Vitae Aeternum

by supraturtle

A human hunter raised in the ranks of the infamous Steamwheedle Cartel. A haunted and powerful former Kirin Tor mage with some personal issues. A juvenile half-breed with rare magick that no one understands... except perhaps the deadliest enemies of mortal Azeroth. Heroes are in short supply and the raiding guild Vitae Aeternum sure knows how to pick'em!

1. Prologue

Prologue: Stone and Stone-Cold

His human, Natji, didn't talk much so the question naturally rated some consideration.

As far as death was concerned Grekthrope had compiled an extensive list of personal preferences and he'd died before so he had experience. Grekthrope was a small target and hopelessly corrupt but his talents hadn't always avoided the inevitable. He'd been resurrected from previous deaths because he'd planned out and kept his head. On that day plans were obviously inadequate and consequently rez was nigh an option, which was generally the point of an execution.

Real death wasn't a problem, not really. You bought the whole farm exactly once... and who cared after? Aye, Grekthrope was annoyed that they'd fugged up, but t'was primarily concerned with methodology: their promised demise wasn't high on his death list… in fact he wasn't quite sure he'd got the whole jist of just how t'was to be done.

He liked lists, made mostly to pass time and distract from the mortal or morose. He kept a number of mental tallies, such as Best Foods (one made of his native delicacies and one of all others,) Favorite Women (roughly organized by the same rules as his Death Wish-List,) Reasons to Return to the Home Islands (which Natji claimed was actually random and constantly called him out on,) Worst Mistakes by Others, Prettiest Sunsets, Softest Beds, Stupidest or Smartest Animals, Most Useless Spells… and a host of many others. He had a great head for it and seriously hoped to lose that head if ever his list was complete.

The Death List DID had a SLIGHT caveat: Vainly, privately, he'd wished to buy the whole farm at old age, with a fatty layer of sin, in the arms of multiple dolorous womenfolk. He could dream, but to die a fogie, asleep and well-sexed was too unfathomable and didn't warrant serious consideration. He could expect a bitter end, but preferred sudden, low-fuss, methods. Professional decapitation was THE favorite. No head, no rez, no problem, so topped the list.

Methods he'd experienced fell immediately to the bottom of his list, since a knowledge of what to expect lessened the appeal. In sixty years he'd been frozen, burnt, poisoned, suffocated and drowned, beaten to clinical death and bled out-those among the fatalities he'd recognized or understood. There were such exceptions as Unknown Magic, Nae the Purple Fungus or That Sound is Bad which he couldn't quite classify or recall exactly. After resurrection he'd typically preferred the particular not repeated because pain sucked and repeats bored him.

Natji had actually never died, so, again naturally, the human lacked perspective.

Magefire for example: A Least Preferred of deaths. Magickal conflagration was too much bother with flailed humiliation and a LOT of pain before and after. The onslaught of heals and extensive recovery from severe burns-even at the hands of a healer of vast talent-FAR exceeded the typically acute misery of resurrection. Death hurt, but in MOST cases, resurrection hurt more but at least you always got over it.

An execution by devoutly violent tauren of quaint Bloodhoof Village had potential for greatness. Instead the hicks found a new level of ineptitude. To somehow be pulled apart by beasts of burden? He'd not thought of such previously, faint wonder and made low spot in his tally as he mused on and shuffled his Death List. The current predicament had left Grekthrope plenty of time to organize. He'd hoped to be beheaded but Natji had determined that as unlikely-had even suggested the notion to their captors and consequently suffered a more than conceptual refusal. Grekthrope had grunted, most unimpressed, reflected on his natural hatred of amateurs in any form and appreciated Natji's additional bruises. He'd always held the welfare of his investments paramount.

Grekthrope Zang Witx Frong was a goblin. Middle-aged, not too tall nor stunted stood at four feet, four inches. He still had most of both ears on his head and all eight digits on crafty, talented hands. The fact he still HAD a head spoke volumes to his clever and ruthless nature. The miserable humors of Azerothian extremes had yet to rob him of his healthy olive complexion and trusty libido, or said head, two-score years since he'd contracted out of Kezan. He worked out, dressed sharp and women liked him. T'was fairly well-off and not in the least superstitious. The only goblin gods were their investments and of course the best of ventures involved risk to life and limb and reputation. No matter... as a certain apathy toward mortality and a practiced disregard of morality was vital in risk management strategy. He also saw a need for significant diversity in a portfolio and so invested greatly in his human. Raised the Lost Pup from the moment he'd acquired the orphan at a bargain price. Taught his human much of what he knew. Not everything, of course, but enough. Shared all the danger and a tidy fraction of the profits. Goblins rarely suffered to trust… anyone... so thus he had an edge. Humans in general WERE conscientiously tall, had sadly insubstantial ears, too many and too-large fingers and tended to be pungent in a manner distasteful to goblin tolerances. But Natji was resourceful, slender and quick, strong and sharp.

Natji Bumpo... the Lost Pup hadn't a proper given name, but Grekthrope figured advantage came from adversity and drilled him in the arts of pseudonym and anonymity. When the boy insisted that he was born a Hunter, the goblin sent him at no small cost to the best of the few Hunter Trainers who'd still clandestinely train humans. He'd tolerated the boy's educational intrigue with the assassin Pheona until that little triste had tragically and conveniently gone south. Under Grekthrope's careful administration the Lost Pup was quite the scary freak... in a cartel populous of freaky scary folk. He was often proud of his human, his investment, his labor of… well, his labor. As a team they worked well. Had to. Grekthrope saw no need to alter the arrangement in the foreseeable future.

This assumed a future foreseeable beyond Bloodhoof Village.

Jabbey utilized Grekthrope and Natji on his toughest fixes. Jabbey was THE current Steamwheedle Cartel bigwig and t'was a fair bet to stay as such. He'd recently ousted nearly all the previous rivals with but a few loose ends. Steamwheedle had been a premier cartel on Azeroth before the death of the long-sat Old Boss… cursed and unlamented as he was. Jabbey's Steamwheedle was still maintained a major force among the rivals as the New Boss had efficiently consolidated and deftly recovered from the chaotic schism with the firm succor, seduction or slaughter of subsequent successors and scornfully opposed scoundrels. Jabbey utilized Grekthrope and Natji Bumpo as his prime Fixers-they who fixed loose ends with oft more than simple brute force. The elevated duo took only the choicest, riskiest, ticklish tasks for only the steepest slopes of profit. Of course Jabbey was fully expected to try to kill his best; One Could Never Be Too Important was the goblin wisdom. He'd never had survived his recent coup of Steamwheedle had he not the Lost Pup and Grekthrope firmly in his corner. The arrangement worked until… it didn't... which had potential for a ticklish and profitable day once and if arrived, Grekthrope considered.

