Writing Assignment: Riot in Stormwind

[Ulthanon]

Word had reached Old Town before it had even finished circulating through the Cathedral District. Windows were hastily boarded up, doors were barricaded and locked, and candles were lit behind black blinds- the slums of Stormwind knew how to brace for a storm, and this promised to be a maelstrom. It carried the definitive calm of a true Stranglethorn monsoon; a hush fell over the city, at first broken only by the criers who spread the news, their voices pounding off the stone walls near you and then fading into the distance as they galloped around corners and down the unnamed, forgotten alleyways. The air seemed to grow heavy, laden-down with the anticipation of blood to come, as if the clouds themselves were about to split open and rain violence. You could smell it approaching, much in the same way you could smell a summer squall if you had the nose for it, and those who did had long sought refuge.
He tilted his head back, eyes closed, relishing the quiet in the cobblestone jungle. Even knowing people were about to die, he had to appreciate an event like this. It was like watching the very first of the infernals come streaking down through the heavens, its green flame-spouting comet pushing the clouds out of its way in even circles, scarring the skyline with a cumulonimbic crater before crashing headlong into the cityscape... before its impact and ensuing roar summoned its brethren from the cold, dark beyond.

Ulthanon snapped to attention, shaking his head violently as if to dislodge the thought from his head. Where the hell did that come from?, he thought to himself, but the picture was gone as quickly as it had arrived, and he pushed it from his concentration. He was on a rooftop for a reason, and... that (whatever that was) was not one of them.

He brought his rifle to level and settled in for a long night of spotting. His job was not to get into a firefight with people below; mostly he was keeping an eye on the larger roads that could accommodate a full-sized, torch-waving mob. Smaller groups of rioters and ruffians would make their ways through the back alleys and roundabouts, but those haggard loners wouldn't threaten the Pig or those within it. His task was to forewarn the Riders of any real trouble--
His eyes narrowed as a human girl, maybe sixteen, burst from around a corner and came screaming down an alley below. Not a half heartbeat behind her, two men with knives pursued her with the quickness of hyenas, grinning and laughing to match. He exhaled sharply from his nose in a silent half-snort as he dropped his sight into tracking the lead male. The thoughts that raced in his mind were natural at this age, to the point he barely noticed them anymore. A split second passed as he drew up on his target--
Three yards in a story, two and a half stories up, approaching at roughly three and a half yards per second, bullet travels fourty-five yards a second, no wind.
--and fired, the typical roar of his rifle muffled by the silencer on its barrel. The bullet found home in the lead male's left knee, turning the bone into gravel. The man went down screaming, and his slower compatriot skidded to a halt, eyes wide as he tried to find the source of danger. As Ulthanon was in a shadow, the man saw nothing, and turned to run, leaving his former comrade to bleed in the street. The girl didn't turn to see what had happened and kept running, assumedly all the way home. She passed out of sight a few seconds after the frontrunner went down, running underneath Ulthanon's awning without ever knowing he was there. The would-be criminal screamed for a bit more before dragging himself back the way he had come and around the corner. Eventually, the area was quiet again.

You had to appreciate a night like this.

[Bricu]

They moved out into the street. Bricu took point Behind him, Thenia cradled Naiara. Threnn and Padraig flanking Thenia, keeping a tight circle around Naiara. It had grown eerily quiet here in the past few minutes, but the sounds of rioting and violence echoed down the canals. The tunnel connecting the Trade District to this side of Old Town made a strange kind of amplifier, carrying the shouts and screams along the stone. Bricu and Threnn shared a glance that was worry tinged with guilty relief: they'd nearly left Naiara at the Gilded Rose in Kara's care rather than bringing her to her grandparents' shop. Bricu shook his head: Later. Worry about them later.

Padraig tightened his grip on his sword. For years, it had remained in its oilcloth wrapping in the attic, where he'd stored it away after the Second War ended and Stormwind had no longer needed citizen defenders. It looked odd there in his hands -- not at all like the bolts of fabric he usually handled -- but he held it as though he'd never put it down. It hurt Threnn's heart a bit to witness. Padraig caught her looking and cocked a grin. "Eyes front, now, Threnny. We've work to do."

