World of Warcraft®

Nixim blinked tired eyes. He forced his back straight for the third time this night, sitting on his tall work stool. The master tinker blinked again, his eyes itching this time. He sighed, mentally noting that it was against time for another short break.

Tinker Blackwrench twirled himself away from his workstation and slid off his tall work stool. He stretched his back, flexing his spine until it popped with a satisfying wave of relief. He pulled his custom goggle armature off his head and set it carefully to the side and stepped to the main door of his workspace in Stormwind. Located in the same block as the Watch and other governmental offices the tinker had felt it fairly safe to prop the door open. Along with a few open windows a refreshing draft of night air had filled the workshop.

The strategy had worked wonders at keeping he and the few other night crew workers under his supervision alert, but hours deeper into the night it was obvious he was losing the battle against sleep. Standing in the open doorway, looking out over the beautiful cathedral district bathed in moon light, Nixim couldn't help but think... about absolutely nothing.

It was serious. The Master Tinker from Thelsamar, Professor of Theoretical Sentience and Robots at the Stormwind Academy for Arcane Arts and Sciences couldn't put together a coherent thought at the moment. Mental fatigue had begun to set in to such a degree that all he could do was stare out at the cathedral itself.

Just stare.

It was entirely possible that he had bitten off more than he could theoretically chew with this whole "research and development", "practical application", "field test" of his robotic systems working in tandem with the Stormwind Watch. The machinery themselves were sound and their designs, solid. Getting everything buttoned up so he could begin actual in-field testing was another story altogether.

Even with ten highly trained and talented technicians under his employ, at no further expense to the crown, it was just taking too long to ramp this project up. Nearly every sort of small, tedious, complication has plagued him. When one issue is resolved three more pop up to take its place. It was beginning to feel like a never ending wellspring of problems. His despair had reach such limits that he was beginning to doubt even his own genius and talent.

Nixim filled his lungs with the cool night air and slowly exhaled. He repeated this again and again until his mind had been stimulated enough to hold focus on something. Anything.

A tiny flash of light caught his eye in the night sky. She thought it nothing at first, until it twinkled in a manner unlike any star he'd ever seen. He stepped out of the door and peered into the dark sky, squinting to follow the odd star that wasn't a star.

"What... could it...?" He mumbled to himself.

The tiny point of light gradually grew bigger and bigger. It then began to zig and zag from one side to the other. Nixim's eyes grew when he realized also that this light was nearing the horizon and getting brighter still. Whatever it was, this light was coming toward him... and fast.

No sooner did he grip the door frame to turn around, to yell into the workshop for the few others there working to duck and take cover, than that bright object burst into the workshop right over the master tinker's head.

Nixim ducked, uttering a few choice gnomish words. The object entered at such an incredible rate that he expected some kind of explosion. On instinct he grip hold of the door frame, dropped to his knees, and braced for impact.

Nothing came. Nixim glanced up at the sounds of agitated yelling. Inside some kind of object that looked like long links of glowing blue lights whipped around the workshop knocking over toolboxes, scattering papers and schematics, and generally causing an uproar amongst the technicians who were undoubtedly as tired as the tinker himself.

"Oi!" Nixim called out to the nearest technician. "Can you tell what it is?"

The technician ducked at his workstation as the glowing object zipped by over head. "I have no idea!" He yelled back. "I was hoping you'd know!"

The glowing object moved too fast to see clearly. It reached the far wall a third time and as it had before the object seemed to defy physics by turning at a sharp angle with little to no slowing. The sight reminded him of something. It was on the tip of his memory, feeling as though he should recognize this thing.

"Blasted glow worm!" A technician yelled, swatting at it with a wrench as it zipped past.

Glow worm, Nixim pondered. Glow worm. Worm. No... not worm. Wyrm. Dragon! A metaphorical light bulb brightened and the master tinker suddenly realized what this strange thing was.

"ALEGASKRON!" Nixim yelled the gnomish word. He stood with both hands held high, palms facing outward.

The mindbending zips of light slowed and the object became apparent. It was a Mechanical Dragon Serpent, but unlike any built before. It was a prototype. The mechanized dragon serpentined through the air as if defying all known physics. It slithered over a workstation and around a technician making its way to float eye level before Nixim.

A high toned robotic voice spoke.

[Professor Merian Nixim Henris Dibik Blackwrench.]

Nixim seemed to shift uncomfortably at the mention of his full name, but quickly disregarded it. "Identify yourself, Unit."

[I am a Superlatively Intelligent Mechanized Dragon Serpent, formerly known as the Superlatively Intelligent Mechanized Squirrel, companion to Doctor Cail Liam Mahlr'D. Your friend.]

