Chapter 5-5

Arathi Basin

Spout, already comfy before the fire, was busily munching the berries and beer Garl had set out for him even before Garl himself had gotten his cloak off. Unstrapping and unbuckling his armor, he wondered what it would be like to so easily forget the day’s events as the white bear seemed to be able to do. He laid out his armor on the table and prepared to inspect it for any necessary cleaning and repairs.

This stitching, rendered by a mace….that buckle, forged into a lump by some mage…the blood stains alone would take hours to prep and clean. He sighed and went over to his chemicals and supplies, pausing at the cabinet to remove an ale. He brought his now well-worn tools back to the table, and cleared some room to work and spied the briefing packet. Sent to him by Aediwen, a druid who was fast becoming both a friend and an ally, it was still on the table where he had left it. He had been able to read it before the summons from Donal Osgood of The League of Arathor, and was glad of it. The chaos of his inital forays into Warsong, while tempered by the experience of Aediwen, was not to his liking. Donal, apparently, placed more value in preparing his fighters than Lylandris of the Silverwing Sentinels, having bid Aedi to prepare the briefing for him.

Picking up the packet, Garl reflected that comparing the briefing to his actual experience might have some benefit…not the least being to delay the drudgery of repair work. Grabbing his ale, he took the seat next to the fire, with Spout’s ruminations over his meal mingling with the fire’s pop and crackle.

“Prepared by Aediwen for Donal…”. Garl skipped over the intro and down to the first section which read:

“Background:

The many and varied resources of Arathi Basin are essential to Alliance operations in the Arathi Highlands, as they have always been to the powers of the area, beginning with the Kingdom of Stromgarde. From its origins at Stromgarde, humans spread out, founding Stormwind and Lordaeron, among others. This migration, combined with the losses to Stromgarde forces during the Second and Third Wars, now leaves Stromgarde Keep with a force of roughly 1200. From this meager remnant, the League of Arathor was founded in order to secure the Arathi Basin and keep the Forsaken Defilers at bay. Currently led in battle by Donal Osgood, the main adversary is the Forsaken, with their general hatred and wish to destroy humanity. They are occasionally assisted by Horde forces based at Hammerfall, though those forces are split between Arathi Basin and efforts to clear the local Boulderfist ogre and Winterbark troll tribes, and also their rebuilding efforts at Hammerfall. Hammerfall was originally an internment camp for the orcs, and was liberated by Thrall and the Horde, though at the cost of losing Ogrim Doomhammer…thus it’s name, Hammerfall. Split as they are, however, Hammerfall is still a force to be reckoned with in the fight with the Forsaken to control Arathi Basin. The orc internment at Hammerfall was done over the objections of Stromgarde, though not for humanitarian reasons … Stromgarde wished to simply execute the orcs, and this is likely a reason Hammerfall quite willingly and actively oppose the League of Arathor. The mutual antipathy between Stromgarde and the Forsaken and Hammerfall means little quarter is given or expected in the Basin.”

Garl took a draught of his ale and propped his feet up on Spout’s haunches, now slowly rising and falling as he slept by the fire. The small table by the chair had a simple wood box upon it; he removed his pipe and tobacco from it, lighting it by taking a long branch kept leaning between the table and the wall, kept there for that express purpose, and extending it to the fire. He had to lean forward slightly, and made a mental note that he would have to get a new branch soon to replace this one as it gradually shortened.

The brief continued:

“Objective:

Arathi Basin holds a Lumber Mill, a Blacksmith, a …. “

Garl knew the objectives in Arathi Basin, not from the dry statements of the brief, though. To him, the Lumber Yard did not mean resources for Alliance use. It meant arcane explosions mixed with slashing steel, flashing Light tempered with smoldering Dark….the giant saw of the mill spewing not sawdust but spatters of blood and other…things.

The crops at the Farm were trampled, but would recover with the new “fertilizer”….the carts at the Gold Mine carried rent bodies and organs, not boulders and ore…the metal at the Blacksmith was forged in fires fed by energies other than charcoal and was quenched in blood, not water…

Arathi no longer meant lumber and ore to Garl.

The battle had been a maelstorm of fluid chaos, a rushing whirlpool drawing the unlucky and ill-trained to Death at its depths…

“Strategy:

From the jump point at Trollbane Hall, equal forces will sortie to the closest objectives and assess opposing…..”

