For the record, I own nothing. Please excuse my attempts at a dwarvish accent. On with the show!
The howling winds staggered the lone figure trudging through the knee-deep snows of Dun Morogh. Chills ran through him despite the heavy furs that he had layered himself in, despite the thick beard that all but covered his torso. A steady stream of curses flowed past chattering teeth, almost immediately whisked away like any of the heavy snowflakes that sped past on their journey to the ground.
"Durned snow," the dwarf, Jarvo Ironspear, grumbled. "Couldn't wait until after I picked me flowers." One gloved hand unconsciously made its way under his cloak, feeling the bulge of the pouch hanging from his belt, reassuring him that he wasn't freezing without purpose. The other hand hung by his side, ready to draw the war hammer strapped to his waist should he meet any of the region's less-than-friendly denizens.
Jarvo paused occasionally to get his bearings, not an easy feat in the driving snows and what little of the fading daylight managed to filter through the clouds. But he'd been roaming these mountains for a century, and it would take a lot more than a storm and a little darkness to disorient him. Soon he was climbing the road to the Gates of Ironforge.
The guards posted outside the giant iron doors wagged their heads and muttered among themselves as he shook himself off. He brushed his beard free of any lingering snowflakes and tossed a wave in their direction, along with a mocking smile. The head-shaking intensified but Jarvo was already past.
He paused at the first fire he came across and extended his hands over the blazing brazier. Warmth rolled up his arms, returning tingling life to his extremities. The flames flickered and danced, which only added to the perpetual orange glow that lit the city courtesy of its enormous, always-burning forge.
"Look boys! The bearded elf's back from his gardenin' trip!" sounded a familiar, but unwelcome, voice behind him, soon joined by a chorus of laughs.
Jarvo turned slowly, forcing himself to remain calm. The Light only knew he'd heard all the insults this group could come up with a thousand times before. "Shut yer mouth, Aradun," he said dismissively as he strode by without a second glance. Still, the laughter rang all too loudly in his ears.
Jarvo wandered through the Commons, his mind drifting to nothing as he skirted the hustle and bustle of one of the Alliance's busiest cities. Dwarves, humans, gnomes, and even a few night elves and draenei wove in and out of the crowds, some on foot, some riding exotic mounts from across Azeroth and beyond.
The constant din of voices droned even over the ever-present noise of the Great Forge, blanketing Jarvo's senses in a numbing embrace. Without him realizing it, his feet led him into the city center, along the familiar path to the inscription shop. He parked himself on the stairs and stared out at the commotion.
For a long while Jarvo watched, until a slender form sat on his step and a feminine throat was cleared. Jarvo snapped out of his daze and looked over to see that he'd been joined by one of the shop's inhabitants, young Tilli Thistlefuzz. The gnome rested her chin on her arms, folded across the top of her bent knees. Purple bangs fell in front of large eyes, eyes that stared at him without blinking.
"Er," Jarvo started after a moment of uncomfortable, at least for him, silence. "Can I help ye, lass?"
"You're on my step again. Can I help you?"
Jarvo jerked a thumb towards the mass of people passing by, gryphons cawing as they flew by overhead, the thick streams of molten ore flowing from the high ceilings to run the forge. "I was just watchin'. It'd make a pretty picture."
Tilli looked away at his gesture and Jarvo felt a wave of unexplainable awkwardness wash over him. "It would, wouldn't it?" she agreed almost wistfully before fixing him again with her stare.
"I paint," Jarvo offered without prompting, to his surprise. Even more to his surprise, the expected snickers never came. To his relief, the gnome smiled in acceptance of his admittedly odd (for a dwarf) hobby without batting an eye.
"I figured. You're here a lot, talking to Elise. I assumed you had to use all that ink for something, right?"
"Aye, I go through a fair bit, don't I?"
"Can I see?"
Jarvo barked a laugh. "I'm not too good, lass. Hard to teach an old dwarf new tricks, they say. Might be better off just lookin' out from yer step."
Tilli shrugged as if it didn't matter. "How long have you been painting?"
"Since Northrend. Been to Ulduar, been to Icecrown. Did some fightin', did some diggin'. Tired o' both. But I'm a dwarf. If it ain't fightin' it's diggin', and if it ain't diggin' it's nothin'." Jarvo sighed. "Wanted somethin' new."
Tilli nodded sympathetically. "The finer arts do seem outside the norm for a dwarf, don't they? You are an unusual one…" she trailed off.