The path to such prestige was necessarily a bloody one. So, logically, if death or dismemberment wasn't a concern Grekthrope failed to honor to his investments. Jabbey's appreciations gave welcome profit from blurry years of peril and misadventure in the name of Steamwheedle Cartel.

Not all perfection: The Lost Pup had a weak spot with women. Fair enough; the goblin was a fountain of advice, a fair bit of a pimp and born to scheme. Natji also had the Arakkoa in his head. The human talked to ghosts it seemed. This phenomenon Grekthrope accepted warilly. Admittedly he knew not what the chimera of near-extinct alien voices might indicate about the human's mental state. His human had been through a lot, so the goblin allowed Natji some quirks. Perhaps a mechanism of cope, t'was, as Grekthrope had his lists.

Fair enough again; One best survived frequent and potentially lethal adversity by an embrace of a notion that one was already dead or too bent to care. Stone or Stone Cold so taught the goblin maxim. Grekthrope had struggled mightily to learn the Arakkoan language from Natji. An absolute advantage as they'd met no one else who spoke it... and THAT sure helped with the crazy in any plan.

Trust in his human perhaps too had palpable negative results. For example; Grekthrope came to fear that they'd trusted Jabbey a mite too far with this mission, this fix. Trust in his human had apparently made him careless, complacent or overconfident. And one had best be at the top of form and scheme if one dared tauren tradition and law on tauren home ground with a plan for a fix that didn't exactly have the loftiest of tauren interests held in any high regard.

Bloodhoof Village was quiet, beautiful, spiritual and primitive even by tauren standards. Not much more than a post for vocational and spiritual education, t'was buried belly-deep in the Mulgore region's prairie desolation. Near equatorial on the Kalimdor continent and was a kobold cluster end-all to the most rural of dumps. And Grekthrope and Natji had seen some of the most kobold-cluster cursed rural dumps on Azeroth. Furbolgs went mad in Mulgore from too much nature. If t'was not hectares of yellow grass, knee-deep rocky red clay or frigid water, t'was trying to kill you and if so t'was most likely a tauren: Mulgore was, in fact, their home realm.

Tauren were burly, bipedal and assumably sapient hulks visually and distantly akin to cows or bulls. Horned, huge and somewhat clumsy the tauren mein was typically maternal, pastoral and unsophisticated left to their own. In deference Thrall's Horde recruited tauren youth with zealous success, a small wonder given the typical traditional alternatives of mostly bucolic or religious career paths. Recruited from the choicest herds impressionable young tauren made for hearty killers and grand adventurers. An adolescent female tauren could tear a goblin apart with little effort. The adept wielded weapons that outweighed most opponents.

T'was a slander that tauren smelled like their primitive cousins; Nae. The species prided themselves on cleanliness and pleasant individual scents both artificial and natural. For example, the nearest acolyte guard carried a delightful peppermint and jasmine air whenever she leant close to beat Grekthrope with her whip. The clouds of flies as constant to tauren as broken enemies and Mulgore Firewater were drawn by a musk undetectable to other species and had evolved a harmonic relationship to the species' estrus cycle. The bigger the cloud, the randier the tauren. The goblin preferred to not dwell on this given his current unique perspective on their physiology.

T'was unfortunate that the modern and most violent factions held little sway among the traditionally spiritual and reflective muckety-mucks of backwater Bloodhoof Village. Priestly, nominally peaceful Elders instead presided over Grekthrope and Natji's recent capture and internment. Such fogies naturally insisted that Bloodhoof-an ancestral gateway to the breeding plains, on the Mulgor Overland Route to the tauren capital of Thunder Bluff-remain a quiet and devout vestibule of worship and education despite misguided modern values and the outrages of restless youth.

The goblin stayed a tolerant, captive witness. His human translated the cows' misguided ramble for him. The tauren were long-winded, out of their subjective element, practiced an uncompromisable class system and were impressively accomplished inebriates, so the proceedings had stretched on a day and night since the lawyers had departed.

Lawyers. Pish.

The goblin tried to work a kink from his shoulder. Swore with several languages to illustrate his effort. Curses in a dozen languages he knew well enough but Natji Bumpo had the far superior ear for folks' speak and a most brilliant tongue, though such talents were ironic for someone habitually terse. So Natji had slept or translated minimalistically, both his ways as he could crash anywhere and didn't talk much. Translation involved much reiteration and repeat so Natji naturally recapitulated the Taurahe bloviate with minimal laconics. "Bugs," or "Thae Women Thing," or "Fuggin Weather," were such epigrams that fair suited the human's pithy habits.

"Killin' Us" was a popular subject, second only to "Booze" or "Grass Stuff" and had set Grekthrope in his greatest funk. The Village Elders had considered some of the stupidest ways possible to end a being-had so proven that tauren fogies hadn't the slightest idea what they were on about. This caused Grekthrope to long the deft intervention of professional murderers such as he was used to. Had the tauren been in a proper mood to take advice, he may had even suggested a few names he knew. A bloody nose and bruised ribs were indeed a discomfort when one was tied upside-down so he figured he'd give poor Natji a much-needed break. Alas the human had asked THE question the goblin owed him an answer.

Grekthrope and Natji were tied by their ankles and wrists to a cross of sturdy birch trunks. Crucified inverted in the most central and largest rawhide and post wigwam in Bloodhoof Village-likely some sort of honor. Gathered about the central bonfire the most important bovine tribesmen grunted in back-and-forth Elder Taurahe, planned the execution and sought some vague input from their spirit guides. Interacted with the lower class tauren strictly through a small cadre of acolyte guards. Drank heavily and chattered on with "big words" about "god stuff."