They skulked along the streets, avoiding the few other roaming knots of angry citizens. Bricu kept his head low any time someone else drew near. The last thing they needed was a repeat of their earlier confrontation. From all around them came an angry buzzing as fury and outrage spread through the city. It wouldn't be long before it boiled into Old Town.

But for now, they still had time. The Pig was the safest place -- if the Riders would be centralized anywhere, it would be there. They'd defended it on The Longest Night; they could do so again. As much as Thenia had professed her dislike for the tavern in the past, even she had agreed it was the best place to go. Just a little further, and they'd be there.

Bricu emerged from the tunnel first. He clung to the stone walls, peering around the corner as carefully as he could.

South of murder alley, a checkpoint was staffed by men and women with all manner of weapons. They wore black leather accented with a bright yellow, and they weren't letting anyone past without paying a "toll." Behind barricades, archers took aim. Men with halberds stuck or skewered anyone who got too close without paying the fees.

"Fuckin' Costras," he mumbled. Bricu ducked towards the other part of the alley, towards Hobson's Row. He could see a group of kids -- boys with more peach fuzz than sense -- kicking at someone on the ground. While the person on ground was silent, someone else was screaming for help. One of the boys, one of the smarter ones, kept a lookout. Bricu watched him as he hit two of his friends on their shoulders, then ran off to the tenement behind them, a tenement that Bricu knew far too well. This was one of Uthas’ delivery points while he ran Absolution.

Only one of the boys looked up -- the other kept kicking -- then held his arms out to get his fellows to stop. He pointed down Hobson's Row, towards something Bricu couldn't see. The one pointing turned to each one of his fellow thugs and shouted something. Bricu finally got a good look at him as he turned. It was Eammon Reid, one of the countless street kids of Old Town. He saw Eammon yell and point, then spin around and fall to the ground as something flew by his face. Two of Eamon's friends ran to the tenement; two others helped him up. Bricu could see the blood pouring down his face. Eammon shuffled his feet, but his friends carried him to safety. The rest linked arms and formed a line.

From the north, a mob moved towards the tenement. Bricu couldn’t recognize a single face among them before it absorbed the line of street kids. One or two could be seen, poking their heads through the crowd, only to disappear when they were pushed, punched or knocked back into the heart of the mob. Some of the rioters looked familiar, but their faces, contorted with anger, were virtually unrecognizable. The mob picked up speed the closer they got tenement. They ripped up cobblestones and flung them at the building, shattering windows and crashing though shutters.

The tenement's residents buzzed like angry hornets as they spilled out of the doorways. They carried weapons—some well cared for, some makeshift—and charged into the mob. The fighting reminded Bricu of Stratholme: vicious, bloody, pointless. It was as savage as anything he had witnessed at the Wrathgate. Bricu looked over his shoulder, back to the Costras' check point. The heavies cleared a line of sight for their archers. Anyone not fast enough to dodge the halberds were cut or skewered. The bodies provided more cover to their line, in case the mob decided to cut into the Costras' territory.

Blood was flowing through the streets of Old Town.

With most of the routes to the Pig blocked off, there was one left. Bricu walked back to Threnn, Thenia and Padraig and delivered the news. "Only way ta the Pig is through Cut-throat alley. Checkpoint t'the south an' a fight goin' on northward. Not one we could skirt 'round." He looked to Threnn, Padraig, Thenia and finally, the still sleeping Naiara. "If we stick ta the walls an' the darker corners, I think we can make it through the alley without much trouble. Yeh lot ready?"

Padraig gave Bricu a nod. Threnn said nothing as she adjusted her shield.

Thenia gave orders. "Threnody, you stay on my outside. Padraig, carry that sword in your left and keep it straight with your leg. If you show any steel, you might get shot. Bricu, stay at least ten paces ahead. If it gets too dangerous..."

"I'll hold me hand up, like this." Bricu bent his arm at the elbow, his fist clenched. "When I do that, stop. If yeh feel the warmth o'the light, or yeh hear Threnn or I scream fer yeh t'run, run. If the door is locked or barred start screamin' 'I've got a twill jacket.' Reese or Elly should be by the door. There's another way 'round back if we need it, but its hidden. Look behind the barrels, aye?"

