"So that's what I'd like yeh t'do. Head t'ironforge an' make a few contacts. SI:7 is breathin' heavy here, but we can move the attention t'Ironforge."
Bricu made it sound so fucking easy. "Oi, Belt, yer a dwarf, head t'Ironforge an' see whatcha can do fer us." Right. Like the fact I'm short, bearded, and got an unnatural love for ale is gonna get me passage into the dark side of Ironforge all on its own.
I never told him I ain't even from Ironforge. I'm from a speck of a mining town so far back up in Alterac that they had to hire wagons to haul in sunshine. Ain't been back in a hundredyear and seven, to be precise...last I heard on the wind, Frostwolves leveled the place back around the First War anyway, so there ain't no "there" to go on back to noways. Not that I'd want to, given how I left and all.
Anyhow. This ain't gonna be easy. Lots of the old dwarves--including the ones that make a living in the shadows--don't care a whole lot for the new management down in Stormwind and the fact he seems to be running the entire Alliance--and letting Shaw's cutthroats off their leashes--while King Magni sits and mopes about his daughter running off with a Dark Iron. You don't see it in the parts of Ironforge the travelers see, but up the mountain--and down in the deeps--tallfolk, and their affairs, and their "new" way of doing things, ain't universally popular. More than a few are muttering we should just blow up the Tram and tell Wrynn and Whisperwind to go fuck themselves--or each other, if they prefer and she ain't picky--after the Lich King keels over. And me coming here on the heels of half of Stormwind going apeshit won't make my job no easier. Whispers are, Magni (or somebody) deployed the guards down Tram-way to stop anybody from Stormwind coming over or Ironforge going out, and nobody's quite sure which part of the job was more important. But the innocent Stormwinders that were trying to get to safety here, and couldn't, weren't none too happy about it. Those that lived, that is.
And now I gotta get hooked up with some of the folks on this list of Bricu's--Shapers only know where he got this from, I sure ain't asking--and see what all sorts of mutual benefits we can come up with. I know some of these names, vaguely. Couple of them are the finest, most upstanding criminals you'll ever see--the kind that you might think almost has a conscience until you try and take advantage of it. Couple of 'em are the power brokers, the ones that pull the levers like a steam tank driver and just let their machines roll over everything while their hands stay oh-so-clean. More than a couple of 'em are total scum that I wouldn't piss on to put 'em out if they was on fire, unless I could piss oil.
It's definitely gonna be a tough selling job. And while I'm lots of things--a crack shot, a snappy dresser, a charming fellow, and, in the right light, even a handsome old bastard--a salesman's one thing I ain't never been. Guess even an old fart like me's going to have to learn something new.
New Opportunities
Moderator: Guild Officer
Re: New Opportunities
Well. If this weren't gonna be hard enough before, it's damn sure cocked up now.
Couple days back, I got a meeting scheduled with Gar Frostmountain. If you ain't never heard of him, good, he'd prefer it that way. He's the old man of the Frostmountain clan, and I guess you can call 'em one of Ironforge's bigger "family businesses," if you catch my drift. Old and professional, really, kinda traditional and homey, like a good hearthfire, or a dark ale, or a sharp axe after it's cut off some rival's head. Depending on who you ask, there's been somewhere between five and nine generations of Frostmountains plying trade in Ironforge and Dun Morogh...they keep to themselves, and besides, I imagine being the head of that crowd ain't always conducive to long life.
Reckon you'd say the Frostmountains are the traditional shady folks in Ironforge. They've been doing things the same way for, hell, two, three hundred years now. Not to say they don't adapt, of course, they ain't stupid. Especially with adventurers and similar rabble such as me popping up everywhere. They're just predictable. Don't believe in changing what's worked, and all that. And they're polite enough, considering. Took me the better part of a week, some well-placed coin, a bit of smooth talk, and a lot of patience, but I finally got an audience with the old bastard.
And then the Nether breaks loose in Stormwind. In one night, Threnny's da gets beaten to within a handsbreadth of his life. One of ours--I didn't know Giorgi from anybody, but he wore the Black and Red so he was still one of ours--ends up on the bottom of a canal with a dagger in his back and Shapers only know what taint on him. And Threnny's ma--and worse, her girl--vanish. It put a little bit more on my plate, you might say. But you don't get an audience with Gar Frostmountain and then back out of it, oh no. For one, they're rare. For two, if he thinks you've disrespected him, well, here's hoping you like romantic evenings with thumbscrews and pokers, followed by a nice long lava bath.
