"...so lemme get this straight, you're tellin' me that you SHOT a guy for asking if you were a night elf?" The one-eyed goblin bartender asked incredulously, to which the surrounding patrons responded with a mixture of uproarious laughter and drunken praise. Sat squarely at the bar in the center of the intoxicated group of orcs and trolls, the blood elf grinned and shifted his cloak to fit more evenly across his shoulders. Golden hair spilled across his shoulders like sunlight, with the majority tied back in a neat ponytail that reached the elf's mid-back.
"No, I shot him because he called me a 'worthless, moon-worshipping pink-skin'. Well, that, and he tried to punch me." He responded, leading the bar to erupt in another round of laughter. One particularly inebriated orc slurred something in agreement with the elf's actions, gave a hiccup, and promptly fell face-first into his own mug. The goblin behind the bar grimaced and yanked the mug out from under the orc's face, allowing him to fall limply backward and onto the floor. His stool was quickly filled by a red-headed troll.
"Well you gotta let us see the gun," the goblin chuckled, narrowly avoiding the troll's stein as it swung through the air in concurrence.
"Fine, Jex. But just for you..." The elf replied with a wry smile, reaching inside his cloak to draw out a remarkably crafted flintlock pistol. The drunken crowd gave an audible noise of awe as the elf twirled the firearm expertly around his finger. "Designed by the finest smiths in Ironforge, and enchanted by the mages of the Kirin Tor," he stated evenly, his grin growing wider. "And stolen by yours truly." He held up the gun for the goblin to examine. The barrel was narrow and not too long, allowing for easy concealment beneath the elf's cloak. The stock, made of dark wood, was as perfectly shined as the day it was created, a testament to the enchantment upon it.
"Is it true that you never have to reload it?" Jex asked, admiration evident in his voice. He handed the gun back to the smiling elf, who tucked it back into his cloak to the disappointment of the assembled patrons.
"It is. All I have to do is cock the hammer, and it's ready." An orc in the crowd giggled at his choice of words, but was quickly silenced by his friend, who elbowed him in the ribs.
"How the hell did you get something like that, Arelas?" Jex questioned with his eyebrow raised, filling another mug and sliding it across the bar to a waiting troll. "That thing has to be worth a fortune!"
"Several thousand, at least," the elf replied, and the bar seemed to go silent. "It's the perfect marriage of magic and technology," he continued, either oblivious to the many sets of eyes locked upon him, or entirely unconcerned. "And it's perfect for me. Before I got my hands on this, all I had were my daggers, and my poison. And my wit and charm, of course."
He laughed lightly, and it seemed to echo around the silent room.
"Careful, rogue," the goblin bartender murmured, his brow furrowed beneath his eyepatch. "Can't go around Orgrimmar talkin' about your valuables all loudly..." As if on cue, a heavy, green hand fell onto the elf's shoulder.
In Arelas's line of work, he had learned the many ways one could communicate through bodily contact. He had fulfilled as many contracts through flirtatious charm than he had through violence, and he had learned how to recognize a threatening gesture when one was presented. He also knew how to respond.
As the drunken orc's powerful fist swung through the air, Arelas deftly ducked out of the way, drawing his pistol and firing a shot directly into his assailant's face with a ear-splitting bang. The orc crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, and the blonde rogue was quick to roll over the bar and onto the floor as chaos erupted around him. Jex ran to and fro across the wooden platform behind the bar that served as a remedy to his short stature, sweeping mugs and steins to safety while trying to restore order as best he could. Trolls and orcs fell upon each other in a fully-fledged drunken bar brawl, the original cause of the fight forgotten entirely.
Hidden behind the bar and grinning mischievously to himself, the blonde-haired elf safely stowed his pistol beneath his cloak and slipped into the shadows. He drew his hood and kept his back to the wall as he slowly made his way around the chaos, dodging flying teeth and specks of blood. He looked back one more time as he reached the door, watching as Jex desperately tried to stop the fighting before his bar was destroyed. Feeling a pang of guilt, Arelas resolved to drop the goblin a few extra silvers and an apologetic smile the next time he visited the establishment.
The problem with Orgrimmar, Arelas told himself after only a few minutes walking through the Valley of Strength, is that it isn't just hot. It's oppressively hot.
He had been forced to leave the bar while the sun was at its highest point in the sky, and little shade was to be found along the stone paths leading through the city. Merchants, normally hawking their merchandise to create a bustling marketplace atmosphere, now hung back to bask in the small amounts of shade cast by their stalls. Even the hulking orcish guards outside Vol'jin's Hold were feeling the heat; their stances, normally completely rigid, had given way to a light slouch as they stood miserably in their sweltering armor.
Dressed in dark leather with his hood drawn, Arelas was able to avoid the glances of passersby - not that it would have mattered, everyone was far too concerned with escaping the terrible heat. In the distance, the horn that marked the passing of time echoed twelve times throughout the city, marking midday.
The elf had noticed a distinct drop-off in business lately. With the death of Garrosh Hellscream and the victory in Draenor, things across the world had settled into an uneasy sort of peace - and while he enjoyed the reprieve from the constant commotion that tended to fill the streets of the Horde's capital, a lack of conflict meant a lack of business. An assassin and thief would need a very loose code of ethics to operate in peacetime, and the elf still had his principles. But he also had expenses.
He scowled, wondering if he would have to return to Silvermoon and sell himself in a brothel.
"Silence, swine!" came a guttural bark near the Cleft of Shadow, and Arelas's head turned quickly toward the source of the commotion. Two armored guards were pulling a struggling orc down the pathway, one restraining his arms while the other dragged him along by the front of his plain, black robes. A third guard followed, gingerly carrying a scythe, no different than an ordinary farmer's tool, as if it would rear up and behead him.
"Let go of me! I haven't done anything!" The robed orc protested, his amber eyes displaying fear and panic. He attempted, again, to break free of his captors, but the guards were far too strong.
"Wolf-shit," the lead guard spat. "You're under arrest for communing with the Legion." He stopped pulling the orc for a moment in order to deliver a solid punch to his gut, knocking the wind out of him.
"I haven't..." The robed orc wheezed, going limp in his captors' arms. He was gruffly yanked along, unable to catch his breath or mount resistance as the three orcs led him into the Hold.
Arelas watched these events from beneath his hood, silently memorizing the voices of the lead orc, as well as the face of the one they had imprisoned. He was no stranger to Orgrimmar law, and it had changed many times under the eyes of the different Warchiefs. Vol'jin had supposedly ended the persecution of warlocks who dutifully served the Horde, and yet...this seemed quite odd. The guards rarely resorted to physical violence unless apprehending a very powerful foe, and the orc had clearly been restrained.
It didn't sit well with the elf, and like any good thief, he had to investigate for himself.
Not like he had anything better to do, anyway.