Thenia shifted Naiara from one arm to the other. "Barrels. Very good."

"Once we get t'Cut-throat, I'll take me ten paces. Till, then, stay closer. As long as I'm in front, if the Costras try t'take a shot, they'll hit me first. Now then. We'll be safe in the Pig in a few. Right?"

Bricu raised his voice, just so he could be heard over the screams and shouts that were amplified down the stone tunnel. The fighting at the tenement had gotten worse. Bricu looked, briefly, over his shoulder. The swirling mass of people had grown: another mob, another tenement, or both had joined the fray. The mob screamed, cursed and yelled in hundreds of voices. Broken bodies were left in its wake as it forced its way to the tenement or pushed back towards the bridge.

Bricu looked back towards the alley. "That's the goal. Right there. Just head fer the cut in the stone, aye?" He leaned in and kissed Threnn on the lips, then Naiara on the cheek.

"Where's my kiss?" Padraig said.

"We get t'the Pig, I'll kiss yeh like I kissed Threnny on our weddin' day." Bricu said. "But not till we get inside. Now then, move yer arses!" He led the way, sprinting across the open section of the street. When he reached the wall, he changed direction and faced the Costras. He wasn't stealthy at all. Threnn and Thenia followed him. Thenia hugged the wall, Threnn matched her mother's pace, covering her progress towards Cut-Throat alley. Padraig stayed close behind, his longsword scraping against the stone wall.

One of the crossbowmen, the one closest to the alley, leveled his--or her, Bricu couldn't tell from this distance--bow and aimed for him. Bricu put his hands up, palms out, and took a step forward. Thenia ducked into alley and waited. Threnn squeezed by her mother than stood in front, shielding her and Naiara from whomever was waiting for them at the end of the alley. Padraig stopped at its mouth, facing the Costras. Bricu appreciated the gesture, but not the timing. He whispered, "Fuckin' go!" Padraig hesitated for a second, then followed his wife and daughter.

Bricu stared at the crossbowmen. There was no point in bringing the shield to bear. Even if he could bring it to the proper position in in time, at this range the quarrel would puncture the enchanted steel. With both hands still in the air, Bricu pointed to the alley behind him. The crossbowman nodded slightly, and gestured with the crossbow. Bricu gave a quick nod before pivoting on his heel and ducking into the alley. That's when he heard the quarrel slam into the stone above his head and the crossbowman yell, "By the Alley! Keep your eyes on the Alley!"

"Threnny move up an' hold the line!" Bricu yelled.

"Are more coming?" Padraig held his sword out, waiting for someone else to come down the alley.

"What happened?" Threnn was just a few yards ahead, shield in front, long sword at guard, just before the alley opened up into Old Town's most infamous neighborhood.

Thenia did not speak a word. She stood between Threnn and Padraig, clutching Naiara to her chest.

"We're fine. The wanker's just makin' a show. But we need ta move 'fore others are gettin' the idea ta set up blocks or shoot quarrels." He moved past Padriag and Thenia, stopping only by Threnn. "Yeh see anythin'?"

"Someone was moving out there, but I didn't get a good look. They seemed to be limping. May have been Lenny or Fingers. Might have been someone else."

"Right then. I'll be careful. Yeh good?"

"Ask me again when we're inside." Threnn said.

Bricu gave her a wink before ducking out into the next alley. All of the windows were shut and boarded. Not a single shop, legal or illicit, was open. Even the second story windows, the traditional lookout points maintained by the gangs of Old Town, were shuttered. Bricu was certain that there were at least three crossbows aimed at him through the slats of the windows, but placing the snipers was damn near impossible. He hugged the wall of the closed shops, waiting for a quarrel to catch him in the chest. After a few heart beats, Bricu still drew breath. He waved the rest of his family forward. Threnn continued running beside Thenia, using her shield to cover her mother and her daughter more than her own person. Padraig followed closely behind, his sword out and at the ready.

While hugging the wall, they could still hear the sounds of the battle raging at the tenements. Shouts and yells bounced off the walls and streets of Old Town, making it impossible to determine where battles were occurring. It sounded like they were completely surrounded by the mobs and gangs of Stormwind. Bricu pushed the thought out of his mind as he looked.