"Big words" indeed. To Grekthrope they bespoke mostly the huffs and bellows of cows. As far as "god stuff" went their religion was typical; rote, abstinence, pennance, Killing Is Bad But... that sort of thing. The Lost Pup kept him informed with his freakish gift for languages. Minimally, as Natji was not much a talker; something Grekthrope so appreciated but oft redemonstrated. Human and goblin shared their own observations in Goblitesh, cramped in upturnt restraint and were mostly ignored by the tauren muckety-mucks. The duo suffered the expected professional abuse from the acolyte guards, mostly because Grekthrope talked too much and Natji too little. The two licked their wounds and carried on.

"Thinkin' our hosts be outa their league," Grekthrope mused aloud.

The Elders had deemed their village of teachers and holymen unequipped to punish such dire crimes as the two villains had dared commit. Unprepared to punish the blasphemies of a spiritually corrupt modern world, wisely the isolated leadership requested outside mediators for the judgement of the goblin criminal and his human toady. The leadership had acted on the humble suggestion of a stranger wanderer who'd packed up and left soon after. The suggestion helped as the sacred and exclusive dialects of Elder Taurahe could nigh well parse the concept of drug dealers.

"Sorry we put'em out," Natji replied unenthusiastically.

As apparent dumb luck would have it a team of junior legislators had been on a whirlwind inspection of shaman training about the breeding plains and training cadres. A happy coincidence that placed a learned-of-justice group in the region of Mulgore and only a few miles south at Camp Narache. A runner had been sent, returned with the unhappy city-folk in tow.

Cartel intelligence reported the very same appropriated law-adepts secretly on Jabbey's payroll. The Steamwheedle Cartel plan relied on their talent and cooperation-which made sense in Grekthrope's loosely practiced religion that denied belief in coincidence or luck. The grand strategy was delay as the plan also hinged on Jabbey's rarely-practiced punctuality in arranged rescues. The tauren relied on the lawyers' experience to determine punishment for the duo's unprecedented and undeniable crimes.

"Jabbey's late," Grekthrope whined again.

"Hum," Natji agreed again.

Plans were often futile. Situations were always fluid. Most luck came in three flavors and 'good' was a rumor for legend and pageant only. Circumstance had gone nowhere but ary after Grekthrope and Natji had dutifully buried their Venture Company rivals in shallow unadorned graves in the Mulgor highlands. Turned out the Venture Coe corpses had friends. Said friends feared for the continued conduct of their very particular trade and nifty profits. Said friends acted decisively and vengefully, engineered the betrayal and capture of Natji and Grekthrope. Said friends had then evidently found some very big rocks under which to hide until the storm blew over. The Venture Company corpses' friends, however, weren't overly particular when it came to resumption of their vital trade. Demonstredally their loyalties and distributive talents applied liberally to whomever-Steamwheedle or Venture Coe in this case-provided consistent supplies of treated Murloc Bloom. Competition was the heart of prosperity, so said someone once.

Fortunate and timely, t'was, that Jabbey had arranged just such a 'Bloom consignment under muted Steamwheedle heralds to arrive in the next days. Alas sadly, rumors held that the rival Venture Coe caravan would not be on time… not on ANYONE'S time given that their current status was a scatter of charcoal lumps arrayed about the wreckage of two ominously empty wagons somewhere lost in the Barrens well short of Mulgore borders.

So came the Fixers to be crucified in Bloodhoof Village, the closest semblance to civilization for one hundred miles. So came the villains to be the concern of the tauren Elders, the nearest equivalent to a constabulary within reasonable reach. So then had their fate been laid in the hands of the lawyers and a crafty interpretation of naive tauren village law.

As bad luck would have it the requested legislators were orcs and weary of their travels.

As blind luck would have it the Orcish word for 'advocate' was close to 'coward' and 'undeniably guilty' sounded remarkably similar to 'loose bowels.' The acolyte translator made several such mistakes in the tedious, saturated process of rendition. Natji had made attempts to aid in the effort with polite corrections. He had been rewarded with a mild battering by the acolyte guards, so he'd kept his tongue and grudged helpless over THAT conversation.

T'was no exact word in Orcish for 'innocence.' T'was, however, close terms for 'guilt.' Lower class and younger tauren spoke Orcish, the Horde staple. The notable exceptions were, naturally, the Bloodhoof Village Elders who claimed limitation to whatever obscure dialects brought them closer to The Gods and Orcish was not a particularly spiritual language. Communication had been tedious. Orcs and tauren did not get along as a dim rule but the minimal exemptions were made in the pursuit of justice and for the Horde. Dialectical Taurahe had plenty of colorful terms for murder but lacked an effective descriptive for profiteers of substance abuse at large.

Conveniently there was no question of innocence. The evidence was damnably prolific. The absence of the honored Venture Coe victims conspicuous and assuredly fatal. The effect of Murloc Bloom on the population was an infamously endemic issue. But there were points of order to be made, matters of protocol to observe, a potential for witness testimony that would take days to collect. So naturally the grim orc lawyers eloquently recommended capital punishment within minutes of their arrival and orientation. Grekthrope and Natji naturally gaped. The litigations had taken mere minutes where the Cartel plan called for days of due process.

The chosen descriptor for execution in Taurahe approximated 'justly put down disallowed to graze done on purpose painfully.' Grekthrope disliked the emphasis on 'painfully.' Natji was troubled by the word 'graze' in his translation. The Bloodhoof Village Elders effectively had no penalty for crimes worse than theft, littering or trainee hazing. Somehow banishment sent the wrong message for anyone else employed in the dastardly acts the tauren hadn't quite been able to describe in their archaic terms. Alas they liked the capital emphasis on 'down' and 'painfully' and offered no correction.

An unenviable task neatly concluded, the orcs gruffly declined any invitations to stay and witness. Instead they requested the fastest kodos back to the relative metropolis of Thunder Bluff and prayed for escape via hippogriff flight to just about anywhere else. Apparently the lawyers had forgotten about the nuances of a preplanned, paid-for delay. Perhaps the orcs had underestimated the effect of Mulgore Firewater on their performance. Perhaps they had been confused by the complexities of the arrangement. Perhaps the money had exchanged hands upfront. Perhaps they didn't care. No one bothered to ask the goblin or his human. And Jabbey's promised agents of salvation were late. Old news. The hours passed of abuse, boredom and divinity since had numbed the Fixers' shock.

"I find it odd," Grekthrope considered to pass the time. "Thae tauren keep pack animals."

"Huh?" Natji asked. "Ye mean kodos?"

