The MX-450, Milli had assured me, was the top of the line. In its day, she had added nonchalantly. Oh, I guess since we’ve known each other so long, I could do you a favour and sell it to you at a discount. I suppose it is an outdated model.

If Dun Morogh hadn’t bored me so much, I would’ve walked right up to her and shaken the sludge off that gychronatom into her face.

I had come to be amazed that Giz, as I had named him, would go anywhere ever, so frankly, when the sandstorm struck the Barrens out of nowhere one evening, I was impressed he lasted as long as he did.

His agate eyes were barely visible under a blanket of sand and mud. I doused a piece of my cloak with my waterskin and held it against my mouth for fear of breathing in both the windswept dunes and the black smoke from Giz’s exhaust pipes. He always smoked like a chimney, but at that point it smelled like a fire in the Mosshide Fen on a hot day.

Giz sputtered and coughed abruptly and I braced myself for what I knew was coming next. It was like someone had just hit his off switch. At least when your ram passes out there’s some fluidity to it. When your mechanostrider hauls off and shuts down, it’s like you’re suddenly riding a statue that was going forty velociters an hour.

I hit the ground rolling, but coughed as I suddenly got a mouthful of sand. I covered my face with my cloak again, and surveyed the damage. Giz was on his side, his legs stuck up in the air, that same stupid smile on his metal face. With a glare and a sigh, I cursed Milli Featherwhistle and began gathering my things off of him.

I could barely see. I knew I’d been closing on Ratchet when the storm hit, so I continued in the direction I assumed I had been going. But when the sun made a rare appearance through the shifting desert hurricane, I realized I’d been going north when I thought I was going east. I adjusted accordingly and carried on, only to find, fifteen minutes later, when the sun reappeared, that I had somehow veered north again.

Eventually, I gave up, and decided to find somewhere to wait out the storm. I ran directionless for a while until I saw what looked like a small hillock. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. I ran up to it and was about to curl up at its base when it suddenly raised a leg and stomped it down stubbornly.

I feel no less a gnome admitting that I jumped and shrieked.

Then I choked on the dust, again.

The small hillock, now that I could see it closer, was in fact a kodo beast. Though unarmoured, she was decked out in leather straps, and I made out the outline of an unoccupied saddle on her back.

“Por-ah chi?”

In the blink of a sand-caked eye, I spun around, my dagger drawn and my other hand on my mace. The tauren woman who had spoken jumped back and gasped, then coughed out a mouthful of sand.

“Ish-ne chi pawene,” she said.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” I said.

She just kept talking in Taur-ahe.

“Do you speak Orcish? I know a little Orcish,” I suggested, in Orcish.

She just kept talking in Taur-ahe. I don’t know if she didn’t get that I didn’t speak it, or if she felt that if she just kept talking I would pick it up.

Through the course of her gibberish, she gestured to her immobile kodo, threw her hands up in the air, and then pointed off into the distance. She finally paused, and then said, “Shte?” and looked at me expectantly.

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

She picked up the reins of the kodo and gave her a few tugs. Like I would imagine most tauren to be, she was formidable, but she might as well have been tugging a rope at the base of Blackrock Spire. Her kodo kept her eyes shut tight, and didn’t budge an inch. The tauren shrugged, said some other nonsense, and then began plodding off in the direction she had indicated before.

I had half a mind to take my chances with the kodo.

But the tauren’s plan seemed as good as any, and I didn’t have long to decide before the storm swallowed her up. So I ran up and began walking beside her. She had draped her head in a wet veil, and I was fairly certain that she couldn’t see anything, but she was certainly doing a better job of walking in a straight line than I had been, so I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. She was dressed in patched robes, and had crude, foggy vials hanging from her belt, all of which seemed to be filled with water. Around her neck and wrists she wore jewelry crafted from coral, seashells, and fish bones.

She handed me her waterskin, but I hoisted my own with a smile. She drank from hers beneath her veil and I took a swig of my own. The sand seemed to be getting thicker, but cooler, somehow, and it wasn’t until I felt my face with my hand that I realized there was water now mixed with the sand.

I began to make out the shape of a city before us. In the storm, I could make out no specific landmarks, only muddled shapes. Though it occurred to me that she might have been leading me to the Crossroads, I surmised that the orcs would probably let me spend the night, considering the circumstances. Nevertheless, I soon began to make out the distinct goblin architecture, and tried to breathe a sigh of relief, but ended up hacking up a lungful of sand.

I knew Ratchet fairly well, and so immediately made a beeline to the nearest inn, Wiley’s Broken Keel Tavern. The tauren, I noticed, was going off in another direction.

“Hey!” I called out uselessly, not just because she couldn’t understand me, but because the winds made it so I could barely hear myself. I guess it was loud enough for her, since she turned around to look at me. “The inn’s this way!” I shouted.

She waved to me and carried on in some other direction. I rolled my eyes, and hurriedly continued down the cobbled road, almost entirely obscured by a thin layer of sand.

The Broken Keel was a hubbub of activity. A number of travelers were rushing towards it as well, and I saw Reggifuz outside, arguing with a troll who wished to stable her anxious raptor in an already overloaded stable.

Being a gnome, I was able to easily navigate the travelers and stole inside the tavern. I let two orcs in after me before shutting the door, then turned to see the Broken Keel, full to the rafters and noisy as Ironforge at Winter Veil.

Nearest to me were other travelers who had just entered, and were busy depositing their dirt, mud, and sand into the growing mound at the entrance. I joined in, shaking the Barrens off my clothes and skin. I took off my shoes and dumped out a veritable termite mound. Throughout the rest of the Broken Keel, conversations in a dozen languages and threescore dialects were rattling the already-shaking rafters of the inn. Though the weather had made some miserable, they tended to gravitate towards the corners and suckle their pints alone. The rest, however, were enjoying the company of friends, old and new, not to mention the fine ales and spirits of a number of celebrated cultures.

A smug smirk crept upon my mouth as I reached my hand into my tunic. I had a feeling I’d be quite popular. However as my fingers searched my breast pocket, I palled with dread.

My piccolo! I had left it on Giz! With a frustrated sigh, I withdrew my hand from my jacket, but not before scooping a handful of sand from the pocket.

Well, I thought to myself, now I have to go back for him!

“Oi! Hand ‘em over!”

I turned to face one of the bruisers of Ratchet. When a goblin’s not very bright, there’s really only one vocation left to him. And if he’s just bright enough to realize that, then he spends his adolescence bulking himself up into something that looks imposing. Unfortunately, it was a trick that rarely worked on me.

“Oh, what is it?” I snapped, still raw about the piccolo.

“Your knife. Aye, an’ your club. It’s too crowded in ‘ere for us to let everyone carry weapons.” He outstretched a meaty hand with gangly nails. “So hand ‘em over afore I have to shake ‘em offa you!”

I had half a mind to carve out a chunk of whatever could possibly be left of his brain – I was in that bad a mood – but I figured it wouldn’t be seen to kindly by either the owners or patrons of the Broken Keel. So with a grumble, I unbuckled by belt and handed it to him, my trusty weapons dangling from it like bones or feathers off a tauren dreamcatcher.

Peevish, I began pushing my way through the crowds, looking for an empty seat. Sometimes, being the shortest man in the room can come in handy. I can tell you without a doubt I had an easier time of navigating the forest of travelers than any human or tauren, and it afforded me the time to see which group of people I would like to spend my evening with.

The goblin arguing with two gnomes over their conflicting engineering disciplines? Too technical for my blood, and reminds me too much of all the reasons I left Dun Morogh.

A draenei arm-wrestling a tauren while a goblin woman collected bets? Too likely to erupt into a barfight, and I wasn’t in the mood.

A sharp-looking human telling of his exploits to a table full of women of various species? I put that one in reserve. I’m never too proud to fish for more stories.

A slow-witted orc having a slow-witted conversation with a possibly even slower-witted Ironforge dwarf over which seasoning brought out the best flavour in raptor flesh: crushed briarthorn or nettlespine? Tempting, but I didn’t trust myself not to spoil the fun by telling them these two terms were, in fact, referring to the same herb.

I chuckled inwardly, and found myself at my table of choice.

They were both quiet, fidgety but not neurotic, calm but not fully relaxed. By the way they carried themselves, by the leather armour they wore, and the various concealed weapons they had neglected to check at the door, I knew what kind of people they were.

Cutthroats, assassins, rogues, thieves, bandits, spies.

My kind of people.