Nixim blinked incredulously at the machine floating before him. "Sims?"

[S.I.M.S. Sims. Yes. That is how I was known.]

"How?... What?... I mean..." Nixim took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes.

[I can see that you are both physically and mentally distressed Professor. I can relay my message to you after you have had adequate rest and recuperation.]

"What are you calling yourself now?" Nixim asked curiously.

[Superlatively Intelligent Mechanical Dragon Serpent, however I have maintained the moniker "Sims" for simplicity since the internal core of this unit is essentially the same.]

"Sims," Nixim groaned. "You're analytical prowess is impressive," He glared at the construct before him. ", but never presume to know what I want or what is best for me."

The mechanical dragon tilted its head to the side. Nixim was both intrigued and troubled that it appeared to be displaying a much more advanced intellect. It seemed to be displaying emotions, curiosity and confusion at the moment. Before it could launch into a series of questions, Nixim anticipated offered a directive.

"Sims, report."

The mechanical serpent proceeded to relay every bit of information to the Professor. Afterward Nixim plugged a few cables into well disguised access ports on the side of its head and back so he could download and display all the information he needed onto a medium sized glass tube monitor.

Nixim was suddenly awake again, at least mentally. Physically he felt as thought he'd fall over at any moment, but mentally he was racing. The few technician's present gathered near asking if they could lend a hand, but Nixim ignored them. He was in full "tinker" mode. The brown haired partially bald, well mostly bald, gnome darted to one work bench to another. He gathered a few items and combined them as he raced back to the monitor.

A few cable connections later and this device lit up, shining alternating hues of light from three points. Between them a three dimensional image began to appear. Nixim studied the image for a long while, which looked like nothing more than a mapping of a forest over some mountains and hills. After several very long minutes the gnome stepped back from his workstation and turned to his technicians.

"Go get some rest. Everyone. I'll need everyone fresh for the morning." There were no complaints from the other gnomes, but one asked a question.

"What's happening tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow we will begin the major installation of the Watch network and database. We need that system up and running."

What he wasn't saying was that he needed that system functional so he could transfer all of this raw data over to the Watch. They needed a complete record of this incident. After all, someone had just attempted to kill his old friend, and Nixim may need their expertise at uncovering 'why'. This sort of information was just too expansive to be delivered in a simple report.

No, the best way to deliver and then process it all would be digitally through his patented Arcane Core Network.

The old dwarf finally emerged, appearing in the commons of Ironforge after months of reclusive wandering the snowy forests of Dun Morogh. Seeing a fresh recruitment poster for the Ironforge Guard on the Call Board, he decided to wander past the Unit Post of Sgt. Kelvalnan. Perhaps he could finally find a purpose for himself within his own estranged civilization.

That would be rather nice, and a change of pace after so long... so very long.

After weeks of wandering the forests, almost as if he were one of the forest creatures, it was nice to sit for a spell in a dwarven fort beside a warm stove. A hearth would be better, but the stove would do just as well.

The old dwarf had been on the trail of a pack of frostmane trolls who were up to no good. For the moment their tracks took him near the North Pass. The thought of escaping the cold and snow was just too inviting and so he popped in for a rare visit.

As he sat beside the warm stove, relaxing with a tankard of stout, one of the fort attendants, a fellow mountaineer, came to him with a sealed letter. Breaking the seal he read the request from his friend, now supervisor, Sergeant First Class Kelvalnan Snowbear. The old beard grinned at seeing that he'd achieved another promotion.

"Good goin' lad." He muttered before continuing on.

A female Draenei by the name of Noikona Molmir was arrested by Corporal Sprocketeer and was being held in custody. Through what appears so far to be a fluke of events, she managed to escaped. The charges against her have been brought into question in light of the charges levied against the arresting Guard, Sprocketeer, and her recent arrest by the Stormwind City Watch.

The matter of her original arrest has merited an internal investigation and so she needs to be recovered. for further query. A warrant for her arrest and general extradition has been attached and endorsed by the guard. Find her quickly, Wanderer, so that we can put this matter to rest.

There is also a matter of a certain mechagnome named Clocksworth that I want you to look into. He's gone missing and may contain evidence that will clear Sprocketeer of her charges.

The old dwarf stuck the papers behind his belt alongside his gloves. The frostmane troll matter would have to wait. He had two new targets, both who had a significant head start.

The old dwarf guzzled down the last half of his stout tankard and searched for where he last laid his shield emblazoned with the seal of Ironforge. The only matter to resolve, after he found his shield, was where to begin his search...

The white haired gnome tinker-mage sat at her workbench. She leaned forward, elbow on the bench, hand propping up her head, looking utterly bored.