"It's a short dash from here t'the shop across from the Pig." Bricu said to the al'Cairs. "If we move too fast, we'll spook the folk watchin' us. So cling t'the wall." Threnn and Padraig nodded again.

Thenia shook her head. "Crossbows? Where?"

"I'd keep archers o'er there, above the entrances t'the allies an' then another there, so yeh get an arc o'the entire courtyard. But I can't see the quarrels. Can yeh?"

"No...but..."

"But nothin'. Thenia, Threnn'll cover yeh an' Naiara. Padraig's drawin' their attention. We'll get t'the Pig. Aye?"

"But..."

"Right." Bricu said. He ran into another alley. No crossbow bolt pierced his back or chest. Nothing ricocheted off the stones. He waited a five heartbeats before waving on the rest of his family. Thenia, still clinging to the wall, shielded Naiara with her body. Threnn held her shield over her mother and whispered prayers of protection for her father, who followed closely behind. When Padraig made it across safely, Bricu took another breath.

"Last alley before the Pig. Yeh lot ready?"

"There's nothing to provide cover." Thenia said.

"No, there isn't."

"You're not going to have us run across without the door being open, are you?"

"Mother, we haven't done that yet. We won't do that now." Threnn said calmly.

"It's alright, love. It's alright. I'll duck ahead." Bricu said.

Padraig, just behind Thenia, kept watch behind them. "Bricu, we're in no hurry. There's no one behind us. All the windows are boarded up."

"I'm not sure I want ta wait till they're open, mate. I'll peek. Alright?"

Threnn opened her mouth to say something, but Bricu had already started to work his way around the corner. She held onto her words of concern, and began to speak another prayer of protection. She watched him creep into the alley, then peer around each corner. She held onto the last syllable as Bricu walked out of the alley, towards the Pig. He did not creep or hide. He walked with his rapier sheathed and his shield low.

Bricu turned to Threnn, his face pale.

"Empty. Love, the streets are empty."

Threnn edged up to the end of the alley, peeking around the corner as Bricu came back to them, keeping his steady pace. "Where is everyone?"

Bricu looked back towards the sound of the fighting, but it was Padraig who answered, his voice grave. "We got away from where the fighting was. Ten to one odds the people here got away from where the fighting will be."

They all looked towards the Pig. Maybe the rioters would spend their fury on the tenement where Absolution's deliveries had gone, but a few shouts would be all it would take to rile them up again. The tenement was a solid symbol of Uthas' past, sure, but brick and stone don't bleed. The Riders counted some of the Wordweaver's closest associates among their number, no matter that those ties had long since been severed. When the people wanted blood, they'd come for the Black and Red.

Unless...

"Do they think he'll come here?" Thenia's voice was barely above a whisper, but Bricu jerked as though she'd shouted it in his ear. There was no question who she meant.

"He'd better fuckin' not. If he does, I'll string 'im up the way the judge ought to've done."

Threnn shifted her shield to touch his arm. "This might be to our advantage, then. If they think he's here, if they're afraid to come..."

"Aye." He set his jaw, the scar he'd received at Wrathgate a line of white cutting through his beard. "Even still, I don't like bein' exposed, even ta cross the street. Especially with yer mum an' da in streetclothes. There could still be someone waitin'."

"We can get them across safely." The Light flickered around her fingers. He nodded his understanding.

"Right." He turned back to her parents, who had been watching the exchange. "Padraig, Thenia, yer gonna have ta run it. Padraig first, then Thenia, an' we'll be right behind."

Frown lines creased Thenia's brow, but her argument died on her tongue as Padraig put his free arm around her and ushered her to the mouth of the alley.

"Ten seconds, mate. Yeh ready?"

"I can taste my stout already."

The men grinned at one another, the look of soldiers preparing for a charge. Then Padraig was off and running, the Light blooming around him as his steps echoed off of the cobblestones. Thenia dashed along behind her husband, hunched over Naiara protectively even though the Light shielded both the baby and herself. Threnn and Bricu barrelled along after, shoulder to shoulder, shields raised on either side and prayers on their lips, both of them waiting for the whine of a bullet or the dull thud of a fired crossbow, each of them dreading the awful moment when the other would fall.