Garl grunted….that was about as far as the strategy was followed. He knew enough about battle to know that first contact pretty much threw any tactical plan to the winds. The basic plan of smaller, independent forces attacking targets of opportunity had worked, though costing heavy casualties. Perhaps Donal Osgood recognized that the training of his fighters had been geared towards individual and small group fighting, and that their training in larger formations was not yet sufficient.

Garl continued reading, finishing the brief and his ale together, thinking that the history books his mother had made him read had likely been written before the fact….

He sighed and carefully lifted his feet off of Spout so as not to wake him. His armor still waited, patiently, unperturbed at its disarray and damage. Garl picked up his tools and began to pick at a stitch, reflecting that he was getting too good at repairing it…

* * * * *

“I was tasked by the League of Arathor to help secure resources for the Alliance. Hopefully, our efforts are coming to fruition, and the shortages at home will lessen for you.”

Chapter 5-4

Darkmoon Faire

The “few more errands” for Lylandris had taken several days, and also quite a toll on his armor. His fingers ached from all the stitching he had done on his own armor, and his coin purse barely jingled from the cost of repairing his weapons at the weaponsmith. As Garl closed the door to his room and headed through the Great Forge to the bank, he hoped the auctions he had put up before heading to Warsong had sold; he doubted “military pay” would be sufficient to remain solvent.

He was thus busy pouring through his mail when a gnome hopped out the bank, jumped over and on the mailbox and hurtled over his head screaming “Melnan! You’re back!”

Momentarily diverted from gathering funds, he stared as the gnome ran under and through (mostly under) the crowds between the bank and auction house towards a lavishly dressed dwarf. He watched as the gnome shook the dwarf’s hand up and down repeatedly….no…it was the gnome that jumped up and down repeatedly while their clasped hands were virtually motionless, jabbering away at the dwarf. The dwarf appeared not to notice the frantic gnome, drawing a deep breath and lifting his chin only to be interrupted as he started to speak by a chattering gnome randomly appearing in his vision. The dwarf finally sighed, dropped his nose to see the gnome, put his hand on the bouncing gnome’s head and gently pushed down until the gnome’s feet were no longer lifting off the ground (though the bouncing never quite stopped), and handed him something which the gnome held in two hands and stared at with a silly smile, allowing the dwarf to step around him and continue on his way.

Garl gathered his mail while still staring at the gnome; the once-again booming voice of the dwarf started up again:

“The Darkmoon Faire is coming! Be sure to experience all the wonders and excitement of it when it comes to town!
Right now, the Faire is outside Goldshire, in the Elwynn Forest. Don’t miss out! Go today!”

The gnome looked up and Garl quickly returned to his mail…but it was too late. Two glass-rimmed eyes rose above the top of the letter Garl was intently staring through and then dropped and disappeared, only to reappear below the letter.

“…undersigned hereby agrees to the heretofore mentioned party agreeing to beGOOD FOR FIVE (5) DARKMOON TICKETSif and only if, and at the sole discretionWHEN REDEEMED AT THE DARKMOON FAIRE……..”

Garl sighed a very similar sigh to that of the Darkmoon Faire Barker and returned the letter to the pile in his other hand.

“An’ tha’ big glossy red ticket wou’d be…..?”

The gnome, pleased at having garnered the attention of someone, anyone, at last, held said big glossy red ticket above his head with both hands.

“Free tickets! FIVE! At the Darkmoon….surely you’ve heard of the Darkmoon Faire?!?”

Garl had of course heard of it. His brothers had often brought back various and sundry trinkets and toys for him that mysteriously seemed to break shortly before the Faire returned to the area. “Trust a carnie”, they said, ” and you deserve…”

“Don’t you have yours yet?” The big red glossy ticket once again was waved in front of his face,,,,or rather, his chest…..

“Eh, nope. Ah’ve ne’er been ta it, but Ah’ve seen….”

“Never been? Never BEEN? NEVER been? Why how can anyone..”

“No, ne’er been. An’ fer what Ah’ve ‘eard….”

“Well then, permit me to be your guide!” The rambunctious gnome gave a surprisingly elegant bow, with an equally smooth sweep of his hand towards the general direction of Stormwind, and also the nether regions of a rather startled night elf. The gnome’s outstretched hand shifted just enough to avoid the incoming slap of the elf, a move seemingly as practiced and rehearsed as the bow….

As a second attempt at a slap was on its way, the gnome straightened up and grasped Garl’s hand.

” I’m Aksi, at your…..DO you mind, madam? I’m talking here!….at your service! And you are?”

“….Garl…Oilcan, if you want….”

He had a few days off, and could use the diversion….