The human man had a groomed, yet rugged look to him. Handsome, for his kind, with a sturdy head of red-brown hair in a ponytail and finely cropped moustache. But unlike his counterpart impressing his would-be harem with stories of his alleged grandeur, this human had marks to show for it. His arms were laden with scratches and callouses, and a sliver of a scar peeked out from behind the eyepatch he wore across his left eye. But for all his obvious experience, there was something playful and mischievous about his face. What struck me as immediately odd about him, though, was that his clothes, though otherwise functional, was of a style I was not familiar with – certainly nothing I’d ever seen on a human before. He turned his remaining good eye to me and kicked the chair out from under the table, drawing the attention of the other seated at the table.

She was an elf – a blood elf, her eyes’ soft green glow betrayed – and was dressed head-to-toe in black leather with crimson edges. She had a beautiful face, but was gangly – too tall, too skinny for my taste. It was as if someone had taken the most beautiful gnome in Gnomeregan and put her through a taffy puller. Her lovely visage was framed by black hair, strategically held in place by decorated burettes. She was slumped in the chair, her long legs straight under the table, crossed at the ankle, and her hands crossed over her lap, nimble fingers near whatever she had in her hidden pockets. I would’ve bet throwing stars. As I climbed into my seat, she turned her head only slightly to look at me, but, aside from reversing her crossed legs, made no other response.

“Some weather we’re having,” I opened with the obvious small talk.

The human chuckled. “You could say that.”

I exaggerated a sigh. “I’ll have to go find my insipid mechanostrider once the storm clears. Hopefully it’s not under three feet of sand by then.”

He smiled, and replied, with a laugh, “I wouldn’t put it past the Barrens.”

I looked at the elf, then back at him. “Does she speak Common?”

He shrugged. “Beats me. I’ve just met her.”

I stood up on my chair and reached across the table. “Denroibo,” I introduced myself.

His hand swallowed my own as he shook it. “Curtis Beltis. A pleasure.” He gave a flowery little half-bow.

Abruptly, the elf stuck her hand out. “Neljanke.”

“Excuse me?” Curtis raised an eyebrow.

“It’s her name,” I explained. I shook her hand. “Delighted.”

“So…” Curtis shifted in his seat, “you speak Common?”

She looked at him archly. “I do.”

“So you understood when I…”

“I understood every word you said.”

I clapped my hands, getting their eyes off each other. “So, are you still waiting on orders?”

“Still waiting on waiters,” Neljanke replied curtly. “They’re not taking orders at the bar anymore, it’s too busy.”

I chuckled. “Wiley can probably renovate the place after tonight’s business.”

Curtis smiled nervously. “Speak of the devil.”

Wiley himself pushed his way up to the table, a smudged and dirty cloth over his wrist. “Sorry about the wait, gentlemen and lady, but the bar, as you can see, is a bit busy,” he gestured to the roiling crowd behind him. “What’s your pleasure this evening?”

“A Southammer Lite, thank you,” said Curtis decisively.

Wiley rolled his eyes. “Just for a change of pace, I assume?” he asked sarcastically, then leaned into Neljanke and mused, “I’ve never seen him order anything else. What’ll you have?”

“Do you have any thistle tea?” she asked.

“Fresh out, my dear. Only stuff we have left is goldthorn and chai.”

“Goldthorn will do,” she sighed, though she looked disappointed.

Wiley turned to me. “And you?”

I smiled my most winning smile and said, “A bottle of whiskey, and three shot glasses.”

Curtis laughed. “Someone’s expecting a party.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Neljanke added mirthlessly.

“Oh come now,” I said, as Wiley nodded his thanks and was lost again in the crowd, “there’s no way we’ll be leaving this bar anytime soon, and the only way I’ve ever enjoyed doing nothing but sit is to do it stone drunk. I invite you to enjoy sitting with me.”

Neljanke allowed herself the most meager hint of a smile, and said, “We’ll see where the evening takes us.”

I leaned back in my chair. “While we’re waiting, I’d fancy a tale or two. I’m sure three wayward adventurers, this far from any of their homes, can muster up a worthy couple of yarns between them.”

Neljanke waved the suggestion aside. “I’m not much of a storyteller, and I know no good stories.”

“Nonsense!” I scoffed, “everyone’s a storyteller at some point in their lives, and with due respect, milady, with all the goings on in Silvermoon of late, I’d hardly expect any elf to be an elf of no stories.”

“For your information, gentle gnome,” said Neljanke with an acid-tipped tongue, “I’ve not been to Silvermoon for years.”

I could see she was unconvinced, so I sighed aloud and pondered which story I would tell to get the ball rolling, as it seemed to have fallen to me.

Curtis, surprisingly, interrupted my thoughts. “I might have a story to tell, if I may.”

I gestured that he go ahead. “You may.”

“Well, friends,” Curtis began, settling into his seat with a dastardly smirk on his face, “it may surprise you to know that I was not always a Steamwheedle bruiser.”

“I didn’t even know you were a Steamwheedle bruiser,” Neljanke snickered.

“Please, Neljanke,” said Curtis dryly, “you can afford me the common courtesy of listening without interruption.”

Neljanke looked like she was about to offer some retort, but instead she leaned back, and waved him on.

“Many thanks, good elf,” said Curtis. “As I was saying, I’ve not always been in the employ of this fair port-city. But a few years ago, I was what some might call a… scoundrel. A buccaneer. A scallywag, if you will. We Beltises have long been a seafaring people, and I took to the open ocean like a vulture to carrion. Tedious details aside, I shamed my family, abandoned my home, and became a pirate in Stranglethorn Vale.

“Fair lady and gentlegnome, I was one of the dirtiest dealing pirates in all the Green Hills.”

Seven years ago, I looked a little different than I do today. I had both eyes, for one, though I did, on occasion, wear an eyepatch over a good eye for practical reasons, as many sailors do. Less scars, shorter hair, perhaps a wee bit more meat on my bones. Stranglethorn Vale was good to me, whether it wanted to be or not. Back then, of course, it was all humans and goblins as far as civilized conversation went, and ogres and trolls as far as all other conversation went.

They carried coins on them all the same.

This was all before the Bloodsail Buccaneers, naturally. I hear that Falrevere has made a sort of monopoly on piracy in the Vale, which defeats the whole purpose of pirating in the first place. Back then it was all independents; every ship for herself. Falrevere, with all his human expansion hogwash. He fancies himself a champion for humanity.

Back then, it wasn’t a crusade or anything like that. Pirates with mission statements. We wouldn’t have stood for that in those days, I can tell you. No, it was about nothing more complicated than a love of the sea, and a love of booty.

Of course it wasn’t all grog and good times for us. The Trade Princes hired many mercenaries to get in our way, and the Blackwater Raiders had been uncontested for decades. However, many pirate captains became very notable thorns in the Raiders’ sides. Captain Firallon, of course. The lovely and talented Grace Allemoy, and Captain Bart Tidewater. At the time, I was working under a lesser-known ship, the Tidehunter’s Prize. She was captained by a gnome of the name Stillwater. At the time, however, I was more renowned than he.

The morning in question was, I believe, in the month of Selune. It was in spring, I’m sure of that, at least. I was riding my beautiful horse, a spirited pinto called Geraldine, through the forests of Stranglethorn. Geraldine, incidentally, was being used as a packhorse by some Stormwind noble when I found her. A packhorse! A creature of grace like that, a packhorse! It was only fair that after relieving him of his expensive cologne and his bulging wallet, that I relieved her of him.

I was riding Geraldine for a very special meeting with a very special lady. I’m not one for modesty, so I’ll just admit outright that we were engaged in a torrid love affair, befitting any steamy romance novel. And pirates, at that!

To be perfectly honest, the lady in question had a number of… suitors. However it was widely accepted amongst the Stranglethorn pirates that I was the lady’s favourite. I may not have had the looks of some of my competition, but I knew how to please a woman in ways these slack-jawed sea dogs could scarcely imagine.

I know not why the lady was so preoccupied with secrecy. Perhaps to liven the romance, or her own petty neuroses, I can’t say. However we met on a secluded beach on the southern rim of the Vale. I dismounted Geraldine and beheld the lady for a moment. Sunbeaten face topped with a mess of blonde hair. She stood slouched over, her arms folded over her chest, and gazed out, almost annoyed, at the beautiful scenery supplied by the South Seas. Grace and elegance, ironically, were not among Grace Allemoy’s most famous qualities.

Blast it all! Ah me and my loose tongue! You’ve found me out! You’ve discovered that I was the favourite man-toy of the most powerful woman in all of modern piracy!

Whatever you do, friends, tell not a soul!

She snorted (unattractively) when she saw me walking towards her, leading Geraldine by her reins. “About bloody time, you insufferable sod. As if I don’t have enough to do without wasting a whole Light-damned afternoon for some ass of a man to pull itself together!”

I reached into my tunic and withdrew a dull, but remarkably functional pocketwatch (stolen from a gnomish rival) and checked the time. “My Pirate Princess, I appear to be early.”