But those things never came. Padraig's feet thumped up the steps of the Pig's porch. He didn't slow down as he neared the door; if Elly Langston hadn't swung it open at the last second, he'd have broken his nose on the hard wood. But Elly was there, ushering him in, plucking at Thenia's sleeve to steer her out of the open doorway and into the safety of the Pig. Then Threnn was through, and Bricu a hearbeat after.

Elly slammed the door shut behind them and shot the bolts home. As the Light faded from around the family, Elly made an attempt at a lighthearted tone. "Come on in," she said, "dinner's getting cold."

[Bricu]

Heads up!

So, tonight 3/9/10, in the Pig there is gonna be a bit of RP revolving around the Riots. Mugs is even coming by. Sound good?

[uthas]

Sounds awesome! Uthas is currently living in Northshire Abbey, and will be available if people want to seek him out. I'll either be on wow or on gtalk.

[Bricu]

Sounds awesome! Uthas is currently living in Northshire Abbey, and will be available if people want to seek him out. I'll either be on wow or on gtalk.

GRAB YOUR PITCHFORKS MOB! WE'RE BURNING A CHURCH

[Dravir]

Light. There was something wrong with it, a quality that did not fit within the frame of his minds rational processes. It was wrong enough to be filed under the category of Should Not Be, and that caused him to open his eyes, rising from the small pallet in the small closet of a room.
Ah yes. It was night. Light was only this bright in the daytime. It was night, and therefore it should be dark. He strode to the table, and strapped on his breastplate. Things that Should Not Be generally implied trouble, and trouble was best confronted armoured and armed. Daylight at night was certainly not in the usual order of things.

Pulling the shutters back, let in the din of the mob, the screams and clamour of battle. Breaking glass and tearing flesh and dripping blood formed a chaotic symphony. He knew this melody like a mothers sweet songs to a babe, a discordant lullaby that evoked things best left forgotten in the past. The light reflected on the water of the canals, dancing in time to the song, a mirror of the roaring flames that lit the sky as they crawled over the Cathedral. A sea of people heaved and rolled along the street, this outer lane of Old Town turned a theater of base impulses unleashed. Below, a gaggle of men wearing tattered red and white gestured, their rageful shouts muffled against the general din of the riot, but it was clear they had seen something that greatly enraged them. How curious, that they could find such hate for their fellows when the War was on up North. How curious, that they let themselves sink into the feral state that consumed the street below. And how curious... why were they pointing at him?

Something crashed through the thin glass of the window, crushing against his breastplate and driving him backwards. Dim pain cut a short line in his chest, and he stared distantly at the heavy throwing axe that had buckled the plate with it's narrow head. Pain aroused the senses, burning away the sleepy fog that normally enshrouded his mind. Skills that had been lashed and burned and branded into his brain surged to the forefront, and he ripped the axe away with a sneer of contempt. The red and white patterns evoked a visceral hatred in his memory, and in an instant he was back at the window, staring down at the jeering gang. Heirs to a legacy that the his brotherhood had wiped from the face of the continent.

A simple flex of the hand, as if a coy beckoning to a lover, and the anger burned to a fever pitch, rushing out in a channel of force. One of the wretches screaming as his body flew up to the window, towards the burning blue eyes. Another flick of the wrist and the energy was spent, momentum bringing his attacker to a stop with a hefty thud and a squelch as his body landed on the windowsill, amongst the jagged remains of the window. The scream of pain and fear was a brief taste of ecstasy.

Pauric cupped the mans chin, raising his head so as to meet his eyes, before clamping his other hand at the back of the head, and jerking sharply. A brittle snap, and rich, warm life force flowed through his hands. Insidious and addictive, it was the only vice that that still stirred within him, and he shuddered as his body flushed with the power. It stirred a hunger for more. He welcomed the outraged shouts below, and the sounds of rushing feet as the zealots charged the entrance to the inn. His scabbards shone dully in the flickering light of the fires, awaiting his touch.

