sobering potion. Combining a sleep potion or magic with drinking is a good way for someone to never wake up again,” she explained, and started pulling vials from her pack.

Her ears twitched at the goblin’s grumbling, which sounded an awful lot like; ‘Well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing if it shut them up,’ but she ignored him.

After she gathered the correct vials and administered the sobering potions, the two males were far less amused and groaning in pain.

“Oh, So-Ra, you’re so cruel,” Zheng said, leaning forward in a sitting position on the floor, holding his head between his hands.

“Hah!” she said, her voice sharp enough that the two males’ ears flattened against their skulls.

“Please, not so loud,” Monag whispered, his deep voice rumbling through the small room.

She simply harrumphed at this, and went about healing them. After the worst of their injuries were seen to, she handed them their sleeping potions. A wry smile crossed Zheng’s face as the two of them lifted the vials to clink them together.

“Here’s to new friends and good brew,” Zheng said.

Monag lowed his agreement, and the two of them downed the potions. Not long after the two were fast asleep, their snores near to rattling the windows from their panes.

So-Ra shook her head. “Males,” she said in a long-suffering voice.

“Hey, not all of us are idiots,” Syxkes said, affronted.

So-Ra graced him with an apologetic smile. “You’re right. My apologies. Do you mind if I sleep here with them?” she asked, not wanting to impose on the goblin any more than they already had. Though, she wasn’t sure where she’d go if he said no.

“Nah, go ahead.” As Monag let out a particularly loud snore, Syxkes shook his head. “Better you than me, anyway. I’ll be here in the morning to open shop, though, so you’ll all need to be out by then,” he warned.

“Of course, and thank you for your hospitality,” So-Ra said, and bowed.

Syxkes waved her off. “You shut them up. That’s payment enough.” Then he took a set of stairs behind the counter up to the second floor.

So-Ra pulled out her mat and laid it down in front of the door, just in case she didn’t wake up in time to avert whatever disaster Zheng would try to get himself into next. As she drifted off to the chorus of familiar and new snores, though, she was smiling.