"Jarvo."
"Tilli," she answered. Her tiny hand jutted out to hang in the air between them.
Jarvo clasped it in his own leather-clad giant. "Pleased to make yer acquaintance." She beamed at him in return, and Jarvo felt his mood brighten just a bit.
In Jarvo's practiced hands the mortar and pestle made short work of the peacebloom, not that there had been much to be found that day. The earth root, tougher by far than the fragile flower, took much longer. By the time Jarvo finished draining his new inks into the crystal vials set aside for the task his stomach rumbled almost constantly.
He left his room, scooping up his hammer as he went and made his way to the Commons. He ducked inside the inn, nodding to Innkeeper Firebrew as he passed by the bar and took a seat at an empty table.
Not long afterwards one of the barmaids swung by the table and deposited his usual, a leg of mutton and a foaming flagon of his favorite mead, before spinning away with a wink. Not two bites into the mutton, however, the peaceful meal was disrupted.
"'Ere now," slurred the seemingly ever-present irritant, Aradun. "It's the Ar-the Artist."
Jarvo tried to ignore him and the trio of just as drunk dwarves slumped over the corner table. He succeeded at first, but the drunkards grew bolder at his lack of response.
"Paint us a pretty picture, Ar-teest!"
Jarvo's fist tightened on the grip of his flagon. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Firebrew tense as well, watching him closely. He couldn't blame the innkeeper, not after the last brawl. The inn had been closed for days after that one, Jarvo reminisced, the corners of his lips curling. But as much fun as it had been, he knew he owed Firebrew. No brawling tonight.
He set down his drink and wiped the foam from his lips with a sleeve. The aroma of his dinner, the usual tender meat that he never seemed to tire of, wafted up from his plate and demanded his attention, a demand he eagerly complied with.
But before he could bite into the succulent meal a missile from his hecklers smacked off the table and ricocheted, catching his mug and sending it crashing to the floor. The mutton slipped from limp fingers as drunken howls rang in Jarvo's ears.
He locked stares with Firebrew and shrugged as the innkeeper slumped in resignation, nodding. Jarvo was glad he understood. There were some things a dwarf just couldn't let go, and spilling his drink was very high up the list. With an indecipherable yell he bolted from his chair and dived over the table separating him from the quartet of offenders, already swinging as he went.
Days later, Jarvo's bruised and stiff fingers fumbled across the page, tracing the foreign script of the human alphabet. Despite his best efforts during his time in Dalaran to show her the beauty of the dwarves' simple, guttural tongue, Marcia had shown no aptitude or enthusiasm for it. So the pair corresponded in her own native language and Jarvo exercised his passing, though hardly fluent grasp of Human.
Marcia, he wrote. How're ye doin', lass? Sorry it's been so long. Messed up me hands in a fight and the priests wouldn't heal me. Somethin' about learnin' a lesson. It was worth it though, I put the others in their place.
Life's good here in the city, it's good to be back with me own kin instead of all ye too-talls. Got meself enough supplies to keep workin' through the winter. Maybe by the spring I'll be able to do more than stick figures, eh? Ha!
How's life in the North? Them wizards moppin' up the last o' the Scourge? With the Lich King dead even ye finger-wigglin' humans should be up to the task without us dwarves there to watch yer back.
Have ye made it to the Basin yet? Quite a sight, perchin' yerself on top o' one o' them pillars and lookin' over the jungle. A jungle, way up where it's even colder than Khaz Modan. Still can't wrap me mind around it. But ye need to get yerself there lass, and send me what ye come up with. It'll liven up me stone walls, don't ye doubt.
I'll let ye go at that. Got some work to do meself. Write soon. Jarvo.
He set the pen back in the inkwell and rolled up the page, sliding it into a scroll case already addressed to "Marcia Chase, the Eventide, Dalaran." He set the case by the door, next to his hanging cloak, and was soon lost in his latest attempt at a masterpiece.
Jarvo brought the mallet down hard on the glowing shard of steel. Sparks flew, leaving trails in his vision. He barely noticed, though, barely registered the echoing thumps of the other blacksmiths working the city's great forges. Decades of muscle memory allowed his mind to wander as he worked, and wander it did.
Memories of battle flitted through his mind, both victories and defeats at the gnarled, rotting hands of the Scourge. Every soul had been needed to turn the tide in Northrend and Jarvo, like so many others, had answered the call. Sometimes he wished he hadn't.