"Slavers," the guard nearest rumbled. "Quiet," the bruiser warned but rated naught a glance from the condemned. The acolyte bristled, glowered a silent promise of remedial escalation, having so deigned to speak Common.

"Slavers?" Grekthrope quizzed.

The scaffold shook so the goblin figured his human had shrugged. "Been on 'bout thae for a while. I dinnae get it too," the Pup admitted. "Say what 'bout kodos now?"

"I mean," the goblin pointlessly lifted an astute brow, "I mean, humans dinnae keep monkeys for burden or ride them to battle."

The human screwed up his face. "Monkeese?" he asked.

"Uh. Ye recall," Grekthrope replied, "the mechanical J.D. brought to the tavern afore she left fer the 'Crater?"

"Funny t'was," Natji recalled. "Seen biggapes in Stranglethorn," he admitted helpfully.

"Monkeys be smaller then apes," the goblin explained. "Dirtier."

"So," the human estimated. "Kinda like goblins."

"Sure," Grekthrope conceded. "Monkeys got better manners then me own folk and dinnae understand profit."

"Still dinnae get it," the human admitted. "Monkeese gotta do with kodos?"

"Tauren are cows," the goblin explained tiredly. "Humans be monkeys… related," he explicated. "I find thae ironical."

"Ne'er related wit biggapes," the human protested in distaste.

"Nae directly oh course," Grekthrope clarified.

"Ye nae make sense," Natji insisted.

"Wait," Grekthrope paused, ears perked. "Ye a hunter. Ye got Monkey Aspect. How cannae ye know what a monkey t'is?" he quizzed dubiously.

"Ye mean Mungiaspeck?" Natji quizzed.

Grekthrope groaned. "Monkey-Aspect."

"Magic makes me quick," the human noted. "What'all gotta do wit dirty li'l biggapes?" he boggled.

"Monkey," the goblin retorted. "Aspect. Monkey Aspect."

"Why would Ulfir teach such a thin'?" Natji protested. "I already be human."

"Huh?" Grekthrope shook his head.

"Mon-keys be humans, ye said it," the human reminded him.

"Thrice damn slavers!" Stood over them, the guard had finally had enough. He walloped Natji with a hoof to the ribs, walked calmly around the scaffold and thwapped Grekthrope on the head with his crop. "Shut it down we told ye!"

The two grimaced. Natji coughed "soft beak" in Arakkoan. Grekthrope waited for the guard to stomp off before he whispered an uncomplimentary speculation on tauren sexual practices among kin-in his native Goblitesh. A few breaths to recover and the goblin pulled the conversation right back on track, something he also had a talent for. "Forget the monkey thing. Tell me the other aspects." He laughed aloud. "Heh, tell me 'bout the one makes ye run fast."

"Huh? Easy," Natji murmured. "T'is Espectacheater."

"Ugh," Grekthrope sagged. "No more lessons with Ulfir."

"Nae problem," Natji agreed. "Thae gold we give him t'was nae-"

"We gonna talk this over," the goblin interjected. "Later on," he promised.

"T'is good we getten exec-uted then," Natji concurred. "Cause ye nae makin' sense," he insisted. "An ye talk too much," he muttered in addendum.

Grekthrope silently decided the matter as settled with more important matters afoot.

Left to their own the tauren, dogged traditionalists, argued for hours to decide if execution was more appropriately performed at sunset or sunrise. Decision: Noon. Further they debated whether children or trainees should be allowed or disallowed as witness. Decision: Compulsory. Met the last point of order on likely the biggest day in Mulgore since the Sundering with a vote on the actual execution method. Concerned with the uncertainties of permanent dispatch in a world of magick resurrectionists and vengeful revenants the ultimate fate of the goblin and human criminals was given over to the brightest resources of Bloodhoof Village imaginations. Decision: Dismemberment.

The Elders decided they'd made the best choice in a difficult situation, which naturally called for a drink. Quietly they admitted that they'd hoped the lawyers would have arrested and taken the goblin and human to a more modern date with justice in the city. Alas nae. Alas they were left to execute the prescribed death sentence on the villains. So the Elders boozed down, prayed over and stayed up all night to determine a traditionally proper course. The sun approached seasonal noon. And so the goblin and human awaited Cartel salvation or kodo separation. Passed the time with idle chat much to the annoyance of their guards.

"T'ain't rally talked to ye," Grekthrope noted in his most motherly tone. "Not since Pheona bought it."

"She knew what she t'was 'bout," Natji replied flatly. "Chose she did."

"S'pose," The goblin harrumphed. "Surprised she din't make it."

"Me too," Natji muttered, barely audible.

"So... Ulfir gave ye the boot," he persisted. "And nae a refund?"

"Hum," Natji acknowledged.

"'But ye tamed a pet," the goblin observed. "So I guessin' all the cash went to Ulfir t'was worth what he teached back."

"Hum," Natji replied vaguely. "I rally be a hunter now," he judged. He shook his head, frowned and added, "'bout this 'cash.' I dinnae think-"

"Grampose. A boar? Great pet I say," Grekthrope added quickly, "even if he piss on e'erthin'... hates e'erybody."

"Grampose like ye jist fine," Natji admitted.

"Do he?" Grekthrope asked warmly. "Ye sure 'bout that?"

Another guard growled, had stepped up. "Thrice damn slavers," the thug spat. "What gonna take to shut ye up?" Punctuated the rhetorical with a round of the whip applied liberally on both the condemned. The two quietly accepted their punishment until the tauren bored of the sport and lumbered back to the dice and drink arrayed thereto among his fellows sat about a small table along the wigwam wall.

"Mud dweller," Natji sneered in Arakkoan.

"Featherless ballsack," Grekthrope agreed in the same language.

A pause to catch their breath before they continued their previous conversation.

"Obviously I t'ain't privy," Grekthrope huffed. "To boar emotions. Like ye 'parently be."

"Grampose pissed on ye din't he?" Natji replied in Goblitesh. "He cares," his grin went unseen by the goblin.

Grekthrope tipped his head. Changed the subject retrograde. "I dinnae like Pheona and she dinnae like me," he prompted.

Natji sighed, "kinda wish went different."

"So why did it?" the goblin asked. "Ye nae 'zactly tell me the whole thing."

"Hum," the human grunted. "Din't work out," the Lost Pup betrayed a slight pang in his tone. "Knew what's-what she did," he repeated evasively.