* * * * *

The sunbeams were brightly sliding through the branches of Elwynn Forest as Oilcan and Aksi passed through Goldshire and spotted the even brighter banners and pennants of the Faire on the outskirts of the village. As they drew closer to the tents and the milling crowd, they heard a piercing, slightly shrill voice over the barker cries and the din of the crowd:

“Step right up! Step right up! Greetings my friend. I’m Silas Darkmoon and I want to welcome you to the greatest show on Azeroth! It’s the Darkmoon Faire friend, and it’s your lucky day! Sparing no expense, we’ve gathered wonders and treats from around the world for your delight. Whether you’re young or old, rich or poor, the Darkmoon Faire has it all!

“Amaze at the wonders that the Darkmoon Faire has uncovered in this vast and mysterious world! We have spared no expense in bringing you excitement that children of all ages will delight in!

“We have it all… delicious food, strong drink, exotic artifacts, fortunes read, amazing prizes and excitement without end!

“And, don’t forget to turn in your Darkmoon Faire Prize Tickets! All it takes is five or more and you’re on your way to the most wondrous prizes on all of Azeroth. Everybody is a winner!”

“That’s Silas Darkmoon…yes, the owner and proprietor….”

Oilcan lost the rest of Aksi’s chatter as he stared and kept walking. The colorful tents, the wonderful smells…he saw a flash of flame….the carnies were of all races and sizes….a small bot bumped his foot and qucikly turned and raced off….

” If you’re trying to be friendly, “ the deep face came several feet above the rather nauseating belly button Oilcan was suddenly nose to hole with, ” save your breath. Or better yet, stop breathing all together.”

The belly button disappeared as Aksi yanked Oilcan away from the huge ogre.

“…and that’s Burth, short for Burth. He’s Silas’ bodyguard and no, his belly button is not an attraction, though it could be…..there’s Gelvis Grimgate, we can turn yur vouchers in to him…come on!”

“Yes, friend, may I help you? Do you ahve a voucher that needs redeeming? Welcome to the Darkmoon Faire! This voucher is good for FIVE, yes, FIVE prize tickets! When you accumulate prize tickets, you’ll want to speak to me about redeeming them for valuable prizes. The more tickets you get, the more prizes you can win. Huzzah!”

Oilcan found himself nodding…yes, yes, more tickets, more tickets!…

“HEY!” Aksi yelled, hopped and somehow double slapped Garl before dropping back to the ground. “Watch it, kiddo, there’s magic here, don’t you know that?”

Of course, Garl thought, the same magic as traveling tinkers and sellers used, only on a much larger scale. He gathered his wits that had been scattered once by magic and twice by the slaps…

Aksi darted back and forth across the fairgrounds, periodically checking back and comparing finds with Garl, who had decided to methodically explore the Faire. There was Chronos the Leatherworker, and Kerri Hicks, a rather remarkable human women displaying the strength of an ogre, and other beings and creatures which he would have sworn were imaginary. He found the food and drink vendors….

“HEY GARL! Lookit MMMEEEEEeeeeeeee…….” Aksi’s voice faded way as it trailed his flying body, suddenly hurtled over the treetops by a cannon, the roar of which was still resounding through the wood.

Garl finished his….sixth?….Darkmoon Special Reserve….wow, he should order a case of that, delivered…..and drew himself up from the wooden bench and table which had seemed so sturdy when he had sat down. He’d better go find the gnome before something found him. Aksi had pointed out the soothsayer, Sayge…..he might as well get his fortune told before leaving.

“The longer you wait, the less future you have for me to foretell.
Come speak with me, and what once was cloudy shall become crystal clear.
I have long known you’d seek me out, adventurer.
Every sentient being in this world is driven by the choices they make. Choices begat further choices, and these in turn make someone who they are. This is where your fortune is drawn from - who you are, and the choices you make.
Are you ready to discover where your fortune lies, adventurer? “

Garl crumpled the fortune somewhere in his pack, somewhere, and headed down the road to Lakeshire in Redridge, in the general direction of Aksi’s trajectory. He was certain he’d have to rescue somebody from Aksi….

* * * * *

“A friend of mine, Aksi - a gnome, does father know anything about him? - and I visited the Darkmoon Faire and had a grand time. A nice break from the routine!”