Before her rested an open sketchbook. A personal item, she often liked to sketch down ideas on her off time and between crises on the garage work floor. A trained engineer (or tinker as gnomes call them) and talented mage, her heart was in the inventing itself. Brainstorming new ideas, troubleshooting their functions, sketching up plans for complex schematics. It was what she most enjoyed and what put her at ease.

But right now, she couldn't think of a thing. At this very moment however she was a blank slate. Like the empty page before her.

The book open beneath her arm was nearly filled with all sorts of wondrous ideas for mostly practical items and devices, things that would be simple to created. To mass produce and sell to the common folk. Things that anyone can pick up and use without the least bit of a notion how or why it worked, only that it did. Things that would, or rather could in theory, make life easier... where they every prototyped.

Perhaps that was her problem. Somewhere deep in her psyche she lamented never taking any of her ideas to prototype and as punishment her brain would remain wiped blank until she did. Tink sighed, her eyes gazing across the room for some inspiration, not knowing what to do. Her eye caught a small curious device that sat at the far end of the workbench across from her against the wall.

It was a device she had come across while sifting through Nixim's personal things for something else she needed at the time. It was a schematic he had drawn up long ago, an idea for a long range communications device that projected an image of the other gnome into the air above it. His idea was adapted from a projector device he had examined while in New Tinkertown a while back. He realised near the end of his planning that it would never work. It simply required too much power, and short of building a small power conversion plant atop his house he just had no way. So he put it away to be forgotten, until Tink found it.

With the help of a Gnomerian Workshop technician, she was able to redesign the device to use her patented Arcane Core System as a power source. Providing more than enough power, the prototype came to life and worked flawlessly and Nixim was more than ecstatic to receive the second prototype in his Stormwind Workshop as a surprise.

The two communicated perfectly... for a few minutes at least. A bug was soon discovered that made the audio cut in and out. Occasionally the signal strength would appear to wane and the visual hologram projection would fizzle-fuzzle and flux in and out. Her personal triumph had failed, becoming an almost success.

Almost. It seemed to be a reoccuring theme in her life. Almost graduated top of her class. Almost found the right mage to mentor her. Almost found the gnome of her hearts desire, only to have him swept away and always too busy for him, and him for her. Almost perfected that great idea that's never left the page. Almost.

Tink sighed. Her nose scrunched as her petite features drew into a grimace. This is ridiculous. She thought to herself. I need a distraction from all this humdrum whoa-as-me gloominess. She sat up straight. My life is just fine. Not everything has gone to -plan- but really, what ever dose? She leaned out from her tall stool and gazed into the workshop from her back office.

I'm the manager of a successfully busy workshop and tinker station after all. Why I've taken the success that Nixim handed me and nearly doubled his business and practically streamlined the work-floor productivity!

A gas canister valve exploded at one unseen end of the workshop. A grand puff of white gas followed the loud pop. The canister emerged from the white cloud, soaring across the workshop over the bench stations, a gnome wrapped around the nose of the canister turned gas-propelled-rocket. The scene passed swiftly, ending at the other end of the workshop out of Tink's view with a loud crash.

...practically streamlined...

She paused only to anticipate an explosion. When it never came she blinked from her tall stool onto the workshop floor to assess the damage and help put things straight.

When everything was put back in order hours later, Tink blinked off the workshop floor. Appearing back atop her tall stool she put her elbow back atop her open sketch book and hung her head. Bored. She was now right back where she started.

Something blinking caught her eye. It was a tiny indicator strobe on her communicator prototype. Nixim must be trying to reach her.

Lightly touching the small square finger pad on its face, the device whirred to life. Short arms, two of them, extended from the sides, one perpendicular from the other. The arms held an orb at their ends with a cord that coiled back down the arm into the central circular device. Light emitted from the orbs and mixed with a light beamed from the flat top of the central circular device. An image wavered at first, then came into focus. The upper torso of Nixim, smaller in scale, smiled at her. Tink couldn't help but smile back.

The image spoke. [Hello th-zzzz-nk. -ow -aszz... -en... eeks? Keep... zzz I hope.] The image wavered a little.

"Hold on there Nixi. The audio us cutting in and out." Tink reached to the back of the device and opened up a small panel. She began twisting various nobs. "Hello? Can you hear me?"

[Hello? zzzz-nk? Caahhhzzz.... oooearme?]

"Nixi? Hello?" The image of Nixim looked annoyed. He hated being called that.
[Tink! Plug innnnnzzzz... itor! Thaaaaaa-onitor!]

"Hold on Nixi! Maybe if I plug in the monitor you'll come through clearly." The image of the gnome rubbed an irritated hand across his face.