So another day or two, I get to talk to the old one himself, supposedly. We'll see how it goes. Maybe he ain't unreasonable and sees the advantage of working with us. Or maybe he don't. If nothing else, I'll try and get his help finding Naiara. He is a family man, after all.
Couple days back, I got a meeting scheduled with Gar Frostmountain. If you ain't never heard of him, good, he'd prefer it that way. He's the old man of the Frostmountain clan, and I guess you can call 'em one of Ironforge's bigger "family businesses," if you catch my drift. Old and professional, really, kinda traditional and homey, like a good hearthfire, or a dark ale, or a sharp axe after it's cut off some rival's head. Depending on who you ask, there's been somewhere between five and nine generations of Frostmountains plying trade in Ironforge and Dun Morogh...they keep to themselves, and besides, I imagine being the head of that crowd ain't always conducive to long life.
Reckon you'd say the Frostmountains are the traditional shady folks in Ironforge. They've been doing things the same way for, hell, two, three hundred years now. Not to say they don't adapt, of course, they ain't stupid. Especially with adventurers and similar rabble such as me popping up everywhere. They're just predictable. Don't believe in changing what's worked, and all that. And they're polite enough, considering. Took me the better part of a week, some well-placed coin, a bit of smooth talk, and a lot of patience, but I finally got an audience with the old bastard.
And then the Nether breaks loose in Stormwind. In one night, Threnny's da gets beaten to within a handsbreadth of his life. One of ours--I didn't know Giorgi from anybody, but he wore the Black and Red so he was still one of ours--ends up on the bottom of a canal with a dagger in his back and Shapers only know what taint on him. And Threnny's ma--and worse, her girl--vanish. It put a little bit more on my plate, you might say. But you don't get an audience with Gar Frostmountain and then back out of it, oh no. For one, they're rare. For two, if he thinks you've disrespected him, well, here's hoping you like romantic evenings with thumbscrews and pokers, followed by a nice long lava bath.
So another day or two, I get to talk to the old one himself, supposedly. We'll see how it goes. Maybe he ain't unreasonable and sees the advantage of working with us. Or maybe he don't. If nothing else, I'll try and get his help finding Naiara. He is a family man, after all.
Re: New Opportunities
The vast majority of those who ever enter Ironforge only get to see the central portion of the city. It's obvious enough, when looking at Ironforge Mountain from the path leading up to the gates, that there's a hell of a lot more to it than the main ring...after all, twenty thousand dwarves have to live somewhere. But unless you've business of some sort, it's rare for a non-resident to leave the fifth level of Ironforge and travel up or down to another layer.
Beltar had done so a few times, but not many. His dealings over the decades, ironically enough given the current situation, had been more with humans than with his fellow dwarves. He'd been to the upper levels, to the big mansions of the wealthy, a few times, to accept the errands he'd been given or to deliver items. They'd not overwhelmed him much. Great space was a sign of great wealth in a mountain where every cubic foot of space is precious, and the mansions were huge compared to the places that Beltar called home, even now after years of adventuring wealth.
But as he sat waiting in a huge room inside Frostmountain Hall, he found himself impressed despite himself. Not only was the room immense by Ironforge standards, it had one other stunning feature.
Beltar Forgebreaker had never seen a window in Ironforge before from the inside.
The view, he guessed, looked out over the peaks downslope from Ironforge Mountain proper, eastward from the city. He couldn't tell for sure, because he was sitting in a chair well back from the window, with a large desk between them. He'd been blindfolded since the Frostmountain retainers had met him on the steps leading to the fourth level of Ironforge. The trip had been a confusing and dizzying whirl of walking and stairclimbing that had left him with one bruised shin and a pronounced limp from his bum leg objecting to the length of the walk. Then he'd been brought into this room, shoved into the chair, un-blindfolded (and blinded by the outside light coming from the window), and told, brusquely, to sit and wait.
The room--the size of a decent banquet hall, at least--faded off into dimness to either side. There were several other people in here, that much he knew, from the creaks of shifting leather and occasional whispered conversations, but he couldn't make out details--his eyes were still having trouble adjusting to the blinding sunlight streaming in. At least one of the shapes looking at him from the shadows in the far corner was unmistakeably human, his bald head mere fingersbreadth from the ceiling and reflecting the snowy white from the window.
