The Life and Times of a Goblin Inventor

Event on Tuesday. Music and Art for reference.

Good luck.

The small green-skinned humanoid checks the obviously Titan-influenced rifle in his hands for a moment before nodding to himself, floppy ears and well-maintained topknot bouncing a bit with the reassuring gesture.

“Alright, I think I understand it then,” Jax starts to himself as he makes his way up the stairs. The goblin pauses at the top of the stairs, leveling his aim for the Titan Databank which comes rocketing out of the front of the Shaper’s Terrace. The floating storage and interface device flickers from the neutral golden glow of a passive piece of technology to the brilliant warning lights of flashing red. A bright burst of golden light from the goblin’s own weapon cuts the glow from the many-faceted floating machine, leaving a fist-sized smoking hole going straight through the Databank and a small indentation in the wall deep inside of the Terrace.

“Those two Icons, Aman’Thul and Khaz’goroth, are two of a series. There’s an Icon corresponding to each of the Titans; Aman’Thul, Eonar, Norgannon, Khazgoroth, Aggramar, Golganneth, and Sargeras.” The goblin doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone or anything beyond himself as he moves into the Terrace, slinging his energy rifle onto his back and tightening the leather strap as he starts checking panels that would have looked completely unremarkable to a layman.

“I got the two tech ones; Khaz’goroth is the smith of the Titans, so it makes sense I got a big databurst of info on the workin’s of tech and stuff from his. Combined with the download from the Mimisbrunnr in Ulduar, and I’m finally sortin’ through the commands from the other one.”

Jax grunts for a moment as he grabs a hold of something inside one of the panels, pulling at a control crystal before switching it with three other flat, slate-looking burnt-out crystals in an obviously specific sequence.

“Aman’Thul runs shit, right? So I’ve got a bunch of the commands ‘an protocols for the installations ‘an the Titan Keepers. Kicker is, I can tell by the instructions that the Titan-forged, I.E. my dumb imitation-goblin ass, ain’t supposed to get uploaded with this stuff. It’s like big hero stuff. Loken’s got corrupt, Thorim’s got screwed with, and only dudes like Tyr, Archaedas and Ironaya got out of the facility before shit went cray-cray. I got a copy of it ‘cause the Icons weren’t connected to the facility. Fuckin’ A, right?”

The question isn’t answered, not by the machinery in the Terrace nor any of the little golden, mechanical beetles which begin to move out from cracks and crevasses. They work with a mind of their own, moving around the goblin as he replaces components and works to reroute Titans-know-what.

“Which kinda makes sense. Not the connection, that’s obvious. It’s the command-code stuff that this crap downloaded into me. It’s like one of the earthen gettin’ instructions to build a kingdom. Or the mechagnomes figurin’ it’s time to go explore the world instead of sittin’ at home fixin’ stuff. Or shit that happened with Lei Shen. I take it back, it ain’t that bad as the last one.”

The goblin slides out from behind a panel and starts scrambling around to find a specific part of the interior of the Shaper’s Terrace, checking a number of empty plates before spotting the correct one with a quiet ‘Ah-ha!’

“So I got two of’em, and that’s all I need. I don’t wanna know the Murder Disorder protocol from Sargeras, I don’t care about magic from Norgannon’s, I don’t get that shit anyway. Eonar’s a healer, so that ain’t gonna happen. Aggramar’s Icon is basically a servant-issue one, so fuck it. Golganneth’s would be funky, but whatever I ain’t greedy.”

This causes the goblin to pause for a moment, hands full of exposed wires shining brilliant colors of the rainbow from their bent and severed ends.

“Man, I gotta get used to that. Anyway. So yeah, I got downloaded the stuff they left behind to help reprogram anybody that got corrupt. And now I’ve got this friggin’ drive to go fix a couple of these installations and keep an eye on stuff while I’m out doin’ my thing. ‘What’s that’ you ask, voice in my metal skull?”

The goblin grunts as he pulls at a bundle of wires, severing them and tossing them behind him as they pour with purple goo and writhing tendrils. He quickly slings his rifle from his back to his side and fires off a burst of energy into the panel, causing something inside to sizzle as it cooks and dies.

“Well it’s simple. Tyr worked with the proto-dragons back in the day to make sure shit went right, right? So that’s what I’m here doin’. We’re all programmed to follow the will of the Titans, all of us Titan-forged. I just got the miserable distinction of bein’ constructed and finished by a goblin. Don’t make me any less a goddamned hero than the rest of’em.”

The goblin stops and slides out from the panel he had been working on at this, slipping down the wall and landing on his feet with a thunk as he looks out into Un’Goro Crater.

“Shit. I remember the kid tellin’ me about the whole urge to do good and be better. Said it was like this spark or smolderin’ fire in himself that he never could ignore. Tryin’ to stoke it was what he was doin’ when he helped people. Guess if anybody could figure out how to turn that into a mathematical equation ‘an upload it into somethin’, it’d be the Titans. Masters of the universe ‘an all, right? So maybe that’s what I’ve got inside of me. The same spark Tyr had goin’.”

