Without Equal: The Little People
Written by Valdiis.
“It's a shame,” Corporal Vickers murmured under his breath to the man standing to his left, “that we only get rain when someone dies.”
“We get rain at other times,” Lieutenant Graeme responded, not taking his gaze off the somber priest in sodden golden robes as the priest beseeched the Light to embrace the immortal soul of Trainee Anton Sinder.
“I swear, it only rains when we have a funeral.”
“At least it's not a double.”
Corporal Vickers shifted uncomfortably in his squishing boots. “Still haven't found Crased yet?”
Lieutenant Graeme grunted a negative response.
“Gnolls are probably using her bones for building blocks.”
“Shut up and pay your respects, Vickers.”
-
The entire mood of Hearthglen was somber – when it wasn't in an uproar over the recent attack by some darkened shadow entity. One of the special operations units, the Brotherhood of the Dawn, had turned it back but there had been heavy losses. A rumor was out that their leader was dead, on his death bed, still commanding as a ghost, and a fourth rumor that he'd had a twin brother who died in his stead and he was fine. Wounded filled the infirmaries, and dead awaited tending in the morgue. Tents were set up all over the grounds near Mardenholde, housing displaced and less-severely wounded.
The disappearance of Trainee Crased and the gruesome death of Trainee Sinder was written up as a prelude to the incursion by the shadow. Entire squads had disappeared because of the shadow. The Brotherhood cleaned it up; the case was pretty well open and shut. -
“...And stay out!” A six-day-stale loaf of bread came spilling out of the inn door along with the warm orange light from the lanterns. With unerring aim, it hit the worgen right on top of his head, but through some miracle of leathern construction, the loaf never mussed the floppy hat.
“Bloody crazy,” the worgen muttered as he kicked aside the fallen loaf and ambled out into the night. His coin purse was about forty gold lighter for the experience, but the extra coin seemed to do the trick. Goody Groves – the keeper of the inn at Hearthglen – had agreed for that extra sum to keep her bloody mouth shut about the business with the armoire several weeks back and stop blaming the Knights for a mess they not only didn't make, but they actually came in and cleaned up for her.
Perhaps now he could focus on important matters – like how he was going to fix the mess Brenson had made with that thief who was supposed to bring the Knights intelligence, or how he was going to get access to the armoire in cold storage without six different requisition orders signed in triplicate for that git of a new 'General.' Better yet, maybe a few unsavory potions and mixes could end up in Yulenia's hands.
Plotting, the Major ambled off into the summer night.
- “'Ey, Schmidt!” A mass of steel and blue paint covered by a blue and gold lion tabard clattered into a wooden chair across from Norm as he sat at his usual table near the door of the Pig and Whistle, waiting for a good, solid drunk to appear. If he could have just gotten one more whiskey down before chubby Jaxon had to get chatty...
Norm lifted a steel-covered arm in greeting and plastered his best 'Really, I like you' smile on his face. “Jaxon! Off duty already?”
“Don't tell Commander Higgs, but I scarpered.”
Norm – or 'John Jacob Engelheimer Schmidt' as his guard badge stated – leaned back in the wooden chair and watched Jaxon blandly until the chubby man cracked and began explaining.
“So, see, King's men out in Elwynn on patrol last night brought another one to the morgue.”
“Happens all the time,” Norm dismissed with an airy wave of his hand and a heavy draw on his whiskey glass.
“Not like this it don't,” Jaxon grumbled, pausing to wave a barmaid over for a drink. “I'm off duty, Jessica,” he assured her, pulling his Stormwind Guard tabard off over his head.
“No you ain't,” Norm hissed so she wouldn't hear.
Jaxon shook his head. “After what I just seen, I am now. That just ain't right, doin' that to a body. They had to bring it in with several sacks. That ol' butcher Kemp doesn't even know what type of person it is yet, only that it's red-blooded and 'probably' human.”
“An' bein' so stout of stomach you are, you scarped off post at the morgue for a drink,” Norm drawled.
“You'd do the same. Kemp's gone all mad scientist tryin' to put all the pieces back together. I couldn't watch it anymore.”
“Chicken.”
“It ain't right, Schmidt! King's men kept talkin' about the scene too. Said it smelled like burnt ass – like somebody lit fire to some of the bits.”
“Maybe one o' them freaks down in the 'shire got hungry. Had a barbecue.”
“SCHMIDT!” Jaxon turned pea soup green and knocked his chair over in his haste to run outside and fertilize the bushes in front of the Pig's door.
Satisfied to have regained his drinking space, Norm slumped back in his seat and finished his whiskey.