The door opened behind Beltar--somebody important, he guessed, by the sudden quiet and sounds of people standing up a little straighter. He leaned and looked behind the chair, expecting to see the old, wizened face of Gar Frostmountain. What he saw instead was a much different face. Still a dwarf, but young, perhaps half his own age. Brown hair, pulled back into a neat ponytail. Beard immaculately combed. Clothing of what looked to be silk, with not a thread out of place. And...were those spectacles perched on his nose?
The young dwarf walked around to the desk between Beltar and the window, tailed by a gnome with what appeared to be one of those odd ear-mounted buzzboxes he'd heard about, and some sort of arcano-electro-mechanical clipboard thing. Beltar also didn't fail to miss the appropriately-sized steam pistol the gnome had on one hip, and the single sword on the other. A gnome accountant bodyguard...sheer bloody genius, that is.
"So you're the one from Stormwind." The younger dwarf was leaning against the desk, half-silhouetted in the dazzle from the window as the gnome faded off into the room's background dimness. He spoke in the tongue of dwarves, of course, with a noble accent...something that an outsider probably would never be able to pick out, but that stood out plainly to experienced ears such as Beltar's.
"I am." Beltar refused to be intimidated, though he did raise an eyebrow when he heard suppressed chuckles behind him, probably a result of the Northron common accent he'd picked up through decades plying trade routes in human lands. "Beltar Forgebreaker's the name. And, uh, pardon for sayin' so, but unless he had a warlock move his soul over, you ain't Gar Frostmountain."
The younger dwarf raised his own eyebrow in turn and smirked, the expression of one completely confident and in complete control of a situation. "No. No, I'm not. I'm his grandson, Humbol Frostmountain. Grandfather is...indisposed today." He let the words echo around the room, full of any number of meanings, none of which needed explanation. "You'll be meeting with me."
"Right, then," Beltar said. Don't ask, don't think, just go with it. "Obviously you know who I am, so y'know who I work for, and probably got a fair guess on what I'm doin' here."
"Mmm, yes," Frostmountain replied as he motioned the gnome back over. There was a brief silence as he looked at something the gnome apparently had showing on his contraption...a glance and smirk between the two, and the gnome moved back away. "I know who you are, well enough anyway. And I do know who you work for. How couldn't I?"
He pushed off the desk and began walking back and forth in front of it, a few feet in front of Beltar. "The famous, or perhaps infamous, Wildfire Riders. Led by the Oathbreaker himself. Yes, never has there been such a collection, has there? Fallen paladins, upright whores, psychotic elves, crazed magi, even death knights now...all led by a man whom his own kind would rather see dangling from a gibbet even as he leads heroes toward destroying the Lich King." Frostmountain shook his head. "Humans. They're so fickle."
Frostmountain continued pacing. "And therein lies the problem, my friend. We here are not ignorant of things in Stormwind, even if we prefer to worry about things on our side of the mountains and leave...you...to yours. The fact is, we already know that SI:7 seeks your leader, and that they've made life rather unpleasant for you and yours in the south. So it's only obvious that you'd come here to seek an arrangement, yes?"
Beltar opened his mouth to reply, but Frostmountain stopped pacing and held up his hand. "No, please, spare me listening to your corrupted Dwarven, I'd rather listen to the soothing sounds of mountain sheep fucking." The room erupted into laughter as Beltar dug his hands into the arms of the chair. The slightest of glances from Frostmountain silenced the room, and he continued, "Normally, I would be intrigued as the potential of some sort of arrangement with the Wildfire Riders, even though I run a quiet, efficient business, while you, on the other hand, seem to specialize in bloodshed, rioting, explosions, and bringing the mailed fist of the authorities down on your own heads due to your total lack of discretion."
Frostmountain moved over to stand directly in front of the seated Beltar. "The fact is, Forgebreaker, your Wildfire Riders...are toxic. Gnomeregan levels of toxic, to be precise. And 'toxic' is not something that I want my business exposed to." He began pacing again, again holding his palm up to forestall Beltar's protest. "I do realize that in certain situations, it could be helpful to be allied with a group of killers more famous for burning down their own home city than any actual financial success...but I cannot foresee any of those situations right now. I am a business owner, Forgebreaker. I do not need to be associated with anything that would disturb that."
Beltar snorted. "You're scared of Sevens? Sevens got no power here, aye?"