The din of the crowded Auction House in Ironforge barely asserted itself in Garl’s mind, as he intently studied the auction boards. He’d hoped his skills as a leatherworker would be enough to start earning a living of it, but sales for his goods were still slow. But the skins, hides, and leathers he offered as raw goods were consistent sellers. And he knew the other trades needed other raw goods as well. He gently shook his purse; the few coins within were enough to start jingling, but still too few to jangle. Ah well, “Buy low and sell high” worked whether you started large or small.The murmurs swelling in the crowd were therefore unnoticed by him, until the sharp bark of the Ironforge Guards’ orders cut through the barkers’ calls. He was then aware that the crisp, incessant banter of buyers and sellers echoing off the House’s walls had been swallowed by the whispers and questions of those within.

He looked around, past faces at once worried yet unconcerned. He recognized the look as one he had watched passersby assume in Stormwind, as they passed the orphanage on their way to service in the Cathedral.

“Tsk, tsk.”

“Awful. What can you do?”

The guards half-whispered the words they shared, dutifully following orders not to cause a panic, but knowing few here would listen any further than the words:

“Horde at Sentinel Hill.”

* * * * *

His parents half-whispered the words they shared, thinking he was still napping. The knock at the door had awakened him, however, and he breathed lightly as he tried to hear the words outside.

“…Horde…farm…four dead…..here….”

So hard was he listening outside the walls, the steps were almost inside his door before he heard them. He realized his eyes were open, and snapped them tight as his door creaked open.

“Garl? Wake up.”
His mother’s voice was quiet, but tense, not gay and teasing like this morning. He pretended to rouse, not looking at her, the questions in his eyes replaced with

“Ah’m still sleepy…doan’ wanna wake up…”

“Come on, get these on. Hurry. You can go back to sleep soon. You’re going to finish your nap next door. Your father and I have something to do, right now.”

He dressed as slowly as he could, fumbling with laces and ties, hoping for more from his mother, but she merely kissed him and dressed him more quickly than he wanted, and shunted him out of the room. He heard his father in the stables, cursing the rams, as he and his mother crossed the path to the house next door. His mother kissed him again and pushed him over the neighbor’s hearth; he glanced up and saw the anxious look in the eyes of his elderly sitter before she closed the door behind him, and, a moment later, cheerily invited him to finish his nap amongst the giant quilts by the fireplace in the next room.

The shifting fire and subtle warmth of the quilts lulled him back to sleep, to dream of his mother and father standing before a dark mass called Horde that had no face, no other name.

* * * * *

He had quietly and quickly finished his business at the auctions, and slipped out, his gait and breath a little too forced, but no one noticed. He had been to Westfall, of course, and fought the Defias, but why were the Horde there? A mill, a tower, a desolated village, nothing was there would have sent him hordeside for the same. At the Gryphonmaster, some were inbound from, and outbound to, Sentinel Hill. More than a few outbound decided not to, after looking at those inbound.

As the tower came into view from atop the gryphon, he saw a battle south of the hill, the cries and screams reaching him in the air. As he jumped down off the gryphon, several humans almost knocked him back into the air as they fought to get on the very gryphon he had flown in on. He got clear of that scrum, only to nearly get trampled by a mage’s horse as it vaulted over him and headed to the tower. This was chaos; he followed the mage to the crest of a low hill and peered over it into the setting sun and saw…

…more chaos. more running. more yelling.

Not orders being given but just…yelling…and screaming…and running, lots of running. Priests and hunters, warriors and rogues were all in the clearing south of the tower.

The mage glanced at him.

“Best stay clear, boy, until Koy and Stryke dispatch the stupid ones. Orders were to assemble and organize, not wade in, flailing away. Koy and Stryke aren’t troggs, you know.”
Garl nodded. No, they weren’t. They laughed at the ones coming at them in ones and twos, and mowed them down like wheat, then looked for more. The mage was right. Coordination and numbers were needed.
The two horde now stood alone in the clearing, challenging those gathering on the hilltops around them. The numbers were growing, with more and more experienced fighters coming to the aid of the tower guards. Garl saw insignia of rank, of service, on battle-scarred armor, and grim looks on those who wore it as they discussed their attack. No one else but the mage had talked to Garl, though.
“I have a gun, and Spout,” he thought, “When they attack, I’ll follow them.”

Koy and Stryke cut down two more fools. Then, without warning, the mage attacked, blasting them with arcane fire. Hunters around the two horde opened fire, as warriors and rogues rushed them. The clearing in front of Garl shone bright with fire and magic as he fired as fast as he could. Two rogues dropped, screaming, as the Horde fought their way out of the mass, trying to get room for their weapons. They whirled and spun, blades flashing in the dusky light, trying to work their way south and clear of their attackers. Suddenly, they broke clear and ran for the hilltop…straight towards Garl’s position. Too close to fire, Garl drew his axe and leaped at them, hoping to at least slow them down. If they got away, they would be back. Best to kill them now.