Tink reached below the workbench and pulled out a bulky square box. It held a glass screen that was no wider than the spread fingers of her hand. A few cables were exchanged between the monitor and the device. Nixim's image projection disappeared and reappeared on the monitor screen.

"NIXI!" She practically screamed. "CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW, NIXI?!"

[Shhh.] Nixim waved his hands. [Not so loud! You'll blow out the voicers on this end again.]

Tink almost blushed and stifled a giggle "Oh, sorry Sugar-Nix. What's up?"

Nixim was a mix of irritation and worry. He simply didn't like the cute and creative plays on his name and he didn't want other people to hear him referred to so casually. It annoyed and frustrated him. If he's ever told one person, he's told a million, just Nixim. Professor would work too. Or Blackwrench. Tinker sufficed if nothing else, but nothing more.

It also never ceased to amuse her how he reacted, so she ignored his chiding and kept poking. Plus, he didn't seem to mind all that much when they were in private... which was saying something.

Typically she launched right away into a quickfire troubleshooting dialog. Nearly anyone else listening probably wouldn't be able to understand her, she just spoke too fast. Nixim seemed to always keep up. In truth it was one of the things that he appreciated about her, how quick and nimble her mind worked. Troubleshooting was another one of her talents. She was often a great mind to brainstorm with.

Right now however, Nixim had a pressing matter to discuss. He didn't have the time to spare.

"Ican'tunderstandforthelifeofmewhythismachine just won't work,"
[Tink. I need you too...] Nixim began speaking over the top of her, trying to get her attention.

"...imeanitsnotasifwehaven'ttriedeverything in the book,swappingout power couplings,"
[Tink, if would just stop for a...]

"...changingthelink cables,alternatinglinkagefrequencies..."
[Tink...]

"...itcouldn'tpossiblybethepowersource,orperhapsthereissomeunknown atmospheric anomaly thatiscausingtheintereference..."
[TINK!!]

The gnome stopped talking and stared blankly at the monitor. "What is it, Nixi?"

The gnome on the other end scowled through the monitor. Though Tink kept a straight dead face of clueless innocence, inside she was loving every minute of it.

[Clear your schedule!] He barked. [I have a task for you to complete. Grab one of the technicians to help with the build. I need a working prototype by the end of the day.]

Excited, Tink scrambled for her sketchbook and a pencil while he spoke. She nodded with a grin. "Of course!" She readied herself to take ample notes. "Now, what is it you want me to build?"

[In essence its a long range scanner capable of picking up minute variating-flux pulsars and distinguish between interlinked electromagnetic wave polarity inversions.]

Tink's hand scribbled across the page, scratching notes along side swiftly drawn lines and shapes. To a lay-person it might look something akin to a magical diagram of some sort. As her hand raced across the page her tongue slowly protruded a little from the corner of her mouth.

"I see." She paused. "Is there any particular polarity inversion ratio you had in mind?" Nixim blinked.

[You... you can have it do that?]

A coy-sly smirk tilted TInks mouth. "Henris..." She seductively lingered on the name. "Puh-lease. It's me you're talking to sweetie." Nixim blushed a little. That or the contrast of the screen was off, but either way he glanced to his sides looking a little embarrassed. Of all his names he disliked Henris the most, but it was still better than a cutesy pet name.

[Alright. I'll get back to you soon with the number.]

The screen blinked off and the circular communications device collapsed back into itself. Tink's expression melted into worry. Concern furrowed her brow because now she had to make good on her boasting, and she had no idea if it could in fact be done. Snapping her book closed she yelled into the workshop beyond.

"Elble Clickspindle! Drop what you're doing and get over here!"

09/04/2014 09:27 AMPosted by Noikona

A day in a half later

((As she's been making progress, so has he.))
((Quote from: http://us.battle.net/wow/en/forum/topic/13021962364?page=5#new-post ))
[1/4]

Deepwater Tavern.
The old dwarf tossed back his second shot of Badlands Bourbon. A few unsavory types had been eyeing him from a corner table since he entered the establishment.

The day before he'd been following a winding trail of leads around Lakeshire. A dizzying circle of hearsay and dead ends. All avenues exhausted, the old dwarf decided to give the room she'd rented another look. By sheer dumb luck he spotted remnants of evidence indicating his quarry had altered her hair color and likely its style. Which style was uncertain and irrelevant, that it had been altered was important. Armed with this new evidence in hand, pointed questioning of potential witnesses (along with a healthy round or two of ale to loosen lips) yielded the old one's best fruit yet.

It pointed him to the Wetlands. To Menethil Harbor.