He instantly realized he'd made a tactical error by the look Frostmountain shot him. "No," he said coldly, "they don't. For now. Our King, in case you haven't noticed, is preoccupied with his brothers' exploits in Northrend. As is the idiot on the throne in Stormwind. As are all of the failures that call themselves our 'leaders,' really. But their underlings--the Matthias Shaws of the world--are not. They have a free hand. Shaw has the ear of some of Bronzebeard's officials...informally, of course, in the name of the 'comity of the Alliance.' Who's to say they won't agree to give his dogs the run of the pen, hmm?" A slow smile spread over his face. "In fact, I entertained an offer to turn you over to SI:7 and let them have you. Sadly, you didn't rate a reward."
"But..."
"There is no 'but,' Forgebreaker." Frostmountain moved around behind his large stone desk. "This meeting is over. Tread carefully in Ironforge. I don't want any interference from you or yours with my affairs, or the Sevens will be the least of your concerns...and I do have reach to Stormwind, and well beyond." He motioned to the figures in the shadows. "Take him out."
"Wait!", Beltar stood up and shouted as the thugs moved to his chair. "Aright, fine, whatever. I need one thing afore you throw me out. Information. A Rider's baby's gone missing and we're lookin' for her."
The room was still. Frostmountain's eyes flicked to the gnome, then his guards; the barest wave of a hand stilled them. "Go on. But be quick."
"Bricu and Threnn Bittertongue." Frostmountain's tiny nod bid Beltar to continue. "Threnn's parents run a fabric shop down Old Town Stormwind, on the Canals. Her da got beat up bad four nights back...robbers, thugs, Sevens, we got no damn clue. Same time, Threnn's ma and Threnn's baby went missing. The ma's named Thenia al'Cair. About fifty, I reckon...brown hair goin' gray, average tall, blue eyes. Got a set to her jaw that'd cut steel. Bit of a battleaxe, but ain't an ugly woman, or weren't, anyway. Probably had a little one with her...girl, named Naiara. 'Bout a year, 'bout walking age. Red hair, green eyes, pale, kinda freckly, cute for a tallfolk's kid. Might've been another girl with 'em, their shop helper's gone too. No clue 'bout her." Beltar shrugged. "That's it. If you don't want the Riders' help on anything, short of coin, I got nothin' to offer you for it. 'Cept that it's a baby we're talkin' about."
Frostmountain sat behind the desk, hands steepled in front of him for a second. Then he nodded. "A reasonable request. Now I have a question for you."
"Sure. Ask away."
Frostmountain smiled. "What is it like to be a mascot for the humans?"
Beltar cocked an eyebrow. "A what?"
"A mascot, Forgebreaker. A pet. A curiosity. Jumping and stepping and fetching sticks as the tallfolk command you, like one of those sniveling dogs they love so much in Stormwind."
"The Nether you mean, lad? I ain't no mascot!" His step toward the desk was broken by the two burly dwarven guards each grabbing an arm.
"You turned your back on your race, old one," Frostmountain continued as if he didn't hear. "You've gone out under the sky, been there a hundredyear, haven't you, maybe more? Done most of your work for tallfolk, as far as we know. And what has it gotten you? You've no home. You've no clan. We've no place for you and the humans only want you as long as you'll do their dirty work for them." Frostmountain smiled as he saw Beltar's face anger and redden. "And I see you recognize it. Let me give you some advice, Beltar Forgebreaker." He leaned forward. "Kal'dorei don't like you, and humans are fickle. They'll betray you in the blink of an eye. Even your so-called 'friends.' Remember that." He waved a hand. "Take him out of here."
Before Beltar could reply, one burly guard clamped a leather-gloved hand across his mouth. Two more wrestled him toward the door as a fourth placed the blindfold back on his head. Blindfolded as he was led from the room, Beltar didn't see the slight jerk of the head that Frostmountain gave to the gnome lurking in the shadows. He set his clipboard down on the small table next to him, and followed the four dwarven guards out.
They'd half-walked, half-dragged him for a short ways, that much he remembered. When the hand came off his mouth, he wrenched his arms free from the Frostmountain thugs and stood a second to regain his breath. "What the fuck is he sayin', talkin' like..."
He never finished the sentence. The first blow hit him low in the back and knocked him forward onto his knees. Two more followed it, each more painful than the last. Then they rained down from all sides, gloved fists and saps and maybe boots, he couldn't tell. He couldn't stand, and all his animals were stabled outside, too far away to hear his call.