The tide of memory swept him away from the forge, across Azeroth until he was once again shoulder to shoulder with his kin, and shoulder to hip with his Alliance brethren. The metal he worked groaned under the ever-increasing force of his blows, groaned like the undead should have but hadn't under his war hammer. He didn't notice.
He was surrounded by the snarling visages of his risen foes, some of whom had laughed with him as they charged into battle together just moments earlier. Harder and harder the mallet smashed down into the anvil, but it had no effect on the undead in his mind. Still they pressed in, torn and broken fingers reaching to claw at him.
Only when the red-hot steel came apart under his blows and clattered to the floor was he snapped from his trance, momentarily freed from his memories. Jarvo snorted in disgust and tossed the remaining shard into a nearby vat of cold water. Sweat beaded on his brow, though from the intensity of the forge or his own turmoil he didn't know. But he did know that he was done for the day.
He tidied his workstation in silence and ignored the stares from all around, mostly curious, some annoyed. It must have been an odd sight to see, such an experienced smith unleashing fury on his work without a care for the end result. But none tried to stop him, not even the not-quite-cowed Aradun. Away he went.
Life was too short, he thought as he wandered aimlessly through the city, even for a dwarf. There had to be more than marching into battle, sifting through the dirt for old relics, or slaving over an anvil. It wasn't enough. But what else was there for a dwarf?
The crowd in the city center grew thicker around him until he was almost confined, brushing past with muttered apologies. He was mostly ignored, not that he minded, and the frantic chatter soon told him why.
Jarvo dropped a heavy hand on a gnome's shoulder. "What're ye talkin' about, King Magni bein' dead?"
The gnome nodded rapidly, eyes almost popping from his skull. "A ritual—turned to diamond—'one with the mountain,' they said."
Jarvo staggered back at the news and released his grip on the gnome, who promptly turned back to his conversation and promptly forgot the dwarf entirely. His thoughts racing, Jarvo spun and wound his way out of the press of bodies.
Some time later he found himself seated in front of the inscription shop once again. The view was lost on him, however. Magni Bronzebeard, who had reigned over Ironforge for ages, through orc invasions and undead plagues, was dead? Done in by a bit of magic, rather than the bite of an enemy's cold steel? Unthinkable.
Though he'd never met the benevolent ruler, the loss shook Jarvo to his core. Hadn't he just come face to face with the memories of those claimed by Northrend, eternal reminders of the frail mortality he possessed? And now his king was himself struck down…
"I have to go," he muttered.
"Go where?" came the high-pitched reply. Jarvo leaped at the unexpected voice from the doorway just behind him.
Tilli Thistlefuzz again settled on the stairs. She gazed expectantly at him, silently prodding him for an answer.
Jarvo squirmed under the gnome's unblinking stare. "Away," he said at last. "I ain't happy here."
Tilli cocked her head, not understanding. "Plenty of blacksmithing work, deep and dark tunnels, and enough troggs a stone's throw away that even a dwarf might get tired of fighting…what more could you ask for?"
Before she'd even finished Jarvo was shaking his head. "It ain't enough, not for me. Hasn't been for a long while."
He sighed. "I telled ye I paint. I met a human lass in Northrend, learned a bit from her. Hit me harder than a drunk orc in a blood lust, it did. Felt alive again. I was seein' everythin' for the first time like I was a whiskerless whelp," he said, stroking his thick beard and giving the gnome a wink. "Been a while since then, if ye can't tell."
The pair shared a chuckle, and he continued. "I can't wait anymore. Me king is dead, me friends are dead and dead again. Can't waste no more time. Might not have it."
"So don't wait. If you want to paint, you can be the finest in the city. You just need to work for it."
"Finest and only. Yerself's the only one here who ain't loked at me funny for bein' all…artsy."
"But you aren't doing it for us, are you? You're doing it for yourself."
"True enough," Jarvo agreed. He could have sworn he almost floated away with the admission, he felt so light after. Gone were the confusion and doubt that had been gnawing at him since he'd returned to his frozen homeland from the more-frozen north. In their place lingered…hope.
"Where will you be off to?" Tilli asked before he could pose the same question to himself.
"Silvermoon City," Jarvo answered without hesitation, surprising them both. Tilli's violet eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. "Oh, an artsy dwarf doesn't surprise ye, but that does?"
"You came up with that rather quickly," Tilli observed. "You've thought about this before, haven't you?"