A quick look around the Terrace is afforded before Jax nods to himself and makes his way back out, delivering a firm and very unforgiving kick to the Databank he had shot out of the air on his arrival. The round device flies through the air before landing at the base of the stairs leading up into the Terrace proper, with the goblin skipping two and three steps at a time in his haste to get to the bottom. He slaps a small device onto the side of the ruined mechanical device before pulling out a hand remote and tapping it. The same brilliant blue light which had shown on his arrival comes again, enveloping both the goblin and his slain prize before the both of them simply melt away into the air.

A beautiful, sparkling blue light shines out from nowhere, forming a simple mote of floating energy about three feet in the air. It flickers, shimmers, and without warning expands into the shape of a goblin. Jax looks around for a moment before nodding to himself reassuringly.

The interior of the Draught has the sort of ambience that would go best in the old underground opium dens of the early 1900's, with a touch of war-weary bohemian. A quiet door with unassuming security guarding an entryway faces the south-west, along some old pathway that turned into an alleyway from the building up of Quel'Danas once the Sunwell was reignited. The doorway was clearly built to be defended in times of conflict, with the braced entryway veering left immediately down a hallway the length of the south-western wall before making a full U-turn and emptying out in the middle of the common floor. All along the hallway lay deep red and light tan rugs, their designs a baroque of mirrored circular patterns and twig-to-bud designs. The very 'kashmir' design, something inherited from the kaldorei originally, shows up in almost every piece of cloth and fabric in the Draught. First thing anyone new to the establishment sees is the decor. The walls are impossible to see through all the fabric; hanging curtains, multiple layers of sheer material, and more than a few tapestries line the cold grey stone walls. The sound of scattered conversation muffles greatly because of them, making for an intimate setting far removed from the typical style of the blood elves. Low-legged tables with comfortable upholstered benches are scattered about, the benches themselves covered in all manner of throw-pillows and blankets and fabric. Each table had a personality to it, seemingly random collections of books and candles and plants and worthless knickknacks strewn about each. One had an ashtray, another an old hookah that wasn't always in working order. One table had an ancient chess board carved into it, and another still with a flattened dugout containing dice from across the globe. Along the north-western wall the bohemian wall-coverings give way to more private booths, lined with thicker materials to block out further interruption and prying eyes from curious patrons or bored eavesdroppers. Each cordoned-off booth has much the same quiet charm as the rest of the public tables, with short table-legs meant to keep patrons low to the ground and a mount of pillows and blankets for seating. The Draught sports a proper bar, but rarely does it find any use. Three stools of varied design tend to stay stacked up beside the beautiful, rich mahogany wood bar at any time, leaving the front open to coming-and-going patron traffic. A brass footrail is bolted into the bottom of the bar for waiting customers, with a simple curved edge to the patron-side of the bar and a sheer flat drop on the tenders side. Wines and far more matured alcoholic beverages line the shelves behind the bar, ranging from dark rums and heavy bourbons to dry-and-sweet bottles of wine and bottles of Dalaran brandy. Almond, hazelnut, cinnamon, coffee, and other assorted liqueurs finish off the shelving, with a seemingly endless stream of fruits to go with it all coming out of the back-room. It could someday serve as a kitchen, but storage seems to be the main purpose of the Draught's rarely-seen back-room. Everything about the bar's equipment is ancient and rustic, from common beaten metal to an assortment of fine glass mix-ware. Shakers, graters, tongs, jiggers, thick long-handled spoons and lever-pulled juicers; everything has a place and a history behind it just by the look of it. This includes the owner and bartender. Ten'rathe Summerdown must have been a magister at some point in his life judging by his deft hands and practiced eye for the magic newcomers let slip in his presence. Whatever led him to the life of a proprietor and bartender is clearly untouched history, as the man smiles and enthusiastically gestures for patrons to sit and relax without any of the haughty air of the typical sin'dorei spellcaster. He wears a simple brown leather jerkin with sleeves cut off at the shoulders and a loose tan shirt beneath it with sleeves cut off at the biceps; his lower-half sporting simple loose leather trousers and supple-soled boots. His hair is a plain brown, darkened from the time spent in the Draught's atmosphere. His heritage sets him apart from other elves, with the mingling of human blood in his line giving him a stronger jaw and more solid cheekbones than most sin'dorei can manage.

This is where Jax ended up most nights. And mornings. And any time he found himself on Quel’Danas while looking for somewhere to be that wasn’t hip-deep in his work. He passed the elf at the door with a quick, hurried wave on his way in. It was too early to fraternize - too much effort to stand outside and talk while the sun came up. The goblin navigated the hallway-entryway with a much slower and more relaxed feeling now, getting out of the early haze that would lead to another painful day of functioning like a normal person. In the two-dozen steps it took him to go from doorway to bar the goblin become a different person, a new man. From dragging his feet to stepping with some measure of purpose, from forcing himself forward to taking a breath and letting himself move with the moment instead of through it to the next.

It was this place. This “bar” as Ten called it. Cushy and relatable, soft and enjoyable. Jax strolled up to the bar and ordered the only thing he knew how to drink this early in the morning; Bloody Mary didn’t translate well in Thalassian, but the concept was rooted in something human. With the help of the first person Jax ever saw sitting at the bar in the Draught he got his order in.

Might as well thank the guy. Don’t run into folks that speak too many languages before the sun comes up.

“‘ey-yo, thanks for the save pal,” Jax starts off to the man at the bar, dropping into the common human tongue for his sake. “I’m Jax.”