Two warriors had already caught one of the Horde, but the other was ahead and clear, swinging straight at Garl as Garl swept his axe through the air. He dodged the blow only partially, but it was still more powerful than any he had ever felt, sending him rolling down the hill ahead of his attacker. As he rolled over to rise, expecting to see a final blow, he saw the Horde struggling to reach him. He had clipped him! And saved his own life. As he rolled, he jumped off to the side, out of his opponent’s direction, trying to draw him back to the others. The Horde decided not to follow as those of the Alliance crested the hill, presumably having sent the other Horde to whatever god he worshipped. At range now, Garl stunned him with a shot as he tried to run off, and the others charged the now-wounded Horde. Even so, several paid dearly for getting within reach of his blade. Overwhelmed, the Horde still fought fiercely, until finally sheer numbers brought him down, literally, to his knees, to his end.

As quickly as it had started, the battle ended. Garl helped tend the wounded, bandaging and salving, before heading back to Ironforge. He had been no match for either Horde, alone, but was glad he had been able to help. He was deep in thought as he climbed aboard the gryphon for the flight home, and so did not notice as the Tower Captain pointed at him while speaking to a corporal.

“I saw my first Horde”, Garl wrote to his parents, “at Sentinel Hill in Westfall. There were only two, and we had plenty of help. Don’t worry, I keep a close watch when I’m out and about; I’m sure they won’t be the last I see. The Tower Captain noticed me, though, and Regnus is training me in a few things that don’t exactly help with the Hunt.”

Letters Home

Prologue

Garl peered into the blank parchment on the rough table before him and sighed. Writing his mother and father in Coldridge had never been easy for him, but he had felt it was his duty, and so had sent a few brief accounts home. But it had been a while since his last missive, and so much had happened, he wasn’t sure where to start or what to say.

He placed the quill back in the inkpot, and finished off his Darkmoon ale that had been full when he first sat down, and reached for another that wasn’t there.

Bah! Getting up, he crossed the room to the cabinet, passing the one small window in his room, and paused to look out on the Great Forge of Ironforge. His room above the gnome tinker’s shop below was small, but he could see and hear the busyness from the forge and the shops surrounding it, the gryphons on their never-ending flights, and the comings and goings of all manner of folk. Peace and quiet it was not, but that was how he liked it. Having had four brothers growing up, it was what he was used to. His mother, always teaching something to somebody, and his father, always making something for someone, had only added to the bustle of the house. His parents. The letter. He got another ale and sat back down, ale in one hand, quill in the other, and the empty parchment still reproaching him. He took another long drink of ale.

Darkmoon. The Faire. His friend Aksi. Warsong. The Horde. Westfall.

Where to start? When to start?

“Dear Mother and Father,” he wrote.

Chapter Four

Discovering Spout in that cave had been a boon to his efforts. A five hundred pound snarling Ice Claw Bear a foot from your head tended to hold your attention. Garl could shoot freely at his target now, had barely used his axe of late. It was getting easy. He sighed into his ale. It had been a while since he had felt a real rush of adrenaline-fueled fear, not since his first foray into Frostmane.

The inn was crowded. Buy from the traders, talk to the cook or physician, learn from the stories (for the price of an ale, of course), there were always folks traipsing in and out, and no small few that were settled at benches and tables, either. The dwarf moving from table to table, then, wasn’t notable until one realized he neither left, nor ever sat. Garl eyed him over his ale, suspiciously. Such one as that, who had no specific business or pleasure at the inn, was either a beggar or looking for someone to do something unpleasant, and as the innkeeper had yet to chase the small one out, he suspected it was the latter. He turned back towards the fire. His own work was dirty enough, and getting boring, but at least it was for himself.

“trolls”

The cup stopped halfway to his lips, then dropped back down as he listened intently to the dwarf talking to the two others seated at the table behind him.

“Tha Frostmane trolls grow a plant, shimmerweed, high up inna hills t’ th’ east. They use it inna their strange, tribal rituals. We dwarves hain’t found much use fer it, but it ‘as a unique taste…an’ ah want t’experiment wit’ it inna me brews!”

“Not interested? No? Ye sure? Thanks anyway, then.”

Garl turned around in his chair, catching rather than meeting the dwarf’s eyes.

“Tell me about tha trolls.”