Jarvo shrugged. "Me dad took me there when I was barely hittin' me first anvil, back before we was on different sides. Fanciest place I ever seen, lass, and I been around. Ain't no Ironforge, o' course," he hedged, "but if anyone can teach me he'll be there."
Tilli regained her composure after a moment, leaning closer and speaking softly. "The elves won't just let you stroll in, you know," she said before smirking and elbowing him lightly. "I know some of these dwarves call you a bearded elf, but…"
"Bah!" he waved her off with a grin.
Tilli looked away, for once not pinning him with a too-wide stare. "You're sure about this? You couldn't go to Stormwind? Or back to Dalaran?" she asked, her eyes on the still-chaotic masses dealing with the news of the King's death.
"I ain't goin' back to Dalaran for nothin'," Jarvo answered, holding back the urge to spit off the steps. "And Stormwind might be a nice place, but it ain't on the same level as Silvermoon. I might not have liked it much as a lad, me heart was still here under the mountain, but I ain't ever forgot it. Might be dangerous, sure, but it's me best chance."
Tilli was silent for a long time before she nodded and replied. "Then good luck, Jarvo. Good luck, and stay safe."
After he'd parted ways with the understandably less-animated young gnome Jarvo headed home. Waiting for him just inside his door was a reply from Marcia Chase, courtesy of some magic Jarvo didn't understand or question.
Jarvo! You know good and well that you can do more than stick figures! You've only been practicing for a few months and you're already better than almost everyone I know, you stubborn dwarf.
I'm sure the basin is lovely. But you know how I am with heights. Yes, yes, I know, floating city. I'll just point out that I stay well away from the edge. I can't even tell we're off the ground, usually. So anyway, I'll have to take your word on the view from the basin's pillars. I'd be glad to send you a picture, though.
Oh, I almost forgot. I was in the Legermain the other day and I overheard some adventurer-types talking about someone called the Sculptor. Yes, it was capitalized. I could tell. I asked about him but all they could tell me was that he's in Andorhal and he's still alive. I know you've only tried your hand at painting but sculpture, since it's working with stone and all might be more…accepted. I know they give you grief for painting, don't you deny it.
Jarvo blushed under his beard. Even from another continent she played the big sister, looking out for the century-old dwarf she'd practically adopted. She had a point though. Sculptors, like the Grand Mason of the Royal Stonecutters Guild, weren't looked down upon or poked fun at like he usually was. And Andorhal was on the way to Silvermoon, even if it was swarmed by the Scourge…
Ugh, the letter continued. More fishermen are knocking at my door. I think I'll slip some of my projects into their backs, get my work some exposure. Got to go, write soon! ~Marcia
Jarvo re-read the letter and scribbled a response explaining the events of the past few days and his plans to leave the city. He wondered how well she'd take the news. Considering she'd encouraged him to wander into the undead-infested ruins of Andorhal he didn't expect her to be too worried about a trek to visit the slightly-more reasonable Horde.
Once his reply was on its way across the nether, racing for Dalaran, he settled in to put the finishing touches on his masterpiece, a parting gift for his newest friend.
Tilli arrived at the inscription shop bright and early the next morning to find a large scroll case leaning against the building, just next to the door. Curious, she lifted it up and saw her name scrawled with messy handwriting. She carried it inside and popped the cap, and out spilled a curled-up note.
Tilli, it said in the same untidy script, Sorry I ain't tellin' ye this face to face, but I couldn't wait no more. I'll be on the road before ye get this.
Like I telled ye, yerself's the only one who doesn't look at me funny for what I do. I ain't good at all this touchy-feely stuff, so I'll just say ye touched an old dwarf's heart that day we met.
So I been workin' on this for ye. It ain't much and it ain't great, but it's me best. I know where I'm goin' ain't safe, but now you'll have somethin' to remember me by while I'm gone. And when I get back I'll tell ye all about me trip. Farewell! ~Jarvo
More than one tear had spilled by the time Tilli reached the end of the short note. Once it sank in that her friend was gone, possibly for good, she set the paper on the counter and turned her attention back to the momentarily-forgotten scroll case.
Inside was Jarvo's latest and greatest work. Seated in front of a familiar shop, a purple-haired gnome and a black-bearded dwarf sat sharing a laugh and a tale, just like a passer-by from the crowd they'd watched that first day would have seen.
Tilli dabbed at her cheek with a sleeve, smiling all the while and already planning where she'd proudly display the work of, in her eyes at least, the finest artist in Ironforge.