As quickly as the pummeling began, it stopped. Beltar lay gasping in agony on the stone, his hands still pinned by thugs. His leg muscles were cramping from blows, his back felt like it was on fire, his head was swimming, and the vertigo caused by the blindfold only made it worse. He felt breathing as someone knelt down next to him, and he heard a high, scratchy voice say, in Common, "The Sevens wouldn't give us a reward for handing you over to them. But we did make some gold doing this. Thanks." Before he could reply, he felt one more savage blow on the top of his head, and then nothing.
He came to in a room in the Stonefire Tavern, down on the main level. Shaper's balls, did he hurt. He felt around...nothing seemed broken, he just wasn't sure if any of it actually worked. His face was sticky with blood. His nose was in horrendous pain and he was having trouble breathing, he felt it...yep, sure as lava was hot, it was broken, again. He felt down along his chest, bit of dried blood in the beard, no stab wounds at least...and then he found a parchment folded on his chest.
It was the hardest thing he'd done in months to sit up so he could catch the light and read it. His eyes didn't want to focus, and it took a good half-minute before he could read what was on the paper. When he did, the fuzz cleared, and he reached for his buzzbox.
Forgebreaker,
In answer to your request...yes, the human woman and child of which you speak did indeed pass through Ironforge just before middle-night on the date you mentioned. They were accompanied by a second human woman, frail and blonde, who arrived and left with them but did not, according to our inquiry, stay with them. While the older woman and babe ate a meal in a tavern, the younger woman proceeded to the Forlorn Cavern, where she met with a gnome. We do not know who this gnome is, but we know that he was pale, with tattoos or paint on his face--possibly a warlock, though we are not sure. Gold was apparently exchanged between the human woman and the gnome. This woman then returned to the grandmother-and-child, and the three of them then proceeded to the Great Forge, where they purchased passage on two gryphons heading for Menethil.
Our accounts are settled. Remember my warning.
Beltar had done so a few times, but not many. His dealings over the decades, ironically enough given the current situation, had been more with humans than with his fellow dwarves. He'd been to the upper levels, to the big mansions of the wealthy, a few times, to accept the errands he'd been given or to deliver items. They'd not overwhelmed him much. Great space was a sign of great wealth in a mountain where every cubic foot of space is precious, and the mansions were huge compared to the places that Beltar called home, even now after years of adventuring wealth.
But as he sat waiting in a huge room inside Frostmountain Hall, he found himself impressed despite himself. Not only was the room immense by Ironforge standards, it had one other stunning feature.
Beltar Forgebreaker had never seen a window in Ironforge before from the inside.
The view, he guessed, looked out over the peaks downslope from Ironforge Mountain proper, eastward from the city. He couldn't tell for sure, because he was sitting in a chair well back from the window, with a large desk between them. He'd been blindfolded since the Frostmountain retainers had met him on the steps leading to the fourth level of Ironforge. The trip had been a confusing and dizzying whirl of walking and stairclimbing that had left him with one bruised shin and a pronounced limp from his bum leg objecting to the length of the walk. Then he'd been brought into this room, shoved into the chair, un-blindfolded (and blinded by the outside light coming from the window), and told, brusquely, to sit and wait.
The room--the size of a decent banquet hall, at least--faded off into dimness to either side. There were several other people in here, that much he knew, from the creaks of shifting leather and occasional whispered conversations, but he couldn't make out details--his eyes were still having trouble adjusting to the blinding sunlight streaming in. At least one of the shapes looking at him from the shadows in the far corner was unmistakeably human, his bald head mere fingersbreadth from the ceiling and reflecting the snowy white from the window.
The door opened behind Beltar--somebody important, he guessed, by the sudden quiet and sounds of people standing up a little straighter. He leaned and looked behind the chair, expecting to see the old, wizened face of Gar Frostmountain. What he saw instead was a much different face. Still a dwarf, but young, perhaps half his own age. Brown hair, pulled back into a neat ponytail. Beard immaculately combed. Clothing of what looked to be silk, with not a thread out of place. And...were those spectacles perched on his nose?
The young dwarf walked around to the desk between Beltar and the window, tailed by a gnome with what appeared to be one of those odd ear-mounted buzzboxes he'd heard about, and some sort of arcano-electro-mechanical clipboard thing. Beltar also didn't fail to miss the appropriately-sized steam pistol the gnome had on one hip, and the single sword on the other. A gnome accountant bodyguard...sheer bloody genius, that is.