In the precious minute it took to properly don his bracers and draw his swords, the door downstairs was breached, shouts and screams of the innkeeper and other patrons adding their notes to the symphony of violence engulfing the city. Wood splintered as his door crashed inward, kicked by the heavy plated boot of the young man now staring at the Death Knight, nervous rage in his eyes. "He's here! The abomination is here!" he screamed, and his eyes were alight with a different fervor. He charged, brandishing a long blade as a hero from the old ballads might, high above his head, a powerful stroke no doubt intended to cleave Pauric from shoulder to waist.

In the Before, Pauric had been a carpenter, his fathers apprentice. Tradesmen valued efficiency, economy of effort, to create beauty that had function. So it was simple to lunge into a crouch, and punch his short blade up, between the mans ribs, and into his heart. Efficient, functional, beautiful. Precisely as he had been shown. Something in him savoured the look on the mans face, as the weight against the blade became heavier. A quick twist, and the zealot fell with barely gurgle, rich arterial blood gushing from his chest.

And quickly rose again, as the Death Knight exerted his will, flesh putrefying and sloughing off in goblets. The new ghoul hissed, and loped out the door, to met the crash of steel that was rushing towards its new master. For the first time in years, Pauric let a smile creep onto his face, allowing the shrieks of horror and the crash of swords wash over him. There was blood to be spilled, lives to be taken, and he was awake. It promised to be a good night.

[Mugrir]

((This should have been written weeks ago, I apologize. This is also not from the riot itself, but from that mis-understanding on my part, when Mugs stormed into the Pig and Whistle ranting about Uthas when in fact, none of it had happened yet. Bricu suggested that Mugs was trippin', and... well, here it is!))

Size is a joke often used among humans - it was a way to start conversations with some witty banter, or perhaps a way of badmouthing the red-haired dwarf that was attempting to stop you from running the streets of Stormwind, a cudgel in hand and a coin purse for looting. It is a way of asserting superiority through height, a usually maligned tactic to attempt to just make those races of differing heights to stop bothering you, or at least insult them greatly. Some humans had this thought give them a sense of invincibility when dealing with the short folk, believing that the extra two feet of length made them impervious to injury. This belief often manifests itself more often when said humans are drunk.

What is often forgotten during this duly wrong thought process, is that many of said short folk can jump.

Mugrir's gauntlet-encased fist connected with the drunken simpelton's cheek. As the dwarf's feet touched the cobblestones of Stormwind again, a louder, more audible thump followed. Apparently, two hundred pounds of leaping muscle and sinew was enough of a witty retort. Mugrir looked down as the thug, clutching a dislocated jaw, reached across the path towards the blunted weapon he had been holding a minute ago. With a grunt of frustration, the Boomstick gave the figure a shove with his boot, and the man wailed until the splash of canal water drowned it out.
"Bloody feckin' idjit, been punchin' out full 'orses befer," Mugrir shook out his fist while muttering. "Maybe Strongbeard wos right 'bout cuttin' lots o' ye down te our size."

Runehammer looked up as what sounded like a cannon shot went off, the noise echoing over the watery canals. Many of the guards and rioters looked up, momentarily distracted, as a new plume of smoke wafted up from the Cathedral. He swore and looked around, turning back to why he had originally deviated from his path. He walked over to a pile of knocked over barrels, and held out his hand. Slowly, a shaking, tiny hand reached out, fingers wrapping around a calloused pair of fingers. A brown-eyed boy, no older than ten, stared out from his hiding place. His other hand held a wooden toy sword.

"'s alright lad. Yer safe. All o' 'em are gone." Mugrir's voice gravelled as quietly and reassuringly as he could, trying not to scare the skittish youth. He hoped that his rather rough handling of the child's three antagonists worked in his favor, and not against.

"Mom told me to run. She told me to climb out the window so I wouldn't get stolen away." The voice wavered between notes of pride in his daring and terror in the destruction around happening around him."