More than half the day he'd spent investigating. Still dealing with the after affects of the Cataclysm, the town was surprisingly able to remain busy and industrious despite all the flooding. A remarkable testament to man-and-dwarfs' resiliency and ingenuity. Regardless, a few trips around the harbor yielded nothing, and so out of ideas and leads he sat in the tavern.

The old one-eyed watcher ordered a stout lager.

To say he was out of ideas is rather false. He had ideas. Noikona could have taken a ship west to Kalimdor. Despite the annihilation of Theramore, those docks were left relatively in tact and still provided an important port of entry to neighboring settlements. She could have taken a ship northward to the frigid forests of the Howling Fjord.

He took a long slug from the tankard, spilling some of the drink on his thick gray beard.

She could have taken neither and instead continued north into the highlands and beyond, but that didn't seem to make much sense to him. The highlands themselves, while vast, would be a small place for her to hide and there was nothing for her further north than undead, trolls, bandits, more undead, and the occasional alliance stronghold. Perhaps she had some connections that he wasn't aware of, and so he couldn't count out the idea.

The old dwarf gave a modest belch, wiping the mess from his beard as best he could, soiling further his green tinted leather and chain mountaineer gauntlets. The unsavory sorts eyeing him stood, three of them, and began making their way across the room at the old one's back.

She certainly hadn't taken a gryphon anywhere. The gryphon masters were known to be on good terms with the mountaineers in these parts, and cooperative to law enforcement in general. Besides, it was costly and rather foolish since their birds only went to specific points. Following would be a rather simple matter.

“Ye lads shoold know betterr.”

The old dwarf growled without turning. His voice deep and menacing like the churning of the earth beneath ones feet heralding an earthquake, or an eruption. The lead of the three men halted causing the other two to stumble to a stop, bumping into each other.

“Nae properr tae step up on the back of a dwarrf while he inebrriates.”

[2/4]

The three men exchanged glances. Emboldened by their strength in numbers and strength in arm, each appearing to be well conditioned dock workers, all three charged in unison. Their commitment to an old tried-and-true tactic (attempting to encircle and overpower a lone old foul smelling dwarf) was admirable.

“Lit'l de ye knoo...”

Reacting quicker than the men anticipated, the old dwarf kicked the stool on which he sat straight backward.

“...t'was a flawed wagerr frrom the onset!”

The wooden stool crashed into the knees of the middle man, the leader. He cried out in pain while the stool tangled under foot, slowing his progress. The grizzled dwarf swung his tankard in an arc like a weapon, splashing its two-thirds filled contents into the face of the man to his left, “Waste'a fine lager!”, slowing his progress some.

The third man on his right was upon him. Wrapping his pair of solid meaty arms around the dwarf, he had an angle of advantage being at the dwarfs flank just behind his shoulder. The broad chested man seized hold with a grip like iron, flexed his back, and lifted the stout dwarf off his feet.

Had this been almost any other -man- a body slam might have followed that would have knocked the wind clear from his lungs. But that was his mistake. This was no -man-.

The old dwarf seized hold to the bar top with his left hand. His right arm wrapped around the neck and head of the dock worker. Planting a heel on the man's thigh and pulling, the old dwarf proved his strength (and leverage) was superior, and the man's head cracked against the bar top. His iron-like grip slackened.

“HAH!” He bellowed.

“That'll tea...”, but before he could slough the unconscious man off the dock-man to his left, face dripping of lager, was upon him.

[3/4]

The man swung his thick fists in a predictable pattern, knuckles callous from countless other brawls. Tied up as he was in the third man's unconscious grapple, the old dwarf could do little but attempt to deflect the blows.

One-two-three.
Left-right-left.
Jab-jab-cross-jab. They came at him non-stop.
The barrage seemed relentless as he tried to nudge the dead weight of the unconscious man off with his right elbow. He moved his left arm back and forth attempting to block and parry, but looking more like a flapping chicken wing. Despite his efforts the brawler landed several solid blows.

A ringer to the temple.
Another to the jaw chattered his teeth.
A second and third to his one and only good left eye. It would soon swell under such punishment.

The leader had tossed the stool aside. Soon he would in the brawl and the old dwarf would be in trouble. Then, as if the drunken dwarven fates had decided to intercede on the old one's behalf, the brawler made a serious tactical mistake. To gain an extra bit of leverage the brawler grabbed a fist full of the gray grizzled beard. The old one-eyed watcher scowled.

The next blow came with extra force as the brawler pulled the dwarf into his hay-maker swing. The dwarf angled his head just right and the punch landed on the thickest point of a dwarf's skull. His forehead.