"So you're the one from Stormwind." The younger dwarf was leaning against the desk, half-silhouetted in the dazzle from the window as the gnome faded off into the room's background dimness. He spoke in the tongue of dwarves, of course, with a noble accent...something that an outsider probably would never be able to pick out, but that stood out plainly to experienced ears such as Beltar's.
"I am." Beltar refused to be intimidated, though he did raise an eyebrow when he heard suppressed chuckles behind him, probably a result of the Northron common accent he'd picked up through decades plying trade routes in human lands. "Beltar Forgebreaker's the name. And, uh, pardon for sayin' so, but unless he had a warlock move his soul over, you ain't Gar Frostmountain."
The younger dwarf raised his own eyebrow in turn and smirked, the expression of one completely confident and in complete control of a situation. "No. No, I'm not. I'm his grandson, Humbol Frostmountain. Grandfather is...indisposed today." He let the words echo around the room, full of any number of meanings, none of which needed explanation. "You'll be meeting with me."
"Right, then," Beltar said. Don't ask, don't think, just go with it. "Obviously you know who I am, so y'know who I work for, and probably got a fair guess on what I'm doin' here."
"Mmm, yes," Frostmountain replied as he motioned the gnome back over. There was a brief silence as he looked at something the gnome apparently had showing on his contraption...a glance and smirk between the two, and the gnome moved back away. "I know who you are, well enough anyway. And I do know who you work for. How couldn't I?"
He pushed off the desk and began walking back and forth in front of it, a few feet in front of Beltar. "The famous, or perhaps infamous, Wildfire Riders. Led by the Oathbreaker himself. Yes, never has there been such a collection, has there? Fallen paladins, upright whores, psychotic elves, crazed magi, even death knights now...all led by a man whom his own kind would rather see dangling from a gibbet even as he leads heroes toward destroying the Lich King." Frostmountain shook his head. "Humans. They're so fickle."
Frostmountain continued pacing. "And therein lies the problem, my friend. We here are not ignorant of things in Stormwind, even if we prefer to worry about things on our side of the mountains and leave...you...to yours. The fact is, we already know that SI:7 seeks your leader, and that they've made life rather unpleasant for you and yours in the south. So it's only obvious that you'd come here to seek an arrangement, yes?"
Beltar opened his mouth to reply, but Frostmountain stopped pacing and held up his hand. "No, please, spare me listening to your corrupted Dwarven, I'd rather listen to the soothing sounds of mountain sheep fucking." The room erupted into laughter as Beltar dug his hands into the arms of the chair. The slightest of glances from Frostmountain silenced the room, and he continued, "Normally, I would be intrigued as the potential of some sort of arrangement with the Wildfire Riders, even though I run a quiet, efficient business, while you, on the other hand, seem to specialize in bloodshed, rioting, explosions, and bringing the mailed fist of the authorities down on your own heads due to your total lack of discretion."
Frostmountain moved over to stand directly in front of the seated Beltar. "The fact is, Forgebreaker, your Wildfire Riders...are toxic. Gnomeregan levels of toxic, to be precise. And 'toxic' is not something that I want my business exposed to." He began pacing again, again holding his palm up to forestall Beltar's protest. "I do realize that in certain situations, it could be helpful to be allied with a group of killers more famous for burning down their own home city than any actual financial success...but I cannot foresee any of those situations right now. I am a business owner, Forgebreaker. I do not need to be associated with anything that would disturb that."
Beltar snorted. "You're scared of Sevens? Sevens got no power here, aye?"
He instantly realized he'd made a tactical error by the look Frostmountain shot him. "No," he said coldly, "they don't. For now. Our King, in case you haven't noticed, is preoccupied with his brothers' exploits in Northrend. As is the idiot on the throne in Stormwind. As are all of the failures that call themselves our 'leaders,' really. But their underlings--the Matthias Shaws of the world--are not. They have a free hand. Shaw has the ear of some of Bronzebeard's officials...informally, of course, in the name of the 'comity of the Alliance.' Who's to say they won't agree to give his dogs the run of the pen, hmm?" A slow smile spread over his face. "In fact, I entertained an offer to turn you over to SI:7 and let them have you. Sadly, you didn't rate a reward."
"But..."
"There is no 'but,' Forgebreaker." Frostmountain moved around behind his large stone desk. "This meeting is over. Tread carefully in Ironforge. I don't want any interference from you or yours with my affairs, or the Sevens will be the least of your concerns...and I do have reach to Stormwind, and well beyond." He motioned to the figures in the shadows. "Take him out."