She marched over to me, every step throwing up tufts of sand. She grabbed the watch from my hand and threw it onto the beach. “Well I was earlier, you gutless whelp!” she shrieked, “And all to tell you that we can’t do anything tonight. I have business and I can’t drag you around with me all pissin’ day.”

“What manner of business, my Sweet Sea Seductress?” I asked.

She slapped me across the jaw. “None of yours!”

Her range of octaves amazes me to this day, when I think on it.

Grumbling to herself, she stormed past me, making her way to her own horse, taking a few swigs of rum from her hip flask as she did.

I sighed as I watched her go, massaging the reddening mark on my face. There were no women out there like her.

A familiar caw from overhead attracted my attention. It was my parrot.

Yes, I had a parrot. Parrot and eyepatch, I know, all I need’s a hook-hand and a peg-leg and I’ll be the spitting image of every child’s drawing of a pirate. But I’ll have you know that parrots, on their own, are not hard to come by. Particularly in Stranglethorn Vale, they’re simple enough to catch and even simpler to tame. However, these cockatiels, senegals… even the green-winged macaws are no real prize.

Saltfeather was a hyacinth macaw. Aside from being a gorgeous shade of blue, these are larger parrots, and because of their size, they tend to live almost exclusively in the upper canopy of the jungle, making them very difficult to catch. Plus, they’re remarkably intelligent, extremely trainable, and incredibly valuable. Pirates who manage to get one consider it a badge of honour, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I slit a few throats to get mine.

Saltfeather wasn’t just for looks, though. He often reported back to the Tidehunter’s Prize to get messages from Captain Stillwater. The good Captain, and the rest of the Prize, knew better than to try to steal Saltfeather for their own. Many tried, and many died. But that aside, with Saltfeather’s help, we were able to coordinate attacks from the mainland with the ship. We were responsible for a fair share of booty in the Prize’s footlockers, and my fellow pirates knew that stealing Saltfeather amounted to taking money out of their own pockets, for a change.

Anyway, Saltfeather was late in coming, I had expected him almost a day before. But he never landed if Allemoy was around (he did love to imitate her, though) so he could have been there the whole time.

I whistled to him in four short, sharp tones, which was my code for letting him know it was safe to land, and he swooped down. I held out my arm and he landed on my leather bracer with a happy whistle. I fed him a candied chestnut from a pouch I always carried on my belt – his favourite treat – with my other hand. He crunched it loudly as I pulled the paper slip off the band buckled to his leg.

It took a little maneuvering to unravel it with one hand, but I managed. However, when I opened it, it was blank, which was odd. Even if he had nothing to tell me, Stillwater would usually write something on the message. Even simply sign his name, to assure me that Saltfeather had indeed returned to the Prize. I looked at my parrot, happily munching his chestnuts, a bit quizzically. Had he been to the Prize? The waters around Stranglethorn were many, so Saltfeather often had to search the seas before he found the ship, but he always did. While we had had some rocky starts, when he was still being trained, Saltfeather hadn’t returned to me empty-handed in years.

“Raac! Pretty boy!” Saltfeather squawked and finished with a whistle.

“So, ye think yer the cock o ‘da walk, do ye?”

I sighed and turned around.

I don’t know his real name, I don’t think anyone did. Everyone in Stanglethorn Vale knew him as “Pretty Boy” Duncan, and with good reason. Don’t get me wrong, I’m as straight as a die, but even I knew Duncan was a beautiful man, and he put a lot of hard work towards that. His hair was always perfectly sculpted. His face was always free of blemishes, and he kept his svelte figure clear of scars, bruises, or burns. As I’m sure the lady will attest, staying pretty is an ordeal anywhere, but between the sun, the sand, the salt, it was near impossible in Stanglethorn Vale. And in the rainy season? Pfah! Your hair nearly stood on end round the clock, thanks to the humidity.

Which I guess was the reason his plan was so successful. Pretty Boy had no discernible talents. He was a fair knife-fighter, but nothing to write home about. He didn’t know his anchor from his poop deck, he barely knew what a compass was, let alone how to read one, and he couldn’t pick the pocket of a comatose ogre. Oh yes, plus, he was prone to seasickness. A landlubber pirate, for Light’s sake! The only thing Pretty Boy was good at was looking pretty. And in the Vale, as I said, looking pretty is hard to come by.

So whereas I would have given him the nickname of “Directionless” Duncan, or “Jelly-legs” Duncan, or perhaps “Palsy Pick-Pocket” Duncan, he earned the name “Pretty Boy,” as he earned his keep on whatever ship he was on by entreating the women on board to his charms. He often became a lady Captain’s… attaché.

Though Grace Allemoy will tell you different, Grace Allemoy’s appetites were no secret, and it was fairly common knowledge that Pretty Boy was another of her suitors. Of course, as I mentioned earlier, I was her favourite.

This wasn’t the first time Pretty Boy confronted me; threatened me away from Allemoy. I had shrugged them off. I mean, really, what was he going to do, blind me with his dashing smile? I expected more of the same, really.

“Yo-ho, Pretty Boy!” I greeted with a wave. “You remember Saltfeather?” The parrot hopped up my arm and parched on my shoulder.

“Yar, I remember that glorified feather-duster.” He was jealous. Which was understandable, Saltfeather was a magnificent parrot. “Doing pigeon’s work suits a bird like that, now?”

“Ah, but he looks much better than any pigeon doing it,” I replied. “Surely you of all people can appreciate that.”

Pretty Boy crossed his arms. “Playing with birds. The stuff of damsels and druids, Beltis. A pirate’s not measured by his bird, y’see.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you honestly going to lecture me about being a pirate?” His perfect brow furrowed with rage. I, however, clapped my hands. “Oh that’s rich,” I said with a laugh. “I’ll have to tell the crew about this one. I feel like I should be writing this down. It’ll certainly brighten a dreary mess hall of nothing but grog and snapper.”

“Raac! Grog and snapper!”

Duncan drew his knife and thrust it menacingly forward, taking a step towards me. “Learn ye some manners, man, or must I carve some into ye?”

“Really, Pretty Boy, I’m sure we’ve both better things to do.”

Pretty Boy, however, disagreed. He lunged forward, actually attacking me. I dodged, and Saltfeather jumped off me. I grabbed Pretty Boy by the offending forearm, let the force of his supposed blow carry on, and tripped him. He fell in the sand with a grunt. I drew my rapier from my side.

I noticed, then, a woman standing farther along the beach. I couldn’t see her face, she was enshrouded in a cloak, but it definitely wasn’t Grace. The woman in the cloak was being far too graceful (and she wasn’t being all that graceful).

“What, did you bring an audience, Pretty Boy?” I asked with a chuckle. “While I certainly rise to the challenge, I must warn you, that I tend to get dramatic when others are watching.”

“Raac! Dramatic!”

Pretty Boy wiped the sand from his face and scrambled to his feet, arms spread in a battle stance. I, on the other hand – mostly to impress the lady onlooker – kept a casual stance, going so far as to fiddle with a loose thread hanging off my tunic. Pretty Boy took this mockery to heart, and attacked again. He swung his dagger as if it were a sword, in wide, chaotic arcs that wouldn’t be incredibly effective if they landed but were a tad hard to predict. I did my best to keep my composure while dodging his attacks but, to his credit, it wasn’t as easy as it no doubt looked.

His random style eventually was enough to land a blow on my shoulder. It smarted a bit, but didn’t break through my leather tunic. Nevertheless, I felt a bit embarrassed, and I decided that it was time to stop playing around. The grin dropped from my face.

When Pretty Boy next made to strike me, I parried the blade expertly, and in doing so, my rapier’s fine point raked across his arm. He cried out gracelessly, and dropped his knife, falling to his knees in the sand and cradling his bleeding arm in his other hand.

“You worthless son of a worg!” he spat through tears.

I posed for the onlooker, putting one hand on my hip and leaning with the other on my rapier like a cane. “Spare me, Pretty Boy. I don’t know where you got your reputation, but I highly suggest you invest in some training with a blade. If word got out of your performance here today, well… your looks only get you so far.”

“Now!” Pretty Boy shouted.

I raised an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

Pretty Boy turned to the woman. “Now, you useless harlot!”

My gaze rose to her, and saw that she had been approaching. Now, however, she threw her cloak aside and spread her arms. Though she was a fair distance away, I could see that she had finely crafted robes, and from her belt hung a number of pouches, vials, and charms. That, and the undulating orbs of black energy gathering about her hands, all told me that she was a sorceress.

I immediately ran toward her. Pretty Boy briefly tried to rise but I kicked him into the sand.

Casting spells takes concentration, and all I had to do was disrupt her to stop whatever she was doing. A swift kick to the gut, a sharp punch to the kidney, or a hilt to the eye, and she would be winded. But first, I had to make it to her.