It was like slamming your fist against a stone wall with all your might, while in full sprint. Bones snapped, ligaments popped, and the mans' hand twisted into a gnarled hook. The force radiated up his arm, fracturing the ulna, spraining his elbow, and all in an instant. The grip on the dwarf's gray beard loosened and the man shrieked in pain.

“Neverr grrab the bearrd!” he growled. Freed from his grapple, the old dwarf shoved the unconscious man aside and looked for the leader.

The man was upon him before he could act. With vise grips the leader seized hold of the old dwarfs' leather-chain mountaineer armor and in one motion, as if he were loading or unloading a shipment of goods at the dock, lifted the dwarf and threw him over the railing. The old one landed hard on a table top forcing the wind from him.

Groaning from the impact, his head ringing, eye swelling, the old watcher clenched his fists unwilling to give in so easily. He felt the tankard still snugly hooked over the knuckles of one hand and firmly in his grip. He rolled to his side, falling from the table to his feet just as the man rounded the wooden banister, descending onto the main floor of the tavern.

Mad with rage the leader came at the dwarf with his own barrage of knees, kicks, and punches; but the dwarf still held a secret weapon. With the skill of any serious drunken Ironforge brawler, the old dwarf used the stout tankard to his advantage.

The grayed dwarf ducked an over-committed wide cross and smashed the tankard into the mans' knee. The next blow he ducked to take on the shoulder but blocked the one that followed with the empty drinking container, stunning the man. The space between breaths was all he needed. Using the opening the old dwarf wielded the stout tankard as if it were a mighty club.

Swinging high in an arc it caught the man along the jaw with the flat bottom. The leader spun in a circle and fell to the floor in a heap.
Jaw broken.
Unconscious.

As quickly as the fight began, it was ended.

[4/4]

Three burly dock-men beaten, one still conscious but broken. A broken stool, a cracked table top. In the middle stood an old one-eyed gray grizzle-bearded smelly dwarf mountaineer. A now cracked tankard still firmly in his grasp. Battered, his one good eye swelling and the adrenaline of the moment beginning to fade, the old watcher's shoulders slumped.

The the fading vision in his eye he locked onto the lone brawler standing to the side. The man cradled his hand and arm, biting back the whimpers of pain that he usually inflicted on others. Wide eyes scanned the room in a panic trying to understand what had just happened. How did it all go so wrong so quickly?

Deep grunts followed the thudding of each foot step as the old dwarf drew near. He paused a good stride from the man, catching his wide-eyed gaze. He lifted the tankard.

“Ye lads crracked meh mug.” His voice low, he growled menacingly as he spoke.

“I'm goin' tae ask a'single query, an' if I daene like yer answer...” He slid his green mountaineer's hood back revealing his bald head and the black leather patch that covered his right eye. It was the final display the man needed.

“I.. I'll tell you.. wha-whatever you wa-want to know!”

The old dwarf grinned, revealing blood coated teeth. “Gud.” He growled.

Arrival at Kalimdor: The Hunt is On [1/2 ]

When the ship made dock at Theramore Harbor, the sight of the ruins of the once great bastion of Lady Proudmoore sank as a heavy stone in his gut. He was also still a little dizzy from slight sea sickness and he was fairly certain he sustained a very mild concussion from the beating he took in Menethil Harbor.

It was an encounter he would be physically reliving for days to come. Thankfully a long boat ride was just what he needed to generally recuperate. Long enough at least to allow the swelling diminish around his one good eye. In truth, his only remaining eye.

Situating himself upon his Mountain Ram, Longbelly, he trotted through the ruins averting his gaze of the mess as one might try and avoid eye contact with a hideous woman. The old watcher skirted his way around to the highway and headed west.

At the crossroads he gambled a choice. Straight into the barrens or south toward Mudsprocket. It was a small settlement. There might be a chance she passed through heading south, or to resupply, so he turned. A short while later he arrived, having braved the surviving dissidents of Theramore, dragonlings, and large wild swamp creatures beyond imagining. A few quick questions resulted in a few curt answers.

Goblins. What can ya do?

Hitting an obvious dead end he cut his losses and doubled back, braving all manner of dangers to arrive right back where he started, if a little wiser. Never count on a Goblin to be -any- thing but greedy and selfish.

...: The Hunt is On [2/2]

The old dwarf followed the road into South Barrens astride Longbelly until he came to another fork. This time the crossing was heavily patrolled by fully armored alliance men. He paused a while to question several of them, but drew nothing. Determined to find something, a clue of any sort, he again doubled back, but only a short distance. A road he'd overlooked before suddenly appeared heading North. He followed it on a hunch.

