#dalheim

"Whats with all the spikes...?” 

Dalheim glanced up toward the tower as they passed beneath. “Mmh.. Orcs like their spikes.” He turned bright fel eyes on the blond beside him, a hint of amusement in his tone. “It’s tradition.”

Lyrenn’s nose wrinkled but he was quick to turn his attention once they’d left the gate behind. Hard packed red earth stared back at him, ruts and lines from the many wagons and carts as well as foot traffic that came and went through the city daily.  The landscape was sparse and curious but the real reason they’d travelled this far was Brewfest. Some kind of alcoholic festival, with drinks from all over Azeroth. It was more about the experience for the blond- traveling, seeing and meeting other races, visiting the horde capitol. 

...Practicing his Orcish.

                                                                    ***

Lyrenn had spied the Nightborne vendor first, perhaps due to all the purple. She stuck out like a sore thumb among the rowdiness but didn’t seem especially bothered by it. “Oh look, wine.”

The pathfinder laid both hands on his shoulders, steering the druid away and toward another booth. “Beer before wine you’ll be fine, Wine before beer and.. well.. you won’t like it,” he mumbled. 

An orc at the booth they did approach glanced from Dalheim down to Lyrenn and back somewhat incredulously. “Looks like a milk drinker..” 

Lyrenn wasn’t sure whether to be incensed or not, and turned quick eyes on the former ranger. Dalheim didn’t look like he was paying attention, or if he was, he was pretending not to be. He was already conversing with the Highmountain tauren at the booth, who also gave the blond a brief glance before turning to pour their drinks. 

“What’d you say to him?”

“That we were starting light.” Full seriousness. Lyrenn had a feeling that ‘we’ was being generous. 

“Butterhoof milk stout.” The tauren sat out absolutely massive mugs still dwarfed by his huge hands. 

The orc beside them snorted. “Knew it.”

Lyrenn picked up his drink with both hands, turning to look at the leaning green fellow and lifted his nose skyward. “Well you have to start somewhere.”

“True true.. You know,” Now the orc leaned in conspiratorially a great big toothy grin on his face, “If you drink enough, you can see the wolpertinger.”

He could hear Dalheim sigh behind him but if he’d been about to say anything Lyrenn cut him off. “Whats a wolpertinger?”

“Whats a wolpertingr??” The orc did a marvelous job at looking shocked. “Well.. er.. it’s magic.” 

“Drunken magic.” Dalheim sounded ..dubious.

“Real magic.” There was an insistence there and he eyed the pathfinder before looking back at Lyrenn. “It looks a little different to people but it’s.. um..” He gestured with his hands. “Size of a bread box. Horns, wings.”

“Hmm...” Lyrenn glanced over at Dalheim, raising his mug to his lips.

                                                                               ***

“I don’t think thish is working...” 

“Thats because he lied to you and there is no such thing. I tried to tell you..” 

“But what if there is?”  The blond looked wildly passionate about the idea. It was almost amusing, if one didn’t consider they’d have to be hauling him home that way too.  “I could catch it.” 

“All you’re going to catch is a hangover.”

“Hey I’m just tipshy. I’m al--” he paused, reaching for the edge of the table to keep the world from spinning again. “--OH!”  The gasp was enough to have Dalheim halfway out of his chair in concern before he realized there was nothing there. Brows furrowing he eyed the druid.  “I shee it!” Lyrenn was already off his stool, halfway around the table, and pushing off from his anchor to the earth in hot pursuit of his goal. “It’s like a rabbit.. with antlers, shee it Dalheim?” He glanced back at the other elf who was hovering a few feet away before gesturing with his hand. “Of course you can’t, you havent drank enough.”

He tottered like a child across the brewfest grounds, one poor pathfinder lagging behind with a look of bewildered concern. Someone bumped into him and by the time he could relocate Lyrenn the lithe elf was already crawling under a line of wagons after his prize. Dalheim gave chase, dropping to his knees and swiping at the druid’s foot. He missed. “Lyrenn!” he hissed, before standing to find a way around.

The thick waxed envelope arrived without explanation of the contents. Contained within was an assortment of several dozen pieces of parchment penned in a variety of script. The pages showed feathering at the edges, creases where once they had been folded, or perhaps the translucent stains of wax seals that had been broken and scraped away.

They were scouting reports. Some spoke of the exploration and census of nearby settlements, of occupants unaccounted for and their breezy interiors coated in a thick blanket of snow. An account of discovering a tunnel entrance blocked by snow within a family of Lynxes who, lacking instinct for the sudden onset of winter, starved to death in their own burrow.

Others spoke of the state of the land itself the Alliance’s winter. An orchard, the floor below carpeted in withered blossoms that would fail to bear crops, the boughs so heavy with frozen foliage that they touched the ground, the most massive of limbs outright torn off.

There were reports of missing persons, those unaccounted for as the Alliance warpath marched across the land, small notes, simply names and descriptions, only enough information that would be helpful in returning a corpse to those that loved them in life.

At the bottom of the stack, reports were more recent, the accounts of the Alliance cultists, how their void tainted monstrosities had turned on the Quel’dorei  and slaughtered them on the field. The horrendous creatures the Alliance summoned into Quel’Thalas tainting the land with void, their own forces as well as the Sindorei that had been tricked with promises of amnesty, simply fodder for the summoned abominations.

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