Her spell was picking up momentum. Little sparks of black lightning laced out from her hands, and her indecipherable incantation was gaining speed and volume. I wasn’t well versed enough in the ways of the mage to know what spell she was preparing. Perhaps a shadowy orb of black magic? Would she turn me into something vile? I had seen enough in my days to grant a sorcerer the fear and respect they deserved, and enough to go over a dozen possibilities in my head, each more sinister than the last.

I was closing the gap quickly, but alas, it was not enough. Her incantation complete, she threw her hands up into the air, and the energy exploded from her hands. I shielded my face, unsure of what to expect, but nothing happened. I felt no burn from foul magics, nor anything amiss within myself. Had her spell failed?

I realized with a sigh that it had not. As I took my hand from my eyes, I saw a black hole in the air before me, and a strange, insubstantial wind pushing me into it. Yet around me, the trees, the sand, even my own clothing, was not disturbed. I knew then, with some horror, that this was no wind pushing me in, it was some otherworldly force from the portal itself, pulling me into it.

I fell to the ground, and attempted to grab hold of something. But the sand slipped through my fingers, and I was dragged to the magical doorway.

Pretty Boy had gotten to his feet, and an insidious smile illuminated his beautiful face. His cohort strode to his side, and she, too, smiled.

“‘Twas a fair match, Beltis, but yer fancy swordplay ‘twill do you no good where yer goin’. It’s been nice knowin’ ye!”

The two of them laughed uproariously.

My feet and legs were now entering the portal. I felt a cold tingle creeping up my body, gaining speed. I looked up, I whistled for Saltfeather. He jumped from his perch and dove towards me. I reached out my arm for him to land, and he was just about to, when the portal swallowed me whole, and I knew nothing but cold and dark.

I opened my eyes some time later; how long I cannot say. The air was cool, but dry, the sky was dark, and the ground was hard and broken. I opened my eyes, and beheld a land I had never seen – never heard of – before.

A barren wasteland under a dark, sickly green sky, stretched out to black mountains on the horizon. I shivered, and searched about me.

I was alone, and I was lost. And I’ve been making my way back ever since.

And when I find Pretty Boy Duncan and his little witch, I’ll carve something appropriate into that smug little face of his.

We both stared at him. Neljanke had a look of intrigue and doubt on her face.

“Stranglethorn Vale’s but a single boat ride from Ratchet,” she pointed out. “Why have you not simply hitched a ride back?”

Curtis sighed. “Things have changed. The way I hear it, most every pirate in Stranglethorn has joined Falrevere’s Bloodsail Buccaneers. Pretty Boy, almost definitely, is among them. I can’t take on the Buccaneers by myself, and the Blackwater Raiders likely still nurse a few scars I gave them. I’ve been working for Gazlowe so that he’ll endorse me – send the latest baron of Booty Bay a letter of recommendation. Unfortunately, the only real way to earn the Raiders’ good graces is with money, so I’ve been saving up for a payoff.”

I looked at him critically for a moment. “And what of Captain Allemoy?”

Curtis sighed. “Grace was always a spirited woman, and I hope that she is among one of the few pirates who refused to join the Buccaneers. But doing so would earn their ire, and the Vale’s a treacherous enough place as it was when I knew it.”

“And if she joined the Bloodsail Buccaneers?” asked Neljanke.

Curtis stared at nothing for a moment. “Then she’s joined them.”

Wiley returned then with a plate full of our drinks, and he allotted them accordingly. A steaming mug to Neljanke, a frosty metal pint to Curtis, and a tall dusty bottle with a trio of shot glasses.

“Pardon the delay, patrons,” the goblin said tiredly.

I uncorked the whiskey and poured a shot, then handed it to Curtis. “Well if ever I heard a yarn worthy of a shot, that was one.”

Curtis took the shot with a smile, and downed it swiftly.

I turned to the elf woman. “And you, Miss Neljanke? Have you a story to tell?”

She smiled, and took a swig of her tea. “Perhaps later.”

“Ah! A round table of storytelling, eh?” Wiley raised an eyebrow. “Now that’s something I could get into, as riveting as recipes for raptor roast can be. Care if I contribute?”

I grinned. “Not at all. Pull up a chair, good goblin. I can imagine as the keeper of the Broken Keel you’ve come across volumes of good tales.”

Wiley pushed a drunken orc off his stool and brought it to our table. “Aye, you could say I have,” he nodded modestly. “The one freshest in my memory comes from an orc woman.” He climbed onto the stool and set down his tray. “Tell me, friends. Have you ever left this world of Azeroth, before?”

We exchanged inquisitive glances but said nothing.

“Well, this story takes us to a whole other world. A world now lost forever. I speak of course of the native home of the orcs. The red world, Draenor…”

When I met Doskariss her face was lined with age, and her hair was white as fresh coconut. She was tired and old, but resolute, like most orcs. The orcs, I’m told, do not apologize, and Doskariss was no exception, but when she told me this story, her eyes were full of such regret that it was as close to an apology as I think we can ever expect from an orc.

Doskariss was one of Ner’zhul’s students, and when the orcs began to embrace the dark arts, she took to it like a gnat to honey. She was among Gul’dan’s most promising apprentices, and she rose quickly to prominence within the Shadow Council. I’ve heard others say she was the most powerful woman in the Council. Others still say she was Gul’dan’s most favoured concubine. He trusted her with the Council’s most sensitive missions and materials.

One such mission was an assassination. Though normally left to spies and rogues, this particular matter couldn’t be trusted to anyone else.

I’ve heard tales of Outland. One of the draenei called it a world architected by a mad god. The landscape is in pieces. There are no more seas. You can walk off the edge of the world and fall forever. But it was a world, once – whole and beautiful. The land Doskariss was in was called Nagrand, and it was a verdant prairie, of low, gnarled trees and bright blue skies.

The mountains she sat in were known as the Barrier Hills, as they had cut off the plains from Terokkar Forest, which had been draenei territory. From there, she could see the mountains to the south, which met at a valley that cradled a mighty river that led to the ocean. She told me that as she waited for her companion, Doskariss gazed out at the sea.

This was not the Doskariss that I knew. Her face was young, her hair was a deep black, and her eyes were red as blood. She was accompanied by two grunts. She told me their names but I can’t remember them.

A nearby rustle drew her attention from the scenery, and a demoness materialized right beside her. The succubus, Mirneth.

“Report,” Doskariss ordered.

Mirneth sighed. “Drak’Thul’s intelligence was correct. The abomination lives. I have seen him.”

Doskariss stood, and brushed the dust from her robe. “Does he expect an attack?”

The succubus shrugged. “It’s possible he sensed my presence, but he made no indication.”

Doskariss nodded. “Good, then, we shall attack immediately.” Then, to the grunts: “Tread lightly. He is a tricky one.”

Doskariss spoke at length about these grunts. As I’m sure any of you will know, orc grunts aren’t the subtlest of creatures. Between the war cries, the heavy frames, and the habit of going into a frenzy at the scent of fresh blood, keeping grunts quiet is an ordeal. However, Doskariss told me that the Shadow Council had hand-picked these two grunts for their reputation as quiet, composed killers. She only mentioned this because as the three orcs and their demon companion stalked quietly up the hills to find their quarry, Doskariss inwardly regretted promising Gul’dan to kill these two grunts after they had completed their mission.

I can only imagine from Doskariss’ description, but she painted quite a picture of the vista of Nagrand. Rolling hills of verdant green swaying in the afternoon breeze, dotted with the domed clay huts of the orcs here and there. There were some clusters of settlements, and in the distance, the afternoon sun gleamed off a mountain of solid crystal! She turned once to behold it as they climbed. I couldn’t tell completely, but as she described it to me, I believe she was struggling to hold back tears.

Finally, however, they crested the hill. There was a small pool of fresh water that had collected at the base of a small depression. On the side of this was a small, crude grass hut, built gracelessly but sturdily. A freshly killed animal – (I forget the name of this creature but she described it as a heartier version of an Azerothien gazelle) – had been thoroughly picked apart. Its skin hung on a rack as well as cuts of the creature’s venison, to dry.

Mirneth disappeared with a magical glint of light, and the three orcs ducked low behind the tall grass. Doskariss scanned the small abode as carefully as she could.

“Where is he?” one of the grunts hissed quietly. He looked towards where Mirneth had just stood. “I thought you said he was here.”

“He is!”

Doskariss barely had time to register the roar before the grunt who had spoken died with an abrupt gurgle, a primitive but sturdy spear sticking out the back of his neck. Doskariss sprang away, rolling down the hill as the remaining grunt sprang to his feet and hefted his axe. Doskariss halted herself by the edge of the pool. She drew her wand, got to her feet, and beheld her target.