* * * * *

They allowed him to pull the beasts with a shot, and then Harul attacked them from behind while Ceamus did his wavy thing with his hands. Again and again, they brought down the huge bears, Harul taking blows that should have knocked him silly, but Ceamus’ art kept him standing. Priestly blows to soul and spirit and a rogue’s dispatch to bone and sinew left little for Garl to do but fire the first, and sometimes the last, shot.

A trip that would have taken him and Harul weeks, if not taken their lives, took a mere days. Somehow, the pack was lighter on the way home.

* * * * *

The trail led up, into the hills, bordered at haphazard intervals by tilted and twisted torches. Oilcan picked his way carefully, his and Spout’s ears and eyes alert. The path was narrow, not ideal terrain for a hunter. He stopped abruptly, just before a bend, sensing a single troll beyond. A couple of scouts later, he was breathing easier. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too hard getting the shimmerweed, as long as the trolls were staying in small groups, just one or two.

Around the last bend, though, he spied the troll camp. Three, four, five were in the camp, with more perched on the low hills surrounding it. He skirted the camp, keeping Spout quiet. The bear shared his distaste for trolls. It was obvious Spout wanted to charge, ripping and shredding, into the camp. He picked off the sentinels, one by one, working his way westward around, improving the chances of his planned attack on the camp with each kill. Halfway around, though, the sentinels he had seen approaching the camp had gone. No, they were there, just not standing anymore, or even breathing. He heard low words, and a tingling in the air, both not lately familiar, coming from over the next rise. He approached the crest slowly.

He peered over the precipice of snow in time to see a young priestess, with a short, quick wave, finish off a troll, soul-dead before he hit the ground. He waited, to watch her next attack. The attack on soul and spirit was quick and efficient; a wave of her hand and the few blows that had landed were as if they never were. He smiled to himself as he pet Spout. As good as Ceamus. Almost.

The troll hill scouts were gone, all of them; he came over the hill and stopped, eyeing the priestess, then the camp below. She saw him, scanned the other hilltops, and seeing nothing, smiled at him, then returned her gaze to the camp, also. Neither spoke a word. He knew what a priest could do; she obviously appreciated a hunter’s skills. He cast his mark on the first troll in the camp, knowing both she and Spout would know what was forthcoming.

They knelt by their packs, sorting out shimmerweed and other loot from the dead trolls loosely circling the camp. Talking, now, about the few close moments and the brutal efficiency of their teamwork. They swapped potions and linen as they walked down from the now-empty hill. He noticed a small patch on her robe, and asked Erana about it.

“My guild tag. Final Ascensions. We’re looking for a good young hunter, Garl”

“Call me Oilcan. My friends and enemies both do!”

They talked all the way back to Kharanos. The ale at the inn seemed cooler than last time, and the fire much warmer.

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

Frostmane Hold

 

The welcoming warmth of the inn at Kharanos was beginning to wear off as he headed off to Brewnall Village. The heat and light reflecting off the stone walls and the chattering hum of traders and trainers had lulled him to an early bed last night; up with the dawn, Garl had eaten a light breakfast of bread and milk before starting out, but even at that dim hour the inn was busy, the fireplace stoking the soft talk of both those who had never gone to bed and those who had just left it.

 

He had been tasked to go to the west, past Brewnall Village, where some trolls had been causing trouble. He was a little worried about the trolls. He had hunted many beasts, and even the Wendigos in The Grizzled Den. Trolls, however, were an ancient race, as old as The Earthen and Tauren, with old magic. The Earthen and Tauren had developed their own magic, and created their own cities, but the trolls had split among many tribes.

 

The one at Frostmane had been an increasing nuisance. Granted, they were an enemy, but Garl had never fired his gun at a sentient being before, one who could think and react with something other than instinct. What he knew about them in battle was limited to a single letter.

 

 

He opened the drawer slowly, not to be quiet, but rather not to disturb anything. Garl’s father was off to a neighbor’s, repairing yet another of his inventions. Gnomish engineering was tricky enough for a gnome; as a dwarf, his father, Tomass, spent as much time visiting his creations as creating them, and would not be back for a while.

 

He found what he was seeking, a letter from his older brother, Tumas, one of two his father kept in the drawer. Last night, as the elders drank around the fireplace, they talked of battle and glory, for the Third War was drawing to a close, they all felt. Their sons and daughters would be home soon, they said. After all had left, Garl watched as his father returned to his dresser and read this letter. Four of the sons of Tomass would not be returning, and as Garl peered through the crack in the door, he watched as his mother comforted his father. What was in that letter? Stories of battles and honor? Strategy and tactics?