"Pup!" Grekthrope scorned. "Thae was big and ye should tell me-"

A leather strap smacked across Grekthrope's back and the goblin choked on an oath. "Stop the fuggin gob talk," sneered the successor guard from the other end of his whip. The acolyte paused, stood upright and considered his bosses nearby. Across a floor of packed grasses and skin rugs two of the tauren Eldership had come awake and afoot from another bout of nodded prayer, trumpeted sudden importance in their throaty language. After a few foggy blinks of uncertainty to the guard's stalwart vigilance they gestured a wavered dismissal and wisely returned seated as alcohol addled constitutions took exception to such uprightness.

"She bought the whole farm," Natji muttered. "Nuff said."

"Good riddance," the goblin gritted.

And so had come the question.

"We gonna die, huh?" Natji asked evenly.

Grekthrope's artistic face of denial was lost since Natji couldn't see him. He twisted about and jabbed with his foot, tapped Natji's boot and shook the entire frame from which they were suspended. "Now why would ye say thae?" he retorted.

"Cause ye talkin' stupid," Natji explained. "Always talk stupid when we gonna die."

"What stupid?" Grekthrope protested. "I ask ye bout Pheona cause I care!"

"Told ye bout Pheona weeks ago," Natji insisted. "Monkeese? Crap 'bout me hunter spells?"

"Monkeys AND humans," the goblin corrected him. "T'was jist ponderin' on the mysteries oh evolution," the goblin explicated with an artsy affront.

"Nae ponder evil-ooshen afore," the human insisted. "Stupid... git room on ye tongue cause ye outta ideas."

"Well," Grekthrope slumped. "Well. T'is true. Strugglin' to see a way nae here-bouts."

"Ye figger," Natji added. "Figger trust Jabbey too much?"

A long pause, and the goblin's answer was weak. "Aye."

"So," Natji concluded. "We gonna die. Again."

"So we gonna die," Grekthrope conceded.

"Glad we clear thae up," Natji said.

"T'was a good talk," Grekthrope agreed offhand. Squirmed and resettled on his bonds and decided to again reroute the conversation to a lighter path. "So what them cows sayin' now?"

"Kodo stuff," the human replied.

"What sort?" the goblin persisted.

"Um," the Lost Pup canted his head. Answered with, "figgerin' the color oh kodos to use."

"Rally?" Grekthrope asked dubiously.

"Rally yeah," Natji affirmed.

A flurry anew of motion around the vibrant firepit sunk central in the tribal gather. Grim nods of heavy, maned heads. The activity further agitated the muss of semi-symbiote flies set far more attentive than any palpable evidence of godly concerns. A cloud of gnats, a skin of Firewater and a mutter of prayer, any else was optional to tauren ways.

"And now?" Grekthrope prompted.

"Gray for me, pink for ye," Natji noted dismissively.

"Oh," said Grekthrope. "Pretty."

Another rush of rumbled exchange and the agitated tauren made hazily attuned motions at the blaze. Threw back on skins of their potent home-brewed liquor in yet another powerful celebration of divine guidance. Bloodhoof Village produce tended to be very spiritual in nature-be it devout prayers or their infamous Mulgore Firewater.

"So?" Grekthrope prodded the human's typical silence.

"Gonna let ye go," Natji piqued. "T'ain't nae pink kodos."

"Rally?" the goblin perked and peered hopeful at the muckety-mucks.

"Rally? Nae," Natji reported. "RALLY figgerin' to invite the 'Mothers from the birthin' plains…' Somefin 'bout 'oats and sewin'," he concluded with a vague curiosity around the phrases. "Nae sure all they meanin'."

"Tell me," Grekthrope frowned. Quizzed, "Tell again. What the kodos for?"

"Killin' us," Natji replied.

Grekthrope cleared his throat and kicked his human's foot.

"Ugh," The human slumped. "They gonna," he explained impatiently. "Gonna tie us to two kodos. Each," he mumbled thoughtfully.

"Hum. I wonder." the goblin prompted. "To what end?"

"Both ends, I think," Natji guessed, surly. "Make them kodos run away..." he started.

"So go back to both ends-" the goblin interrupted.

"Boss," Natji asserted with a groan. "Gonna tear our legs and arms off. How many ways ye gotta hear it? Din't want us villains get a rez."

"Nae wanna rez," the goblin observed. "Nae without me arms and legs."

"Aye," the human agreed. "Nae much to do like thae."

So passed a somber moment punctuated by the rumble of Elder tauren and snaps from the multiple firepits.

"Eh," Grekthrope huffed positive. "We could roll 'round Steamwheedle... deliverin' messages 'n stuff in our mouths."

A pause and the scaffold shook. "T'is funny boss," Natji judged in approval.

"So," Grekthrope insisted with a grunt, "why nae chop our fuggin heads off?"

The human weighed the thought a breath. "I dunno," Natji tipped his head. "Theys all pretty drunk. 'Sides, ye made me ask'em bout thae," he recalled. "Twice. They dinnae take such kindly."

"T'was worth a shot," the goblin mulled.

One of the acolytes snapped awake, stomped over and glowered down. "Shut off the imp-talk!" the bulk thundered and thudded a hoof into the human's ribs. Glared a breath before a turn to rejoin his mates. "Fuggin' slavers," the tauren mumbled.

"Heh," Grekthrope laughed. "Chick eater. Carrion fodder."

"Yoke brain," Natji wheezed and slumped on his bonds. "Low roller. Ground mush."

The guard had paused just short of return to his comrades. Squinted over his shoulder and threatened to reverse his course yet again. "What with all the bird calls?" he quizzed.

"Whaddia expect?" A fellow acolyte waved dismissively over her splay of cards. "They crazy as water seekers," she growled and impatiently kicked the vacant seat out from the table. The curious guard shrugged and moved to sit. Frowned back as the two prisoners snickered between themselves. A renewal of activity from the fireside rated a thoughtful glare and he settled on a return to the game unwiser and rushed his hand.

So passed a relative quiet span of Elder prayer, acolyte games and a few tentative snores from Natji. Grekthrope spent the time in consideration of other ways to possibly suggest a beheading over… whatever the fuggin' hicks planned to do with the kodos and his limbs.