He largely resembled an orc. Except his skin was a dusty blue, his eyes a sheet of white, and from his jawline sprang six short, dull nubs, surrounding a single, long braid of a beard sprouting from the tip of his chin. A short, stiff tail stuck out form his back. His heavy chest was a web of scars, and his grubby hands were gripped around a gleaming greatsword, newly smithed, and undecorated.

Doskariss growled his name under her breath, and that name, I remember: “Lantresor…”

The grunt, forgetting his former restraint, let loose a great battle howl and rushed Lantresor, his axe held his over his head. Lantresor stood his ground, nary blinking an eye. Doskariss reached into the reagent pouch on her belt and withdrew a tiny, crystalline remnant of the soul of one of her many defeated enemies. With a wave of her want, it stretched and contorted into a mottled spellstone. Clutching it in her fist, she felt its power fill her being, and began to prepare her spell as the two blades met.

Lantresor raised his sword and caught the axe as the orc brought it smashing down. As he did, Lantresor extended his leg, and with his momentum, the grunt was unable to avoid the trip. He made a tumble, expertly hopping to his feet, but even as he did, Lantresor was too quick for him. He rushed forward, and as the orc raised his axe to defend himself, Lantresor made a quick, decisive swipe below it, slicing off his leg at the knee, as cleanly as one might prune a dead blossom from a fruit tree.

With a shriek of pain, the orc toppled over. Lantresor raised his sword to impale the fallen orc, when he found his wrist suddenly wrapped in a thin, leather whip. Mirneth had appeared beside him, and with a savage grin she yanked him backward. He used the force to swipe at her head, but she ducked under the blow, disentangled her whip from his wrist, and slashed him across the face, drawing blood of an oily blue. He barely noticed the strike with a grunt, and moved forward to strike. He jabbed at the succubus but she rolled out of the way, so his sword was thrust into the ground. With an agile cartwheel and flap of her wings, Mirneth got to her hooves, and prepared for his next attack.

Doskariss, however, had finished her spell. With a final incantation, she slashed her wand forward, and from its tip erupted a blast of black magic. It coalesced into a cackling skull with a trail of black and violet shadows like some hellish comet. Lantresor’s white eyes widened, still trying to extract his greatsword from the unrelenting earth, and just as he wrenched it free, the bolt struck him in the chest, sending him flying backward down the other side of the hill, as his sword fell from his grip and tumbled silently into the grass.

Mirneth turned to her master with a devilish grin.

“Don’t just stand there grinning like an idiot, keep on him!” Doskariss shouted. Mirneth obeyed with a sultry cackle and disappeared down the other side of the hill. Doskariss climbed up to the fallen grunt, who was breathing heavily and clutching his severed thigh. He looked up at her with a look of both angry defiance and a plea for assistance.

Doskariss considered perhaps dressing the wound, and also considered killing him right there. She had no time to do either before Mirneth reappeared at the top of the hill.

“He has disappeared,” she said with a frown, before she vanished into thin air once more.

Doskariss swore, looking around. Her arts in demon magic would have allowed her to pierce the magical veil cast by a sorcerer’s spell of invisibility, like that used by her succubus, but this was no magic. Lantresor was simply accustomed to staying hidden.

The warlock actually managed a grim smile, then laughed aloud. “You are right to hide from me! How prudent is your cowardice! Your battle scars, your skills… they are nothing to me! They will do nothing to protect you from my powers!”

She was still, her pointed ears perked for any soft footfall or misplaced pebble. But all she heard was the wind flowing through the tall grass, and the laboured, groaning breaths of the fallen orc.

Doskariss could contain her rage no longer. Rearing back, she gave a bloodcurdling cry and shouted. “You abominable f-”

Lantresor leapt from nowhere and struck Doskariss in the back with a shoulder charge. She fell forward, tumbling again down the hill, her spellstone flung through the air. Lantresor grabbed his dirtied greatsword from the grass and, before Mirneth could stop him, swung it about, and plunged it through the heart of the injured grunt. He shuddered, and his groans trailed off into silence.

Mirneth appeared behind him, slashing quick, wide arcs with her whip across his back. She got in three good lashes before he turned about, and struck her across the side of the face with the flat of his blade. With a cry, she fell backward, clutching her face with her free hand. Lantresor twirled his blade expertly, but before he could strike, Mirneth kicked him hard in the shin with her hoof. As he grunted and fell to one knee, she rolled away. With a howl of frustration, Lantresor tore his spear from the first orc he had killed and hurled it at the succubus. She spread her arms wide, laughed a throaty laugh, and disappeared. The spear went right through where she had sat a half-moment before.

Doskariss, meanwhile, rose to her feet. Her spellstone lost, she took out another soul shard from her pouch. Lantresor turned his empty eyes to her, and slowly advanced down the hill.

“You have no right…” Doskariss muttered. “No right! You, who do the world a disservice with every breath you take, presume to murder orcs! They would rather be hit by a stray dung cart than die at the misshapen hands of –”

“I ask not for acceptance!” Lantresor interrupted with a roar. “I ask not for understanding or peace amongst either of my people! I learned long ago, from my haughty draenei father and his bitch of an orc lover that these are not courtesies either of my bastard races are willing to afford their own children! I would not presume to ask it of strangers who fear some minor devia –”

“Enough!” Doskariss commanded. “I will hear no more of your perverse origins! The draenei have invaded our world, sullied our landscape with their hideous cities, plotted against us for centuries, and now seek to violate the purity of our being!” Concealing her hand behind her back, she crushed the soul shard in her fist, and felt the hot flames envelope her fist as she gathered her energy. “They unleash some sick, half-formed abomination, so grotesque that even its own mother would deny it blood and milk from her brea –”

“All I ask for,” the half-orc bellowed, “is to be left alone! I have distanced myself from your towns! I have hidden myself away in the hills! I take to the shadows whenever some fool treads near my home! I have not been seen by orc nor draenei eyes for years! Yet you do not relent! You are not satisfied that I even exist on the –”

Doskariss interrupted as she flung her hand around from her back, the flames about her clenched fist exploding into a giant fireball that leapt from her palm and sped towards Lantresor. This one he had been expecting, and he jumped out of the way. But as the fireball collided with the hillside, it detonated like a mithril frag bomb and blasted both of the fighters to the ground.

Doskariss spun around and jumped up while Lantresor struggled to his feet. Expertly waving her wand, Doskariss prepared another spell over her free palm. Lantresor, seeing the energy gathering in her hands, made to charge for her, but a now-familiar leather whip snapped around his ankle, tripping him. Before he had even begun to regain his composure, Mirneth had struck him with two quick lashes across his shoulder and back.

Lantresor gritted his teeth and flung a handful of dirt into the succubus’ face. She turned away, dust in her eyes, and spat.

Lantresor scrambled to his feet, and ran. He was weakened, and Doskariss’ powers were wearing his defenses down. He knew that he could not win this fight. So he fled up the hill. Doskariss quickened her pace as best she could, though one can only safely condense an incantation so much. Just as he was about to crest the hill, she finished, and she released the shadowy bolt from the tip of her wand. It roared up the slope and struck him in the back. With a great cry, he flew forward, and over the other side of the hill.

Mirneth was already rushing up the hill, and Doskariss joined her. As they crested it, the magnificent vista was lost on them, their eyes searching desperately for any sign of their quarry. At first, Doskariss feared they had lost him once again, until she spotted a dull blue hand clutching the edge of the cliff. Her wand held high, Doskariss approached slowly, suspecting a trap. Mirneth was at her side, equally wary. As they neared him, he attempted to hoist himself up, his muscles straining, his wounds reopening, and his face contorted in rage and agony. His arm gave out, though, and he slid back down to gripping desperately with one hand the edge of the cliff.

Doskariss and Mirneth came to the edge, and peered down at him. The cliff face was sheer and treacherous, leading to a dense forest of strange Draenor pine trees.

“Why?” he demanded defiantly through clenched, broken teeth. “Why is it so hard for you to just let me exist?”

Doskariss snorted back a laugh. “You are an affront to us. Your existence is an insult we cannot, will not abide.”

Lantresor glared at her with his white eyes, and then he told her something. Doskariss did tell me what he said to her, but what he told her was truly Doskariss’. I cannot properly repeat it. It was not a request of hers, nor a promise of mine. It is simply the way it is.

And even as his last word left his lips, he let go of the cliff and fell. He fell for some time, before disappearing into the trees below.

Wiley had style, that’s for sure. I glanced about the table, knowing what we were all thinking. What were Lantresor’s last words? But as I looked at Neljanke’s somber expression, I immediately knew why no one asked. She wasn’t asking on principle, that the reason Wiley had given was sufficed. I wasn’t asking because out of respect for the form. And Curtis wasn’t asking because no one else was asking.