"Wait!", Beltar stood up and shouted as the thugs moved to his chair. "Aright, fine, whatever. I need one thing afore you throw me out. Information. A Rider's baby's gone missing and we're lookin' for her."
The room was still. Frostmountain's eyes flicked to the gnome, then his guards; the barest wave of a hand stilled them. "Go on. But be quick."
"Bricu and Threnn Bittertongue." Frostmountain's tiny nod bid Beltar to continue. "Threnn's parents run a fabric shop down Old Town Stormwind, on the Canals. Her da got beat up bad four nights back...robbers, thugs, Sevens, we got no damn clue. Same time, Threnn's ma and Threnn's baby went missing. The ma's named Thenia al'Cair. About fifty, I reckon...brown hair goin' gray, average tall, blue eyes. Got a set to her jaw that'd cut steel. Bit of a battleaxe, but ain't an ugly woman, or weren't, anyway. Probably had a little one with her...girl, named Naiara. 'Bout a year, 'bout walking age. Red hair, green eyes, pale, kinda freckly, cute for a tallfolk's kid. Might've been another girl with 'em, their shop helper's gone too. No clue 'bout her." Beltar shrugged. "That's it. If you don't want the Riders' help on anything, short of coin, I got nothin' to offer you for it. 'Cept that it's a baby we're talkin' about."
Frostmountain sat behind the desk, hands steepled in front of him for a second. Then he nodded. "A reasonable request. Now I have a question for you."
"Sure. Ask away."
Frostmountain smiled. "What is it like to be a mascot for the humans?"
Beltar cocked an eyebrow. "A what?"
"A mascot, Forgebreaker. A pet. A curiosity. Jumping and stepping and fetching sticks as the tallfolk command you, like one of those sniveling dogs they love so much in Stormwind."
"The Nether you mean, lad? I ain't no mascot!" His step toward the desk was broken by the two burly dwarven guards each grabbing an arm.
"You turned your back on your race, old one," Frostmountain continued as if he didn't hear. "You've gone out under the sky, been there a hundredyear, haven't you, maybe more? Done most of your work for tallfolk, as far as we know. And what has it gotten you? You've no home. You've no clan. We've no place for you and the humans only want you as long as you'll do their dirty work for them." Frostmountain smiled as he saw Beltar's face anger and redden. "And I see you recognize it. Let me give you some advice, Beltar Forgebreaker." He leaned forward. "Kal'dorei don't like you, and humans are fickle. They'll betray you in the blink of an eye. Even your so-called 'friends.' Remember that." He waved a hand. "Take him out of here."
Before Beltar could reply, one burly guard clamped a leather-gloved hand across his mouth. Two more wrestled him toward the door as a fourth placed the blindfold back on his head. Blindfolded as he was led from the room, Beltar didn't see the slight jerk of the head that Frostmountain gave to the gnome lurking in the shadows. He set his clipboard down on the small table next to him, and followed the four dwarven guards out.
They'd half-walked, half-dragged him for a short ways, that much he remembered. When the hand came off his mouth, he wrenched his arms free from the Frostmountain thugs and stood a second to regain his breath. "What the fuck is he sayin', talkin' like..."
He never finished the sentence. The first blow hit him low in the back and knocked him forward onto his knees. Two more followed it, each more painful than the last. Then they rained down from all sides, gloved fists and saps and maybe boots, he couldn't tell. He couldn't stand, and all his animals were stabled outside, too far away to hear his call.
As quickly as the pummeling began, it stopped. Beltar lay gasping in agony on the stone, his hands still pinned by thugs. His leg muscles were cramping from blows, his back felt like it was on fire, his head was swimming, and the vertigo caused by the blindfold only made it worse. He felt breathing as someone knelt down next to him, and he heard a high, scratchy voice say, in Common, "The Sevens wouldn't give us a reward for handing you over to them. But we did make some gold doing this. Thanks." Before he could reply, he felt one more savage blow on the top of his head, and then nothing.
He came to in a room in the Stonefire Tavern, down on the main level. Shaper's balls, did he hurt. He felt around...nothing seemed broken, he just wasn't sure if any of it actually worked. His face was sticky with blood. His nose was in horrendous pain and he was having trouble breathing, he felt it...yep, sure as lava was hot, it was broken, again. He felt down along his chest, bit of dried blood in the beard, no stab wounds at least...and then he found a parchment folded on his chest.