"Well, ye did good lad, but 's not safe out here. I've got te git ye te th' guards, they've got th' king's keep all blocked off." He began to tug lightly with his hand as he watched the boy's eyes go wide and look past him, trying to re-assure him. "Come'n lad, I'll keep ye fit while w-"
The dagger point sliced right through the worn leather armor Mugrir wore, the strength of the downward arc easily enough to tear through flesh and bone. Unfortunately for the thug's friend, it wasn't enough for a sheet of rock and gravel. The noise of metal chipping pinged audibly as the weapon's edge and point were ruined, iron flecks falling to the cobblestones. The little boy saw the man's eyes mirror his own, before the dwarf kneeling in front of him growled loudly, and something underneath his arm glowed brightly. The next thing he saw was Mugrir half turn, a pistol in his hand as it was pulled out from the dwarf’s belt. There was a discharge, and the idiot man fell dead, gunpowder and mithril shot having blasted a hole straight through. Runehammer stood up and walked over to the man’s body, giving it a kick with his boot to knock it into the water. The sun illuminated the clean cut in his piecemeal leather jerkin and tabard. A slab of rough stone was all that was underneath, moving miraculously as though muscle. Mugrir couldn’t help but be thankful it was habit he blessed himself with the Makers’ strength every time he walked through Stormwind, since that Dark Iron attack. A rune circle on his arm, the brown one, continued to glow brightly.

“Right, lad, ye kin see how dangerous it be ou’ here. Got te git ye te…” He turn back around to see the human child running flat out away from him. Swearing, he went to pursue before looking up, watching as a group of Stormwind guard was making its way down the street, dispersing rabble and keeping a carefully formed line of defense against a mob which might form at any minute. Calling his work good enough, Mugrir looked around quickly, and ran the opposite way. The riders, he thought. They had to know. They had to be behind this.


It was another hour before he got to the Pig and Whistle. The entire city had gone mad. A moment skirting the district of the mages had him reeling from fumes and a backlash of ley energy trailing through the air. Another had him joining up with a cadre of Stormwind guard recruits, storming through the trade district with billy clubs and shields. Yet another had him breaking into some house in Old Town, violently stopping a guard from using his rank to force himself upon a cowering widow. Soot on his face and a wealth of anger, the dwarf kicked open the door to the pub and stormed in shouting for Bricu. Answers were needed, now.

He turned the corner to the bar proper to find a large group of people looking up at him, staring intently. Most of them had glasses of various shapes and sizes in front of them. A rather large pride of panthers looked up at him with large eyes and larger teeth. The human he was looking for was calmly sitting at a table, his wife and child just next to him. A moment ago, Mugrir reckoned, there had been some sort of large joke, a funny one that would have been over his head and needed explaining. A large man with too many weapons and overbearing goggles looked ready to start sneering.

It had taken a lot of shouting and swearing to get any of them to move. It was like they had all been trapped inside for a day and hadn’t caught up - Mugrir screamed about the smoke and the fire, and only when he mentioned the piles of bodies in the park did anyone start to give him any sense of real worry, or credibility. Bricu didn’t move though, and only two night elves and damned Tiforis followed him, exchanging looks. The looks… he had seen them before. When he came out from the badlands, ranting and raving, arm and shoulder and chest something hellish and un-dwarven. The looks he had gotten from people
who used to trust him, used to call him Boss.

They got to the park. The bodies were stacked, and soldiers were rushing everywhere, adding to the pile. Pieces were missing, bite marks and things no human or gnome or dwarf could do. It was something you saw out in Plaguelands, or where the Scourge had passed through, even rabid animals. Around the side of the moonwell, two druids dressed in rainments started tossing bodies on the fire, chanting in old tongues as the smoke rose up and up and up, joining with the black smoke of the Cathedral, the ethereal clouds from the mage district, and with the sound of gunshots and shouts and screams and Uthas was back, Uthas was back, Uthas was free…


Mugrir gasped suddenly, as though he had forgotten to breathe. His vision swirled as he staggered backwards on his legs drunkenly, and he caught himself before falling to the green grass of the park. The dwarf took a few more draughts of air, looking back towards the moonwell and the way in. There was no piles of bodies. There was no smoke in the sky. All there was were the druids as they performed their rituals over their sacred water, some human nobles taking their walk, and those he had come here with. All of them had stopped, and all of them were staring towards him with confusion. As Tiforis muttered into one of his devices back to the Pig, Mugrir put his face between his hands, trying to steady his grip on reality.