“Well,” I said with a satisfied sigh, pouring a shot and pushing it across the table to Wiley. “That was certainly deserving of a shot.” He took it, raised it in thanks, and downed it with a loud gulp.

I glanced fleetingly at Neljanke, and, noting her solemn face once again, resolved that she wasn’t up to the task of finishing us off for the night. So I leaned forward. “Well, I suppose that only leaves me to…”

“Actually,” Neljanke interrupted softly. A little taken aback, I paused, my mouth hanging open gracelessly, and turned to her. She hestitated, heaved a sigh, and continued. “I think I might have a story to tell, after all. Secondhand, like Wiley’s, I’m afraid.”

Curtis laughed, “His was better than mine, milady.”

She had a hint of a grin, for a moment, and then lost it. She heaved a very loud sigh. “I’m sure you’re all at least vaguely aware of the transition the elves of Quel’Thalas made from high elves to blood elves.”

After receiving a chorus of nods from the table, Neljanke continued, with a bit more confidence. “It wasn’t quite as cut and dry as outsiders seem to think it was. Particularly abroad, there was much strife between brethren, as these conflicting philosophies came to a head. After news of Prince Kael’thas’ proclamation of a new era for Quel’Thalas reached the myriad colonies, there were some very heated arguments between the high elves there. Some thought the Prince was overstepping his authority too soon into his father’s shoes, while others thought this was a long time coming. This came to factor dearly into the lives of two high elves who had gone with Jaina Proudmoore to Theramore Isle. Their names were Lorinthiel and Narmilath.”

The first thing you must understand is that when Jaina came to Silvermoon, she stayed for a single night and then left in a hurry first thing in the morning. She had made her plea to King Anasterian and a few other nobles, then left. Now, she had little to no reputation preceding her in Quel’Thalas. The only things the high elves knew of her were her position within the Kirin Tor, her ties to Kul Tiras, and her publicized relationship with Prince Arthas. Most had never met her. So when she made her proclamation of doom and attempted to rally the high elves to leave with her for the uncharted West, she was largely regarded as some fickle human princess with too much time on her hands, and she was in such a hurry to spread the word as far as she could that she had no time to remain in the city to explain herself thoroughly.

Narmilath and Lorinthiel were fairly accomplished tanners back in Silvermoon. Having worked at times with the Kirin Tor, however, they had met Jaina, and they knew her to be rational, reasonable, and slow to judge. They knew that she wouldn’t be acting so erratic unless she had good reason to. They tried to convince their friends, family, and business partners to take her seriously, but within days Jaina had become the laughing stock of Silvermoon. So Narmilath and Lorinthiel set out to follow her with only a handful of other high elves.

They set out to the West, they braved the tumultuous storms of the Great Sea, and they battled the Burning Legion alongside once-hated foes and mysterious new strangers. After Archimonde’s defeat, Jaina and her expedition founded the city of Theramore on the rugged coast of Dustwallow.

At first it was refreshing, there was such hope and promise. Humans, dwarves, and elves worked alongside each other as closely as they would if they were brothers. They built the city together, they lived in it together, and they were happy. The Legion had suffered a major defeat, and things were running smoothly with even the orcs. For a few months, it seemed like all the evils of the world had been utterly destroyed, and that only love and camaraderie remained.

That illusion was shattered when Daelin Proudmoore came to Kalimdor. He reminded Theramore that they were still part of the world, that they were tethered forever to their history, and no amount of sailing or running would ever leave it truly behind. With Proudmoore came news from the East – Quel’Thalas’ destruction, Prince Kael’Thas’ brave new era, and the somber state of Lordaeron. The people of Theramore heaved a heavy sigh, and resolved themselves to the fact that their paradise was unattainable.

The elven wizards on Theramore were the first to notice their magical withdrawal. They became distant, moody, despondent, and sometimes physically ill. The priests began investigating programs of discipline and meditation to deal with the affliction, but it was difficult. Though it took less time to hit the elves who had not used magic so often, like Narmilath and Lorinthiel, it hit them… Narmilath, anyway, no less hard.

They lived together in a small house near the barracks, plying their trade as best they could. Dustwallow Marsh wasn’t a very good place to start fresh, though. The only real quality leather came from crocolisks, but they were different here than they were in Azeroth. They had an unusual reaction to acids, and so often the tanners would ruin their work by over-salting or otherwise improperly treating it. The only plentiful alternative was the brood of black dragons in the southern marsh, but the people of Theramore weren’t adventurous enough to have a go at them.

But these two elves were good friends, and they knew they had each other if nothing else in that swamp. Nevertheless, as time wore on, Narmilath was prone to outbursts of rage. As leather was in short supply, they grew more expensive as Theramore’s economy stabilized, and the stress of their failing business did little to help Narmilath. He began to feel very alone, and missed Quel’Thalas dearly.

Lorinthiel did his best, but could do little to help. Though he doubtless felt the effects of his magical withdrawal as well, he had made good friend in the other races, and came to reside in most of the island’s social circles. This helped him stay balanced, but it pushed Narmilath away.

This all came to a head one evening in their home. Narmilath came home from a fruitless hunting party just after Lorinthiel had returned from the market. Lorinthiel looked at his friend apologetically as he unwrapped a stale hunk of cheese from a cloth.

“I don’t have to tell you business has been slow,” said Lorinthiel with a shrug.

Narmilath sighed, throwing his quiver dejectedly into a corner, spilling out several arrows. He lazily leaned his sword up against the wall and paid no heed when it clattered to the floor.

Lorinthiel glared at Narmilath. “What’s wrong?”

Narmilath turned on him in a rage. “What’s wrong?! You have the gall to ask me what’s wrong? We’re scraping the bottom of our wallets for stale cheese and foul-smelling water. Back in Silvermoon, even the poorest among us could have wine at every meal. That Light-blasted swamp is dragging us to the poor-box, and…”

“Silvermoon is in ruins, Narmilath,” said Lorinthiel, an acidic edge in his tone. “Things might have been nice back when we lived there but they’re not anymore. Now it’s just run by a score of deranged mages.”

“You take that back!” Narmilath shouted. “How can you criticize them? We fled, Lorin. We left our home to its fate. It’s the subtler approach to sorcery that left Silvermoon in ruins, so how can you rebuke the survivors, who remained to fight for our home, for taking more extreme measures?”

“Look, calm down,” said Lorin, lowering his voice and glancing for a moment at the open door. “Listen to me, it was magic that lured the demons here in the first place, but right after we drive them back, Prince Kael decides to just undo all the work we did, all the fighting we did, and give in to all the temptations we were warned against by the night elves. It’s irresponsible, that’s all I meant.”

Narmilath was about to retort when Lorinthiel held up his hand, and said: “I don’t have time to argue about this, I have to get ready.”

Narmilath stopped. “For what?”

“I’m going out.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere… just to the docks, it’s not a big deal.”

“Oh,” said Narmilath, his voice quieter. He paused a moment, before asking, “Mind if I join you?”

Lorinthiel smiled. “I think you might spoil the romance.”

“Romance?” Narmilath was taken aback. “With who?”

Lorinthiel hesitated. “No one. It’s nothing to be concerned about, we’ve only been seeing each other for a few days.”

Narmilath’s eyes darkened. “Who is it?”

Lorinthiel sighed. “Decedra Wilham.”

Narmilath exploded. “That human? She’s barely sentient! I’m constantly amazed that she manages to finish a sentence without drooling all over her blouse.”

Lorinthiel scoffed. “She’s not that bad!”

“Oh please. Worthington told me he once saw her trying to milk a chicken! Gustaf told me he treated her after she swallowed a shiny fishing lure! Humans aren’t the brightest coins in the fountain to begin with, but she’s certainly no testament to –”

Narmilath stopped abruptly, and his eyes widened at Lorinthiel. He put a hand to the reddening mark on his face. The mark left just now as Lorinthiel had backhanded him across the jaw.

Lorinthiel’s face was pink, his bright blue eyes alight with rage. They stood there for some time, just staring at each other. Narmilath could scarcely believe that his friend of sixty years had just struck him for the first time since their knowing each other. He could not say what Lorinthiel was thinking.

There was a sudden knock on the door.

Lorinthiel broke his gaze, turning to the door. Narmilath’s gaze, however, did not break, and as Lorinthiel turned his head, Narmilath let out a great shout and shoved him with both hands, as hard as he could. Lorinthiel, caught completely unawares, fell back hard and fast, and struck the floor.

I’ve never understood how anyone could mistake death for sleep or sleep for death. I’m sure you’ve all seen a body or two in your time – you know what I mean. There’s a stillness in death, an unmistakable quiet. The first time you see it you don’t know how you could’ve ever mistaken one for the other.