A tauren holy-roller, clasped a set of beads and a hoof-full of pollen, staggered up to the condemned and baso jabbered in a pious manner. Sprinkled the duo with ceremonial offerings. Shook a proud mane, agitated his halo of tiny insects arace frantic among the dust motes in dashes of midmorn sunlight from the wigwam flap. The tauren Elder lifted his burly arms skyward draped of beads and leather. Grekthrope skeptically eyed the rural splendor and the Lost Pup failed to even stir.

Seen the ceremony enacted, two guards grudgingly abandoned their game to stand near.

"What thae pretty fogie want?" Grekthrope asked. He wrinkled his nose and tried to lean away from the massive biped. The nearest guard reached around the muckety and thwapped the goblin with his crop for good measure. When there was no timely reply from his human, the goblin jerked his hips to shake the scaffold. Grekthrope repeated himself when he felt Natji's sleepy, angry glare. "Thae here clown... what he want?"

A smack of lips and a moment of silent speculation. "Say we best prepare," the human craned his neck. "Say 'sorry bout the put-down-method but nae do it afore.'" The Lost Pup smiled up at the tauren medicine man and nodded amicably. "He wanna adopt ye for his daughter's pet... uh monkeese," he added.

"Heh say what?" Grekthrope hissed.

"So I," Natji shrugged, a motion lost on his predicament. "Kinda fibbed the last part. Said a bunch oh names. Some sorta prayer."

"Prob'bly for his kid's monkey," Grekthrope moped.

"May't jist be," Natji agreed. "But afore he say'in his kid hooked on Murloc Bloom," his dimple twitched. "So prob'ly nae rally too sorry."

Natji's guard craned to repeat his kick but stopped dead as the Elder came about and barked a sermon of instructions. The remainder of retainers laconically dropped their cards and mugs and moved to join the procession. A burst of instruction prompted and so leant in, huge tauren acolytes worked to move the criminals from the scaffold to the next stage of the Elders' master plan of execution.

---

The Bloodhoof Village Elder's acolytes bellowed announcement to the listless witnesses: Human and goblin were prepared to die. As instructed briskly waved the bored wander of tauren commonfolk back toward the gallows ground designated beside the kodo pens gate. No one was actually concerned with the criminals' emotional composure... but the awkward process necessary to tie them between confused kodo pairs had taken an hour and the crowd had become antsy. Indeed, the idea had been made far simpler in theory knelt around the sacred fire under the spiritual influence of much Mulgore Firewater. The guards had relayed a simple fact for the benefit of the witnesses' continued patience once the right knots and lengths had been mulled out by frustrated and previously unconsulted kodo wranglers.

As far as Natji and Grekthrope were concerned things were just ducky.

The goblin jerked his head away from the kodo's rank breath. "T'ain't thae a spettickle," He mused, tied leg-and-arm horizontally between the horns of his two bestial instruments of execution. He had to ration strength to hold his head upright. "Nae wonder Murloc Bloom sells so good here 'bouts. Need somethin' to do, I say."

The Lost Pup strained and tilted his head to sidelong consider the goblin. Impossible; he was tied in much the same manner between two more kodos but faced earthward. His longer arms did give him better respite from samples of the pack animal's rotten hygiene. "Sorry we put'em out," the human repeated with little enthusiasm.

"Och! Here they come," the goblin grimaced.

"Have ye any last words, slavers?" the nearest guard rumbled.

"Last words?" Natji translated to Goblitesh.

"Sure, yeah," The goblin thought a moment. "The kid thing," Grekthrope decided with a shrug.

"How many?" The human asked with discreet Arakkoan.

"Eh, make it three this time," the goblin replied in kind.

"Tauren big on kids," Natji noted. "Three t'is." He twisted about until he caught the eye of the surly guard. Proclaimed in his most solemn Tarahe, "Proud folk! I shout sorrow for me wrongs. Me herd-mate." Natji jerked his head in Grekthrope's general direction and added, "me pal think all ye fillies got real pretty udders. He wondering where ye bulls dun got off to." Snickered at the glare of the afronted guard. Rasped a lungful as he was awarded another wallop for his trouble.

A huff of indignation and a partner acolyte rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. Repeated Natji's ode the for the Elders' benefit. A stir worked through the crowd as the nearest overheard and passed on the sentiments. A curve of bovine countenances turned maternal ire on the small green criminal, stepped in. The Elders quickly bemoaned the audacity and begged for calm and the mob held off with grumbles and snorts.

"Made… me a tad… oh impression… eh?" Grekthrope coughed hopefully between lashes of his guard's strap.

"Hum," Natji groaned, strained to see. He stopped and squinted, turned an ear skyward. Was jerked back as the kodos found the goblin's punishment a cause for alarm, sidestepped and stirred wary of the guard's whip. The human grunted, made eye contact with the beast at his arms, murmured noises of sooth. Spoke gently to the giant scaled head. "Thar. Thar. T'is a good girl," the human eased.

Grekthrope twisted about. "Thae a girl kodo?" he asked.

"Aye," Natji rested his head as the beasts calmed. "All girl kodos," he replied astutely.

Grekthrope considered the thick jejunity over his arms. Winced from another blast of foul breath. Sagged on the ropes. "Fuggin' figgers," he mumbled.

"Be o'er quick," muttered Natji. "Them tauren be right piss't at ye."

"Figgered as much," Grekthrope showed filed teeth. "Thanks thae. Thrice-damn Pup."

"I dinnae do nuthin'," Natji protested weakly. "Theys already worked up, nae so much fer the murder and Murloc Bloom." He glared about the procession. "Sayin' Steamwheedle be 'slavers' 'n all thae. Somethin' 'bout Gimetootles or Grimtitties or somethin'," he rushed out.

"I dinnae a clue 'bout all thae," Grekthrope growled.

"Cause Steamwheedle nae slavers," Natji concluded poignantly.

"Only the penals," the goblin reminded him. "Oops, here it come," he warned.

The much heralded and delayed moment had arrived. Chief and consequently the gaudiest of the Elder tauren stepped up and raised a hoof in an elegant motion of somber command.

The wranglers nodded in compliance. Nudged crops to the kodos tied to the arms of the condemned criminals. The crowd became rapt in silence and peered on with stately observance. Children grasped adult sleeves and shirt tails, wide eyed. Folk leant in with a spar of elbows for their neighbors, afeared to miss a single moment of the pageant.