 

Garl peeked out the window; his mother, Mari, was in the garden, teaching young’uns. He opened the scroll and began to read:

 

 

Dear Father and Mother,

 

I hope the delay in my letter has not brought you worry. After my constant letters during my training, I did not wish to add to your troubles with a letter before we headed to the front, instead waiting to write you when we returned, which we have, victorious. The sight of our unit heading to battle was something to see, banners and flags flying, formations of well-drilled soldiers; we, of course, got to the battlefield only to be held in reserve, watching others fight as we fidgeted and paced, hoping we’d get the chance to do our part. The battle was lengthening, the casualties mounting, and finally we were called upon. A company of trolls had turned our flank, taking a hill there, and was raining fire upon our troops. We were ordered to retake that hill.

 

As we advanced, the troll shamans and mages flung spells at us, downing many. Our commander realized we could not withstand the ranged assault, and gave the order to engage at close quarters. We hurled ourselves at their lines. The next few minutes could have been hours; I remember little other than swinging my ax and parrying with it, advancing with my company up the hill towards the mages and shamans; we killed many trolls, but I recall none of them, but one. Upon cresting the hill, we attacked the mages and shamans; without their defenders, they were easy targets for our weapons. I spotted a young troll mage, off to the side and went after him. Focused as he was on his attack, he never saw me until I separated his arm from his shoulder. As he lay on the ground in front of me, I swung a killing blow, as I surely had done before that on this day. He raised his other arm, whether to attack or defend, I do not know, and as my ax came down, his arm met it. His face was in great pain as I looked down upon him, his arms on either side of him, and our eyes met.

 

I saw his mother and father, his brethren, his friends, his life in that instant. Our trainers had told us the Horde were monsters, beasts to be slaughtered, and I had believed it, not knowing better. My training said this was a Horde troll, to lift my ax and finish him. But as I stared in horror at him, my arms would not lift. I do not know how many seconds passed before he died, but his wounds were grievous, it could not have been many. As his eyes grew lifeless, I rose up and realized we had won the battle, the enemy was fleeing. But I had lost something, I’m still not sure what.

 

We have returned to camp. I will write again soon.

 

Love, your son,

 

Tumas

 

Garl replaced the letter in the drawer, next to the other one. The last one that came. From Tumas’ commander.

 

 

Garl looked across the clearing past Brewnall Village, and saw troll pickets spaced around their encampment. As he scouted around the area, he realized they were placed too far apart; he could pick them off one by one, independent of each other. He drew as far back as his weapon would range, and fired upon the first one. His shots wounded the troll badly. But not so badly he didn’t charge. Garl arced his ax at the troll, finishing him off. One down, he headed to the next. He found he preferred it when they charged; the casters would stand off, but his own fire was too strong for them. Yes, he definitely wanted the trolls to charge, to take them down right in front of him. They were tall, like elves, and strong, like orcs, but with his shots weakening them, they were not a match for his quickness with the ax His breathing was heavy, his eyes narrow; he wanted them all dead. They were not the Horde that killed his brothers, but they might have well have been. This was different than hunting, this was revenge.

 

He cleared the pickets, and looked towards their camp. Several were there; perhaps he could draw one out. He fired, and one came charging out. Good, he was ready. As he steadied himself for the attack, he realized a caster, too, had seen him, and was preparing a spell. He backed away, drawing the caster away from the camp, then met the charging troll head-on. He downed him quickly, but the caster’s spells had taken their toll on him. He charged the caster, now close by, and swung.

 

His back was cold, his front warm with blood, his vision gray as peered up, into the face of the caster. Ugly, horrid things they were, he thought, as he saw a final spell being cast, as he passed out.

 

He awoke to dancing firelight and intense warmth, and the faint sounds of song and clinking silverware. He opened his eyes to meet those of a night elf with a bow across his back.

 

“Rest easy, boy, you are back at the inn in Kharanos. Good thing I came along when I did.”

 

He closed his eyes, to dream of killing trolls who had no eyes to look into.

Oilcan, 80 dwarf hunter, is my main and will be until he eventually retires to Winterspring, spending his days skinning Frostsabers for their leather and his evenings by the Everlook Inn’s hearth with his bear, Spout.