Narmilath stared as the blood pooled out from under Lorinthiel’s still face and ran along the rivets of the sword he had let fall to the ground. The sword into whose thick pommel Lorinthiel’s temple had crashed.

Narmilath leaned down. “Lorin?” he whispered. But he knew.

He turned.

Decedra Wilham, in a simple but elegant black dress, stood in the open doorway, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide and fixated on the still face of Lorinthiel. Narmilath looked at her, apologetic, and said her name with a step towards her.

She took a step back, her eyes now on him. They stood frozen for a fraction of a moment, before Decedra suddenly shrieked. “Murder!”

Narmilath attempted to plead with her, he made another stride towards her which prompted Decedra to bolt from the scene, screaming at the top of her voice.

He heard her shrill cries diminish as she fled, and he turned back to Lorinthiel’s still body. Narmilath still prayed that he would stir; that he was mistaken; that he would rise and they would have a huge argument and not speak to each other for days. But Narmilath knew this wouldn’t happen. He knew that staring at him wouldn’t bring him back. He knew, too, that Decedra would soon return with the Theramore guard, and they would point their fingers at him, call him a murderer. They would throw him in Ironclad Prison, maybe even hang him in the square. He had a vision then of dwarves and humans pelting his hanged corpse with rotten produce, then burying him face down in a shallow grave on the beach.

He ran.

He didn’t think to take anything with him, he just ran out the door of his home and through the gates of Theramore. The four guards on duty looked at him funny but they didn’t try to stop him.

Dustwallow Marsh was an inhospitable place to go running away in, though. He had traveled before in groups, but alone, he was prey to everything around him. Giant spiders, raptors, crocolisks, bog beasts, not to mention the wandering ogres. His first week nearly killed him. It took him three to get out of the marsh. The Barrens, meanwhile, were less populated by beasts who wanted to kill him but there was little food and what water there was was fervently guarded.

It’s almost funny how little direction he had, then. He had no idea what he was trying to do. In Quel’Thalas he had never been far from some haven, but Kalimdor is an untamed, wild land. Narmilath knew how to hunt, and how to survive. But his journey was a strange and alien one to him.

A battalion from Silverwing Hold found him passed out in a gorge near the Dry Hills. He was thin, sallow, and delirious from hunger. His black hair had faded – it looked almost grey.

The Silverwing Sentinels didn’t know what to do with him. The night elves aren’t fans of Thalassian elves – high or blood – but they were hospitable for the sake of their alliance. Back then it wasn’t so easy to tell blood from high elf, so they kept him under guard, but in comfortable enough of a setting. Word, apparently, hadn’t reached from Theramore that there was a wanted high elf on the run for murder. It was only a matter of time. Narmilath hadn’t spoken, for fear of letting something slip. But he was convinced that sooner or later, a messenger from Theramore would bring them the news. He would be brought back to Theramore for his trial and certain execution.

When he awoke on his last morning in Silverwing Hold, he was certain that day had come.

The guard unlocked his door and peeked inside. She actually smiled. “Well I guess we finally know who you are.”

What little colour Narmilath had regained from his time with the night elves promptly drained from his face. She let him dress himself, then escorted him from his room, down the ramp to the base of the Hold.

Two blood elves were there waiting for him.

The woman had thin, red-orange hair that hugged her face. It was decorated with a burette with a Thalassian sigil. Her face was stern and impatient. The man had long blonde hair that flowed down his shoulders, which he complemented with a pony tail out the top of his crown. He surveyed his surroundings with mild disgust. They were both dressed in robes of red and gold, and they both had eyes that glowed acid green.

The Silverwing Sentinels all frowned at the blood elves, but brightened a bit at the sight of Narmilath, who, since his stay, had become something of a familiar face to them.

“Ah, Mirvedon, there you are,” the woman said to him. Narmilath opened his mouth to correct her, but the man widened his eyes at him. Though confused, Narmilath kept his mouth shut.

“I told you we would catch you eventually, Mirvedon,” scolded the woman offhandedly. She then turned to the Sentinel captain, and handed her a sealed scroll. “You’ll find everything in order. This warrant comes directly from the Grand Magister of Silvermoon. If you have no business with this thief, then he falls into our jurisdiction.”

The Sentinel broke the seal carefully and scanned the scroll. She shook her head, uncertain. “Look, Miss… Sentathor…”

“Sheynathren,” she corrected. “Zandrathis Sheynathren. My assistant,” she gestured to the male, “is Evindath Sunchaser. You’ll find everything in order.”

“So you say,” said the Sentinel, glancing from the scroll to Zandrathis. She rolled up the scroll. “My concern is not in regards to Silvermoon’s claim on this individual. I am uncertain of the extradition agreements between our two governments since… Silvermoon’s recent political decisions.”

There were some wry nods of affirmation from the Sentinels around her. Evindath took a step forward, looking up at the Sentinel. “And what decisions might those be?”

“The Horde,” said the Sentinel coldly. “Darnassus may think we are all united in grief, but we of the Silverwing Sentinels have perspective they lack. This is a war, Lord Sunchaser, and you have allied with our enemies. Some might call this betrayal.”

“Betrayal,” Evindath mused, though managed to do so without a smile. “Some might call the attempted genocide of our people by the Alliance the same.”

Before the Sentinel could retort, Zandrathis held up her hand. “We didn’t come here to discuss politics. We came to collect our rightful prisoner and we do have a schedule to keep. So hand him over or force us to pursue this matter with your superiors.”

The Sentinel hesitated. Zandrathis did not. She stepped closer. “You think I don’t know what kind of place this is? You think I didn’t notice the line of orc skulls displayed like trophies outside your hold?”

“They were trespassers, all,” the Sentinel’s face darkened.

“Blatant disregard for the treaty your two peoples have signed,” Zandrathis spat. “Truly; your vendetta with the Warsong orcs will come to a boiling point, make no mistake. And when it does, do you think your superiors in Darnassus will publicly support rebel rousers and warmongers?”

The Sentinel was flushed dark purple.

Zandrathis continued: “Because if the answer is ‘no,’ then I’d suggest you halt your efforts to look like that’s what you are. I’d start by getting rid of your trophies and handing over my prisoner.”

The Sentinel looked away, paused, then turned back. “What was his crime?”

“Theft, as the warrant indicates.”

“What did he steal?”

Evindath answered. “You have no business asking us this.”

Zandrathis silenced him away with a raised hand. “Something worth chasing him across the sea.”

“He had nothing on his person when we found him,” the Sentinel replied.

“He’s likely hid or already sold it,” Zandrathis’s voice grew more impatient with each word. “And if he helps us to locate it, then that will be taken into account during his sentencing.”

The Sentinel sighed, and handed the warrant back to Zandrathis. “Very well.”

The guard who had escorted Narmilath from his room stepped aside, and Zandrathis beckoned him forward. She and Evindath turned and walked out of the hold. Narmilath followed them.

Two hawkstriders, one jet black and one blood red, were lashed to a post outside the hold. Zandrathis mounted the black, and Evindath the red. Evindath tied a golden rope about Narmilath’s wrists and held the other end in his hand. He instructed Narmilath to walk between him and Zandrathis, and they set off into Ashenvale Forest.

Narmilath had many questions. It had become obvious to him that these two knew he was not Mirvoden, and the next logical thought was that they knew who he truly was, yet decided to save him. But he had never met either of the blood elves before.

It wasn’t until Silverwing Hold was hours behind them that the two hawkstriders veered suddenly off the road, and Narmilath had to jog to keep up. There was a faint path here, but it was overgrown with Ashenvale’s foliage. Finally, they broke through the underbrush into a clearing. The two elves looked at each other and dismounted.

The clearing they had chosen was not done so at random. For in it was a scintillating moon well. Its crystal waters were alight with mystical energy, which Narmilath could feel fifty yards away. A decapitated dryad lay at the base of the well, an arc of violet blood on the grass leading to her head a few feet away. A second dryad lay behind the well, though she looked at though she had been burned to death.

“What’s going on?” Narmilath demanded, trying to shake himself loose of the golden rope.

Evindath sighed impatiently, and walked over to help him. Zandrathis reached into her saddlebag and withdrew a folded piece of paper. After Evindath freed him, she handed him the paper.

Narmilath unfolded it and beheld a wanted poster with his likeness drawn in charcoal.

Above his portrait in large, block letters: “Wanted!”

Below it, still sizeable: “Narmilath the High Elf for the murder of Lorinthiel of Silvermoon.”

A smaller note was written in cursive in Common, Dwarvish, and Orcish: “Lady Jaina Proudmoore offers one hundred pieces of gold from her personal coffers for the safe return of Narmilath to Theramore Isle. Subdue but to not execute – justice must be served. Go with the Light.”