And the kodos moved, chose to interpret the boggle of confused commands in a very kodo fashion. The beasts marched in unison, the animals attached to victims' heads-end trundled in forward motion. The kodos with the legs of the condemned secured to their horns stepped back gingerly. The well-adjusted kodo pairs were most careful not to damage the obviously delicate packages that squirmed, tied between them. The wranglers had stood upright despite, held their hooves to the display with a feigned assuredness. The less apt villagers applauded with vague and uneven uncertainty-in the tauren method which had the applaudit stamp the ground with a single hoof. An increased number hid laughter behind upraised arms as the parade staggered awkwardly on. Children blinked, asked difficult questions and were mostly chided to silence. Natji's head-end kodo gave the hunter an affectionate snort and amorous nudge with her nose.

"Dinnae think t'was how all meant to go," Grekthrope speculated.

"Hum," Natji agreed. "Easy girl," he soothed.

"Huh?" the goblin squinted.

"Talkin' to the kodo," the hunter explained.

"Oh," Grekthrope affirmed.

The Elder outcry after that point required little translation and the kodo handlers' pleasure fell in stages to artful frowns of confusion. They stepped up and held their kodos in place and boggled innocently at the perturbation of their village leadership. The leaders sagged and talked amongst themselves in a most plebeian manner. Eventually a minor from among the Elders waved an acolyte in and expounded a quick set of instructions to the nod of his guard. The acolyte stepped back with a low bow, turned on a heel and stomped into the midst of the wranglers. Drew his fellow tauren into a shoulder-to-shoulder huddle. Hooves articulated complex concepts between them. Many curses were stifled, failed to pass beyond an appropriate immediate vicinity of the educational assemblage. Through the rail fence unemployed kodos held up from lazy turf pennace in serene curiosity, met doe-eyed and none-the-wiser by their strangely-tasked fellows outside the pen.

"Looks they gonna get thae sorted," Grekthrope commented.

"Dunno," Natji figured. "Boss-guard kinda dense. Ack!"

Natji's head-end kodo had just affectionately licked the human's face.

Finally the wranglers stood off with motions of promised absorption. They bowed to the guard. The guard bowed across the field to the Elders, who gestured an artless impatience to proceed. The wranglers collected at their designated kodos. Again the most colorful prime tauren lifted his arm skyward. Crops tapped burly hides.

This time the kodo pairs made wide wary circles, swayed in a sideways-synchronized gait that kept the condemned harmless in the center of their orbits. This time the audience was less restrained in their amusement. Parents took cruel apparent glee in detailed description of the exact nature of the comedy arrayed on the gallows ground to their youth. The effect was an overall jubilant rumble. The Elders gaped for a breath, broke the tableau with gazes skyward or hid their faces behind a spread of hoof. Naturally the latest disappointment demanded a fresh consultation round of the Firewater skins demanded from eager nearby retainers.

"T'was too generous. Nae amateurs," Grekthrope gruffed with a bemused glare. "These fogies be idiots."

"Hope git sorted," Natji mumbled on the cusp of a sigh. "Gitten hungry."

The latest attempt to relay instructions through the ranks of tauren had quickly degraded to a burst of shouts and a flails. A well-meant acolyte had just escalated the emotions with a timely thwap of his whip across the backside of a particularly recalcitrant wrangler.

"Kinda funny to see'em go at it," the goblin judged whimsically.

The human nodded. A sudden start and Natji jerked an ear skyward, squinted concentration. "Draka's tits," the Lost Pup hissed. "Somefin' BIG comin' in from up north," he reported in Goblitesh.

The kodos, as one, shuffled nervously and too cast dull concerns skyward to a hint, a distant echo of change. A dull drone in rapid approach and volume escalated until even the most obtuse of locals or angrily engaged officials took pause and craned eyes aloft to the incursion of mechanical mumble, motors, and a dark speck in the blue loomed swiftly into a wide raptor hulk. Trailed a tangled tail of misty corkscrews, propeller-driven contrails curved a path from a Northish horizon of cloudy peaks and cliffs.

A big day for Mulgore, indeed. Calves pointed and jabbered as adults gaped. Acolytes gripped at hilts on hips and spread out warilly. The dumbfounded Elders traced the course of the incursion with a saucer of eyes. Kodos stomped and coughed as a artificial crescendo descended, and the mechanism blitzed over the village at flagpole height.

The goblin-built flying machine was an unlikely, unlovely, winged spiderwork of struts and many engines bolted on about thirty feet of cigar fuselage of riveted drab metal skin and a row of crystalline portals. Rattles, sputters, in a stately lumber from the direction of Thunder Bluff, the giant flyer soared in, banked over the eastern grist mills and left a wide curve of oily smoke. The mighty wingspan cast a moment's eclipse of the Bloodhoof courtyard heralded by mewls and stamps of kodo concern. A sputter of backfires as the pilot starved the motors and the flyer thumped to a grass-beaten touchdown. Prairie wildlife howled and scattered as the behemoth skidded to a stop across the shimmer sparkle lake that bordered the northern village green. A tiny orb of leather poked from the top of the fuselage and the goblin pilot lifted his goggles. Scrutinized the village mob a few moments before he talked into his vox with a dip of chin. Listened, nodded, left the motors spun up settled back to rest his eyes.

"Jabbey sent the thrice damn FLYER?" Grekthrope spouted in astonishment.

Natji's retort lacked lucidity, volume and subjectivity. He twisted in his bonds fruitlessly to share in the visage. The village folk goggled, shuffled and murmured in concert. Children gasped and tittered, made hectic queries and bounced in excitement.

A wonder to the rural tauren... not so well-received by their pack animals.

Kodos were indeed simple beasts whose walnut-sized brains efficiently parsed input into the skittish variables of herd instinct and oft acted in deference to their enormous size. The massive goblin machine was loud, therefore a Bad. T'was big so therefore a Big Bad. An airborne menace? Very Bad. Conclusion: Very Big Bad. Very Big Bad neatly fit the patterns of most stimuli the herd did not wish to suffer and set still. Had they ample imagination the kodos might have mistook the particular Very Big Bad for a dragon. Dragons ate kodos, dragons made grass burn. Dragons were too Very Big Bad. A particularly loud backfire and shower of sparks from the phenomenon settled the matter and the kodos made near to riot, stomped about, butted against post rail, chomped at their bits and tugged at restraints.

