A/N: I don't own Warcraft, etc. etc., but Dorden is my own creation. Aelthor belongs to Alexis Kent. Many thanks to her for helping me with his dialogue!
The Wayfarer's Rest Inn was rather well-known in its area. It wasn't because of its shiny floors, kept perfect and gleaming by a herd of magically-animated brooms, or because of the excellent cooking that could be smelled as far away as the entrance of the city. The Wayfarer's fame came from the fact that at any given moment it would be stuffed to the rafters with every sort of riff-raff and ne'er-do-well imaginable.
With one exception, that is.
"...And then I said to her, 'The last time I was here, my hat fell into the water!' And so I leaned over to point, and—would you believe it?--off fell my hat."
Dorden Lighthugger opened his eyes after wiping them, only to find himself talking to thin air. Looking this way and that, he realized that he was the only person in the entire inn. Even the bartender was mysteriously absent. "Maybe I should tell a story that isn't so sad, next time," Dorden commented to a broom that was trying to sweep under his chair. "Hm...I'm sure they would have loved to hear how I managed to come to the Bringdawn's ball without an invitation—that's an exciting story! Or what about the time I saved that maiden from the rude guard and she turned into a monster? No, no, I didn't like the ending of that one..."
This paladin would not clear away the ruffians with battle or harsh words. He did not even need to break into a noble speech about the error of their ways. No, Dorden Lighthugger's very presence could make even the grubbiest thug shuffle away to find a more peaceful spot.
Dorden sighed, taking a long sip of thistle ale (with extra bubbles, his personal favorite), but almost splurted it across the room when a voice spoke at his elbow. "Those sound simply fascinating! Do tell." After cleaning the bubbles off his chin, Dorden turned to look at the speaker. An elf stood grinning at him, clad in a black suit and tie with a long, brown ponytail hanging over one shoulder.
"They are fascinating indeed, good sir," answered Dorden with a modest smile, "but it would be rude of me to continue without asking your name."
"Aelthor Silverwing, at your service," said the elf with a flourishing bow, then gasped, "This is such a crazy random happenstance! It just so happens that I am looking for top-notch stories of EPIC proportions to be published!"
Dorden nearly dropped his glass of thistle ale. "You don't say--" The myriad possibilities rushing through his mind made him dizzy. "Published!" he repeated. He spun the chair around to face Mr. Silverwing. "You've come to the right person, friend. I happen to have reams of fascinating tales to offer. Let's talk business."
"There are some fees and expenses you'll have to cover, but the riches you'll get from royalties will absolutely DROWN them." Aelthor gestured wildly as he spoke. "Just a few itty bitty agent fees, publishing start-up costs, a touch of travel expenses, ink taxes, research and development costs, publicity campaigns...all up front, of course. And there might be a few charges relating to..."
He continued on, but Dorden was barely listening. Images of himself being paraded down Silvermoon's shining streets filled his mind. "Dorden, Dorden!" the crowds were screaming as they flocked to look at him. He would blush modestly, of course, which would make his perky red hat and glossy auburn hair look all the more dashing. Maybe he'd buy that cunning violet shirt he'd had his eye on—wait, was someone talking?
"But really," Mr. Silverwing was saying, giving a boisterous laugh as he slapped Dorden's shoulder, "compared to what you'll be making, it's just a drop in the bucket! Once that's all sorted out -- it won't take long at all!--then all you have to do is sit back and wait for the money to come pouring in! You should be getting a letter with your first royalties within a day!"
Two weeks later found Dorden pacing by the mailbox. The beloved red hat was in place upon his carefully-styled hair, and he was even wearing a brand new shirt of embroidered violet. But there were no crowds, no screaming, no one begging for an autograph, a lock of his hair, or his hand in marriage.
The letter never came.
...At least he had a new shirt!