The poster ended with the flowery signature of Kristoff, Lady Proudmoore’s chamberlain.

Narmilath paled as realization dawned on him. These two elves had lured him away to return him for the bounty! They had orchestrated their elaborate lie to cheat the night elves of their possibly fortune. He felt himself begin to hyperventilate.

Zandrathis snatched the poster from him and returned it to her saddle bag. “Oh quit your sniveling, Narmilath. Look at us – one hundred pieces of gold is a pittance to us, we have no need for money, let alone Theramore’s filthy blood money. Instead, we offer you an opportunity.”

Evindath reached into his saddle bag and took from it five green candles, and began to position them at equal points along the rim of the moon well. “Narmilath, you have two options open to you,” he stepped over the headless dryad as one might an obtrusive log on their path. “You may either allow yourself to be returned to Theramore to face your punishment, or you can join us.”

“Join you?” Narmilath asked, trying not to be seen looking at the dead dryads. “What does that mean?”

“We can disguise you, Narmilath,” Zandrathis explained, reaching into the reagent pouch on her belt and withdrawing shining black dust. “We can so completely change your appearance that you could walk into Theramore and have a long talk with Decedra Wilham without her ever knowing who you truly are.”

“But such a spell is not accomplished by merely a wave of a wand,” said Evindath. He flicked the air in front of him and the five candles simultaneously ignited. “We have gone through great pains to secure the reagents necessary. If we do this thing, you will be in our debt.”

Narmilath’s gaze narrowed. “How would I repay this debt?”

Zandrathis scattered the dust into the moon well, and the light from the water faded. The mists that danced upon its surface dispersed, and the moon well appeared, to the naked eye, to be merely a receptacle for any ordinary water. Narmilath, however, knew better. He felt the power of the moon well, and it had not diminished with the light, it had instead grown more potent.

“Should you accept our proposal,” said Evindath, “you will seek out Zelanis in Murder Row. Are you familiar with this place?”

“Silvermoon?” Narmilath scoffed. “I can’t go back there. I’m a high elf.”

“Should you accept our proposal,” said Zandrathis, raising an eyebrow. “You won’t be a high elf anymore.”

Narmilath considered this for a few moments. “I know of Murder Row.”

“Zelanis will be expecting you,” Evindath continued. “He will train you. He will train you in the skills of an assassin. This will be our favour to you. Your disguise, your training, your safe return to Silvermoon. Your debt; all we ask in return, is for us to call upon you when the time is right. We will require your skills only once. Then we will be bound to each other no more. You may go about your new life as you please and we will keep your secret to our graves.”

Narmilath started. “I’ll have to kill someone?”

“Or something,” Evindath suggested with a coy shrug.

“Nothing you haven’t done before,” said Zandrathis. Narmilath couldn’t be sure if this was as close as she could come to telling a joke.

The two elves met at the headless dryad and dragged her away from the moon well together.

“I don’t understand,” Narmilath persisted. “Why don’t you just hire a rogue from Zelanis?”

Zandrathis dropped her end of the dryad and clapped the dust from her hands. “Primarily, for two reasons. First, it is advantageous that we hold our subject in our power. You have more to lose than we do, should you reveal the true nature of our relationship. Second, you will be starting afresh in your disguise, and we would prefer an agent without a past.”

“But how long will it last?” asked Narmilath. “All anyone would have to do is dispel the disguise and I’d be found out.”

Zandrathis and Evindath paused solemnly, looking at each other. Evindath turned back. “That won’t be a problem.”

“What do you mean?”

Evindath sighed. “Simple disguises are simple affairs. Sprinkle some dust, throw in an incantation or two and you’ve got a reliable illusion for a time. Those disguises would last, perhaps, a few days, if your sorcerer was a skilled one. But eventually, it would wear off. As you said, a simple dispelling charm could throw the whole thing off altogether, and creatures who favour senses other than sight and sound would see through it. Our disguise is much different. It’s not even a disguise. It’s not an illusion. It is a transformation. You will become who we make of you today, not simply made to look like them. In fact you could be placed under an illusory spell and were it dispelled, you would return to this second form. It’s a complicated, delicate spell with very rare and volatile reagents.”

Evindath gestured to each as he rhymed them off: “Ritual candles rendered from the fat of a bronze dragon molded around a wick made of chimaera hair; a moon well polluted with dryad’s blood; the ashes of a cremated sea giant; and this,” Evindath reached into his robes and withdrew a tiny crystal, perhaps the size of a slug. It was clear, but seemed to have an odd emerald sheen to it.

Narmilath took a step closer to get a better look. There was a strange green glimmer which disappeared the moment he tried to focus on it, yet it was always present where his eyes were not focused.

“What is it?” he asked in a whisper.

Evindath pursed his lips. “Ysera is the mistress of the Emerald Dream. It is a realm where the physical… means less and more simultaneously. They say that ten thousand years ago, she cried for the last time. As she watched Malorne the Waywatcher die, seven bitter tears slipped from her eyes, and turned to stone before they touched the earth. Ysera couldn’t picture Azeroth without Malorne in it, and so did not. She closed her eyes, then, and never opened them again.”

Narmilath had heard these stories, some were mildly different versions, but the Tears of Ysera were considered lost relics of great magical power. Most high elven children had heard these stories but shrugged them off as myth by the time they reached adulthood. To be in the presence of one was staggering. It made him forget the reason why he was there.

His eyes eventually were drawn to the blazing green of Evindath’s. “You must understand that this is no command we make of your lightly, nor is this a mere favour for you. If you comply, there is no going back.”

Zandrathis had stopped what she was doing and now examined them both with her stern gaze.

Narmilath didn’t realize he had nodded until he did. Evindath inclined his head in thanks, and then turned, the crystal tear still between the tips of his forefinger and thumb. He looked to Zandrathis for reassurance, and she nodded. He carefully bent over the edge of the moon well and outstretched his arm as far as it could go.

Evindath spoke. He spoke a long, low, slow language that Narmilath didn’t know. But it sounded older than anything he’d ever heard before. And as Evindath finished, he dropped the crystal. But it didn’t fall like a stone, it spun. It twirled down in a spiral like a maple seed, and as it did, it fell apart; crumbled as if it had been a clump of salt. As it reached the surface, it was nothing but a trail of dust that disappeared beneath the water.

Zandrathis held out her arm. “It’s time.”

She helped him out of his clothes until he was completely naked, even taking the bands from his hair. He stepped into the moon well, expecting something grand, but finding it just like any other water. Zandrathis and Evindath guided him into the necessary position. He got down on his knees, the water coming up to his chest. Zandrathis reached over and put a hand on the back of his head.

Narmilath looked down, and saw his own face reflected in the dark water. He wondered how much he would keep. He tried to drink in every detail. It's strange how it never really occurs to you. How many details could you change before you're unrecognizable? Could it just be one key element? Or several minor things? These thoughts raced through his mind as he looked at his face for the last time. He asked himself what it meant to have a face that wasn't his.

“Take a deep breath,” Zandrathis instructed.

He did. She sighed. “Goodbye, Narmilath.”

She pushed him beneath the water. He passed out.

And he awoke as an entirely different person.

Neljanke’s voice had begun to tremble as she reached the conclusion of her tale. It had taken longer than the rest, and the inn had since quieted down, many of its patrons having retired to their rooms. The sounds of the sandstorm outside were not completely gone, but had diminished. There was near silence there, for a second, before I poured a shot of whiskey and handed it to Neljanke. She paused, like she was examining it, then begrudgingly downed it.

Curtis gave her a nod. “What did he look like after?”

Wiley leaned on the table. “Was he still an elf?”

Neljanke grimaced as the whiskey seared its way down her gullet. A tear slipped from her eye, but I couldn’t tell whether it was from the whiskey or the story. She set the shot glass quietly on the table.

I knew the secret, of course. I don’t know if it was just the intuition of an experienced storyteller or if perhaps she had left me specific clues. But she looked at me without a word, then got up, nodded her thanks, and walked off.

Wiley looked a bit confused, but shrugged. “Well, I’ve got a lot of cleaning up to do. Thanks for the shot, friend,” he said with a grin and a wink.

“I suppose I’d best be getting home,” Curtis said as he rose, the chair scraping against the stone floor. “Ratchet’s going to be a full house tomorrow, and Gazlowe will have my hide if I’m late for my duties.” He gave me a flowery bow. “You, my good sir, have made my evening much more pleasant than I had originally anticipated. Luck to you.”

I smiled back and nodded. “And you, Curtis.”

He grabbed his weapons from the doorman and, with a wave to Wiley, he exited into the now only minor sandstorm.

I sat alone at the table a few moments more before pouring myself a half-shot of whiskey. I drank it slow, then leaned back, tapping it thoughtfully with my finger.