It was the hardest thing he'd done in months to sit up so he could catch the light and read it. His eyes didn't want to focus, and it took a good half-minute before he could read what was on the paper. When he did, the fuzz cleared, and he reached for his buzzbox.
Forgebreaker,
In answer to your request...yes, the human woman and child of which you speak did indeed pass through Ironforge just before middle-night on the date you mentioned. They were accompanied by a second human woman, frail and blonde, who arrived and left with them but did not, according to our inquiry, stay with them. While the older woman and babe ate a meal in a tavern, the younger woman proceeded to the Forlorn Cavern, where she met with a gnome. We do not know who this gnome is, but we know that he was pale, with tattoos or paint on his face--possibly a warlock, though we are not sure. Gold was apparently exchanged between the human woman and the gnome. This woman then returned to the grandmother-and-child, and the three of them then proceeded to the Great Forge, where they purchased passage on two gryphons heading for Menethil.
Our accounts are settled. Remember my warning.
Re: New Opportunities
Any way you slice it, my trip to Ironforge didn't work worth a damn, now did it? All I ended up doing was getting my ass kicked while finding out information about Naiara that Bricu already knew, then getting haunted by some damn spirit or something, getting thrown out of the Stonefire Tavern for shooting up my room on the fifth night, and sleeping in the streets like a bum by the time it was all over. Fuckin' miracle the guard'll even let me back in the city after that. And for all that, I didn't find a bloody thing to help the Riders out...which don't matter noways, because the Boss, Tarquin ap D his own damn self, is back in the saddle. He said he's got some kinda arrangement with the Sevens. Damn all if I know how he pulled that off, but if anybody could, I reckon it'd be him.
So there we are, ain't we? We all ain't haunted no more, Black an' Red's back on our feet, Sevens are backed off, Bittertongues are reunited, and if there's justice, Maggie Maunt's getting an demonic ass-kickin' for eternity and then some. Nice and happy, here's the standin' ovation, come out for our bows, exit stage left, aye?
Not quite. I got me some unfinished business with Humbol Frostmountain.
Riders and folks didn't have time to do much about it when I got my beatdown, and that's fine. That whole Maunt thing was more important, I ain't got no issue with it. Ain't sure it's worth involving the firm now, bein' honest. And really, he may look a poof and sound a poof, but Frostmountain weren't kidding. His crew's got reach, to Stormwind and probably way further. And they didn't get it by being weak. Me taking them boys on's about like standing in the middle of a landslide with a shovel and expecting to dig your way out when it hits you. Riders just dug our way out of one damn big hole, Shapers know I don't want to do nothing that'd put 'em back in another. Hell, I don't even know if they'd back me on it. Maybe Frostmountain was right about me bein' a mascot. Seems it sometimes.
But still. That ain't something that you just let go. Not me. He may not've gotten where he was by being a weak sister...but neither did I.
I'll swear it on Ironforge Mountain if I gotta. That whoreson's gonna pay for what he done to me. Whether anybody else gives a fuck or not.
So there we are, ain't we? We all ain't haunted no more, Black an' Red's back on our feet, Sevens are backed off, Bittertongues are reunited, and if there's justice, Maggie Maunt's getting an demonic ass-kickin' for eternity and then some. Nice and happy, here's the standin' ovation, come out for our bows, exit stage left, aye?
Not quite. I got me some unfinished business with Humbol Frostmountain.
Riders and folks didn't have time to do much about it when I got my beatdown, and that's fine. That whole Maunt thing was more important, I ain't got no issue with it. Ain't sure it's worth involving the firm now, bein' honest. And really, he may look a poof and sound a poof, but Frostmountain weren't kidding. His crew's got reach, to Stormwind and probably way further. And they didn't get it by being weak. Me taking them boys on's about like standing in the middle of a landslide with a shovel and expecting to dig your way out when it hits you. Riders just dug our way out of one damn big hole, Shapers know I don't want to do nothing that'd put 'em back in another. Hell, I don't even know if they'd back me on it. Maybe Frostmountain was right about me bein' a mascot. Seems it sometimes.
But still. That ain't something that you just let go. Not me. He may not've gotten where he was by being a weak sister...but neither did I.
I'll swear it on Ironforge Mountain if I gotta. That whoreson's gonna pay for what he done to me. Whether anybody else gives a fuck or not.