It took him up to Fort Triumph. A heavily fortified alliance hold. He questioned a rifleman who directed him to a sentry who was off-duty and resting inside the fort. The sentry delivered a fine lead. He'd seen just the one the old dwarf had described, heading North and in a hurry. He remembered her only because she appeared so odd and out of place, much like an Ironforge Mountaineer astride a large goat, he commented.

"A Mountain Rram." He corrected with a growl. "Named Longbelly." He thanked him with a gold coin and set out northward with no delay.

The path was long and full of minor divertions. Passing by the Forward Command of Northwatch Hold, he stopped in for a chance at some supplies he was growing short on. General Hawthorne was a fine man. The two traded tales of battle and so impressed by him the old dwarf decided to lend a hand with a small matter of camp security. Once the task was complete he continued north through the Overgrowth until he was halted by the Great Divide.

With little other choice he followed the ridge line west. More than once Longbelly tested his sure-footing as the old watcher had them descend into the molten divide in order to avoid certain dangers, namely packs of ravenous raptors.

Eventually, and a few harrowing moments later, he arrived at Hope's Stand. Another alliance stronghold at the foot of the mountains of Mulgore. It is here that his hunt for the fugitive Noikona takes it pause. You see, he befriended an enigmatic dwarf named Beathan Firebrew who just so happened to sell alcohol of assorted quantities and types.

In true dwarf fashion, the two fast became friends and drank until they both passed out.

Early the following morning, the warm rays of the sun woke the old dwarf from his drunken stupor the night before. The rays of light were painful. Bright golden daggers stabbing deep into his one good eye, piercing his addled brain. A sure sign of the most epic night that faded in the fog of soberness.

There was only one sure remedy for such a hangover. Set out early and ride hard, ride fast, ride far. It was time to hunt a fugitive.

While the old one-eye readied his ram, Longbelly, a courier of Honor's Stand. He grunted as the boy ran up.

"A message for you sir! You're the old one, the watcher with one eye." The young man thrusted out his clenched fist, letter in hand. He grunted again, snatching the message and turned to read it in the morning's light.

Person matching your description purchased a gryphon flight to Rut'theran Village Stop
Witnessed stepping aboard ship to Stormwind Harbor Stop
Gryphon Flight Warden

The gray old dwarf grimaced his most sour expression, balled up the message and threw it at the ground muttering a few choice dwarven phrases. Before the courier could slip away he called to him.

"Boy. Take message."

Fugitive on ship toward Stormwind Stop
Returning to Ironforge Stop
Dispatch Guard to Docks and inform Watch Stop

"Send it from Ol'grey Beard to Sergeant Kelvalnan, Ironforge Guard." He swung himself into his saddle, sitting a little unsure. He nodded sternly at the boy with a grunt. "Get to it then."

As the courier carried the message away the old dwarf sat a moment atop his ram. He twisted his head from side to side, releasing a series of pops and crackles. Looking slightly more relieved, he bid Firebrew farewell and somberly made his way back to the harbor at the dismal ruins of Theramore.

The old dwarf wasted no time returning to the frigid heights of Dun Morogh.

The green forests fir, cedar, and spruce patched throughout the valleys between snow capped peaks had seen only a light blanket of snow throughout most of the summer. As per normal. Yet as the seasons turned and the lands below shifted from vibrant greens to warm hues of autumn, the promise of heavy rains throughout these lowland vales drew ever near. Rains below meant fresh snow pack in the highlands. Something the old dwarf had found himself looking forward to more and more as the years passed.

An odd thing. He had never really been the least bit sentimental. Now, however, he felt a kind of comfort in the falling snow. A type of peaceful isolation. A thing he'd only ever experienced in one other place, a very long time ago.

With a grunt he put his shoulder to the wide thick cedar door of the North Gate Outpost. The old wood groaned as much as the old dwarf, its iron hinges grating and creaking in the cold. Even the summers were cold at this altitude.

Securing the door behind him, ol' one-eye made his way to the large hearth to check fire. He stoked the flames adding more fuel. Once satisfied he made his way to the second level and stowed most of his gear along with his cloak. The interior of the circular dwarven outpost was optimised for warmth, allowing the heat from a modest heart warm most of the stout stone structure.

Even in the dead of winter blizzards, when snow hardened to ice and the thick cedar door froze itself tight, inside there was heat enough to survive. Provided you had the fuel to keep the hearth burning.

Settling into a worn familiar wooden seat near a table, the old dwarf took note that he was most likely alone. No other mountaineers were present, though several call this outpost home from time to time, when their rotation dictates it. The grizzled old dwarf was likely its only more permanent resident.