He leveled slowly in Vanilla WoW, just going where his quests took him, RPing from time to time. He joined Final Ascensions (which shortly became Forbearance) and hit the BGs at 20. By 30, with his raiding guild blowing up, he had joined The Fighting Kitten Corps and camped the BGs at 29, 39, and 49 with Aediwen and Paython and their alts. He was 450 xp shy of 50 when he passed a see-the-man quest turnin in Swamp of Sorrows. Having only gotten 250 his last turnin, he turned that one in…and promptly got 550 xp and prematurely dinged

Oh well…he added AV to his BG list, continued to RP, do LWing, and run 5 mans (especially BRD), and was mid-50ish when Burning Crusade came out. Over the next few months, new faction rep and 5 mans occupied his time. In the summer of 2007, he began some raiding for the first time, discovered that he liked it (despite initial 200 dps in Karazhan), and began serious research into being a raid hunter. The Kitten Liberation Army welcomed him in December 2007, where he still is this day.

His first pet was a bear, Spout. Spout’s an outdoorsy type and didn’t feel comfortable in Kara, so a raptor , Toofy, was added to the stables. Tito the wolf joined them in time for Naxx80 raiding, while Jupe, a gorilla, began to share questing and farming duties with Spout.

Since then, he has continued to hone his raiding skills and PvP in the BGs (a short foray into Arena was not to his liking – killing for killing’s sake), while crafting leather goods for guild and friends, with the odd RP thrown in.

He has tanked Prince down from 8% and saved a wipe in Heroic Old Durnholde with literally epic CC (both intentional). He has also pet-pulled Maiden and other bosses, and mobs-in-the-next-room, and raided in RP gear (both unintentional). And is perpetually the last one to accept summonses and misses the mage portal out because he’s poring over Recount data.

You can find him on Steamwheedle Cartel (like all my toons), usually in Ironforge.

Prologue

The Leaving

His thoughts drifted, like the snows he trudged through, as he crested the hills surrounding Coldridge. His journey would be short, as he had already almost been as far as the hunt with his brother, Harul, 3 years ago in his 37th fall. It would also be long, for unlike that trip, this one had no end, no return to a warm hearth with family. It could not, anymore.

His father, Tomass Flintlock, had been, it was said, conceived between a human and a gnome, for his height was more than appropriate for a well-born dwarf, and his aptitude, and appetite, for schematics and designs….well, it was also said that somewhere there was a gnome whose gleam had left his eye. His mother, Mari, they said, was both the saving grace and the bane of their children. A priest by trade, her education and willingness to learn, and to teach what she learned, had kept Garl’s four brothers from the quirks of their father. Yet it had also led them to their destinies, as it was leading him now.

All five brothers had spent their allotted time in their father’s oily, dirty workshop behind the family’s home, learning enough of his trade to at least appreciate its usefulness, if not to practice it. The oldest one became almost an apprentice, while the younger ones, waiting their turn, had lesser responsibilities, in due with their age. As each reached the age of 6, his given task was to keep the machines and lathes and gears in the workshop oiled, from an oilcan his father was perpetually misplacing. It was said that even the youngest of Tomass’ sons had more sense than he, so the task of course went to them. As each brother grew older, and was given more difficult tasks, the youngest took upon the lowliest one.

Garl was the youngest by 8 years; as his older brothers left, one by one, to give duty in the Third War, the machines still needed attending to. His father’s shouts of “oilcan, I need the oilcan now, here!” had been for his ears, and his ears alone for all his ten years in his father”s workshop. His brothers needed no encouragement to begin calling him Oilcan; even Harul on the last hunting trip had rarely called him Garl.

His brothers. He loved his mother, for her teaching of life, and lives, outside of Coldridge, had made the mindless shop hours of his youth a forge of imagination, as he traveled roads and performed deeds that others had. But it was his brothers’ stories of the war, however, which burned brightest in his mind. Those of the oldest, Tumas, he had heard only through retelling by his father, or other village elders, Tumas being the first to leave for duty, and the first to die. Ceamus and Willam had sent letters, and told tales upon their infrequent returns, but those too, had ended. Indeed, it was from Harul, second youngest, who had heard the elders stories, and had some himself, that Garl heard most about monsters and demons, orcs and warlocks. That fall hunting trip had had stories every night around the fire, and the kills of the day invariably brought comparisons to the monsters of the war.

Those stories had lasted him for 3 years; they had to, as in the end, even Harul had not been able to escape his destiny in the last days of the Third War.

His mother and father were old, but were in good health and hands of their neighbors. The time had come for him, too, to seek his destiny.

As he drew down the slope of the last hill, he spied a boar that would do nicely for dinner tonight around a campfire. He would start his own stories, tonight.