Old gray beard removed his favorite pipe and held it in hand resting on his lap. On the table sat a stout wooden tankard, crafted of the finest maple and bound with sturdy bands of iron forming a solid handle grip. Spying it, he pulled his empty tankard nearer.

Despite its weight, he noted that it was empty. As the thought of filling it occurred to him he noticed a glint of liquid within. As it sat before him on the table the tankard rather miraculously began to fill itself. In short order it nearly brimmed with fluid. To most others, witnessing such a thing would be astounding beyond measure. A miraculous thing that would be hard pressed to believe.

The old dwarfs brow drew down and furrowed slightly. This old vagrant knew better. While it was a feat to accomplish, to him such a thing was hardly miraculous. In fact, it was evidence that he was indeed not alone.

"Ach." He growled. His voice was low, grating, and partially hoarse. To many he could sound rather dangerous and fouled. Perhaps even menacing. "I thank ye lass, but enouf wit' ye parlor tricks."

In a seat facing almost opposite him on the other end of the table a figure shimmered into existence. A woman, clad in long robes that looked on her to be almost regal if not for their rather plain and common fashion. Steady hands raised lowering the hood that covered her head, pulling down also the mask covering her nose, chin and neck.

A head of almost vibrant auburn hair was exposed. With it a face with distinct womanly features. A kind and unassuming expression revealed nothing but made her seem very approachable. Two simple rings pierced her otherwise immaculate alabaster skin, one at her left eyebrow and another at her left nostril.

Ol' one-eye lifted his now full tankard and took a long draw. His features softened much in the way a blue stone takes on a much softer appearance after a rain. He gestured with the tankard before returning it to the table. "T'ank ye." He muttered. The woman smirked slightly and returned the gesture with a nod.

Thick calloused hands reached to a plate of bread and cheese. Breaking off a chunk of each they began disappearing bit by bit into the thick gray beard. He peered across the table at her with his one and only good left eye.

"Those noo?" A glance with his eye gestured that he was asking about the two rings she wore. The woman adjusted her seat and smoothed the robes covering her legs flat.

"Nae." She slipped easily into a mimic of the most common dwarven dialect. Her voice though quiet was smooth and soothing to the ears. "T'ousan Needles. Feralas."

Her meaning was not lost on him as those two names recalled certain specific events. His expression turned sour at their recollection. "T'was a challenge, that." The pair exchanged agreeing nods. Each gazed at the other for a short moment. Age old wisdom exchanging silent tales of hardships and woes.

She broke the silence, dropping her mimic of the dwarven tongue. "One been found?"

"Aye." The last of the bread and cheese disappeared into the fuzzy gray void.

"Is it the same, the one in Elwynn?"

"It is apparent." Thick hands lifted the tankard. Finding it still full nearly to the brim he grunted a thanks before taking another long draw. "Impressive new trick."

The woman smirked again, appearing rather satisfied at the compliment. "I thought you'd lost track."

"Ah' did." He took another swig before setting down the full tankard. The woman shifted in her seat again, reclining slightly and appearing more comfortable.

"New eyes?" The old dwarf nodded, holding his pipe in one hand while searching for a match with the other. The woman cleared her throat to get his attention. With another gesture from her the contents of his pipe began to glow.

The old dwarf grunted his thanks and drew on it lightly. "A few." Wispy tendrils of white smoke drifted from the corners of his thick mustache. "Shea," he punctuated, "et a gnome." The woman remained silent, stoically deciphering unspoken instructions.

"A warlock. A novice. Apprentice, more than likely." Silence filled the area between drags. White wisps hanging in the stillness. "Powerful. Talented. Shea need tae be intersected an' redirected."

"You said she's a novice. Just how far along is she?"

The old dwarf grunted, his expression turned grim. "Farr enouf."

The woman leaned her thoughtful chin on her open palm. "She'd be a great asset, if brought in."

Grunt. "Shea en Darkshire, fixin' tae de somethin' regretable. Send Talent to stop her."

"The medusa. Makes sense. She excels at handling warlocks."

"Make et crystal. Stop, not end."

"Handle with care." the woman nodded, sitting straight and regal on the edge of her seat. "Whose contact?"

"Afterr shea's stopped, a short time later, ye make contact. Daene be gentle either. This one is too close. Et wona be much longer till ets too late fer her."

The old dwarf drew deeply on his pipe. He sent out a large plum of fragrant white smoke. A disturbance at the other side of the table moved the cloud of smoke, pulling it toward where the woman had been seated. Ol' one-eye glance across the table to find the seat empty. Silently and mysteriously as she arrived, she was gone.

Taking another draw from his pipe he marveled allowed. "Am I the only one tae use a door nowadays?"

Mages. He scoffed to himself, secretly amused by his friends' simple exploits.