Natji winced and Grekthrope swore. The animals at their head and feet balked to handlers resistance, tossed massive heads and threatened to stampede. Such did not bode well for fettered limbs, which bode even worse for the fettered limb owners. Natji called upon the boundless resources of his recent Hunter education and asserted firm quiet reassurance on the beasts as he'd done before. He augmented with accolades to the harried handlers' impressive skills and exuded goodwill. Grekthrope in turn responded to the predicament with steadfast goblin bravado: He bawled and begged for liquor in Common. Cursed the dirty kodos and the imbecile wranglers in Goblitesh.

The moment passed, eventually, as firm hands and the thwap of whips set the animals to a grudged right. A slap of leather brace across the goblin's chest hinted that the handler nearest might had had a glimmer of Goblitesh in her vocabulary. None seemed particularly concerned that they'd aborted what was, in effect, the primary intention of the execution pageant.

A hatch hinged and slammed down from the flyer fuselage midriff, so exposed a glimpse of metal ribs and jump seats in a slash of sunlight inside the ovoid cavity. So deployed the hatch made a short ramp to the ground. Such accomodated the exit of an impressively adorned goblin and his escort of two grim troll bodyguards from the flyer. Lastly each troll dragged chain leads attached to the shackled wrists of a pair of hooded humanoids, one tall and one short. The goblin palmed a whip of vestments at his chest with one manicured paw, waved his escort on with the other and they ducked through the tumult of propeller wash. A dash to keep up, his guards tugged on their chains and the captives stumbled blindly behind. The newcomers pushed through the grasses onto the Overland Trail and paused. The trolls checked the goblin and themselves for debris and pestilence, any lavish clothing out of place. Rechecked the humanoids' fetters. A signal from the goblin and the quintet took up a confident march toward the village. Eventually they thumped across the bridge into Bloodhoof with stoic and unhurried strides.

"May't nae be dead again?" Natji suggested.

"We may't nae be dead," Grekthrope agreed.

Between his twin towers of stern troll the diminutive green leader nodded curt greetings and spoke compliments to the boggle of tauren guards as they passed the gates. The nonplussed crowd parted warily to allow the newcomers an approach to the Elders struck silent before the improvisational and so-far-abortive gallows.

"Looks like he pulled all the best pimp," Grekthrope observed idly.

Natji struggled to see. "Who came?" he bid breathless.

A blink. "T'is Warchief Thrall," the goblin declared.

"Rally?" blurted the human.

"Rally nae," Grekthrope exclaimed. "T'is Jabbey 'n the Twins! Fuggin' gods are with us today," he whistled.

"Jabbey HERE?" Natji grunted. He lifted an incredulous brow. "Them gods best git outa the way."

Resplendent, Jabbey bowed low and heralded the grand taurens with solemnity. Talked as quickly as Taurahe could be managed. Not well. The newcomer's accent and grammar made the language an assault on even Natji's ears. The human quickly took in the situation. Translated for the sake of Grekthrope and shouted his corrections for the sake of their lives.

"Ye know who I be?" Jabbey held his hands outward in a standard gesture of peaceful approach. Met by a scatter of mumbles and other commentary among the throngs, mostly seemed to indicate a positive response. Acolytes and wranglers glanced among themselves. The foremost Elder nodded surly acknowledgement. ("They dun gotcha," Natji interjected.)

This earned an angelic smile. "Alas me good folk!" cried Jabbey. "We of the esteemed Steamwheedle Cartel beg ye Plains Dwellers don't cook (kill) me treasured vegetables (heroes) with mistake," the goblin boss said. "For grape pasta (good relations) I lift up the real weasels to ye..."

Jabbey slapped one of his own prisoner's shoulders. The hooded head jerked and the troll tugged the leash tight. The goblin continued with a nod. "Ye falsely accused me herd. The REAL weasels nearly milked the moon (escaped.)"

Jabbey showed his palms, "alas t'was grape crumble (good luck) that me own bulls lifted up the REAL weasels..."

("Caught, uh. Criminals. Uh, w-weasels works I s'pose," Natji stumbled a bit on the correction.)

Jabbey's ear twitched and he vexed at the Lost Pup.

"Hum," Grekthrope huffed. "Dinnae think Jabbey speak Taurahe," he contemplated idly.

"He din't," Natji replied. "Asked me afore we left... I say 'learn from Brenner.'"

"Cooky's helper?" Grekthrope queried. "Din't think he all thae bright. How goes?"

"I'm busy," Natji both explained and complained.

"Ugh," the goblin sagged.

Natji grimly continued his corrections. Still twisted around in futile acrobatics to view the exchange. Twice appeased by the human hunter's soothe, the kodo at his head lent a placid interest and no few ardent prods between dips for more grass.

The goblin boss had managed a renewed smile before he'd carried on. "So loosen me vegetables' (heroes') grass (bindings) and let them frolick back to a herd that loves them!" he asked in humble sincerity and near cryptology. Jabbey flicked his hand at his escort, "I almost lift up backwards (I offer in trade…)"

The goblin's grim bodyguards pushed forward with their own two prisoners. Hoods were flung off to reveal a destitute human and haggard dwarf. Both proposed replacement criminals were thoroughly restrained and almost unrecognizably battered. So stricken they peered pointlessly about with no little trepidation, alas redundantly masked by blindfolds. The wan couple wore wrinkled, poorly-fit cartel tabards not in Steamwheedle colors, smears of red clay still clung to the stained fabric. Though odd for drug dealers who plied their trade in the region of Mulgore, neither villain seemed to understand the languages exchanged. The dwarf did babble a string of Dwarvish which Natji did not bother translate. The human captive appeared to have swallowed a bug.

"Who the fug is they?" Grekthrope asked.

Natji didn't reply and his shrug went unseen.

All was stunned quiet until took in the sight, a particularly observant villager stepped forward and vocalized a reasonable concern in wheaty Low Common (an outrage!) The notion quickly gained some momentum among the witnesses. Folk nodded and the crowd bristled and stepped closer.

"So what if one t'ain't a goblin?!" Jabbey echoed, betrayed a baffled annoyance. "How's thae even matter?" He stomped a foot, turned back to address the Elders. "Am I to be unsexed (disappointed) by Tauren JUSTICE?" He emphasized the word for justice, he hoped. "Here be ye REAL uh, drug dealers," Jabbey had interjected the Orcish words for the subject.

("Sellers of bad fruit to the naive for profit," Natji attempted correction. Improvised.)

"They know Orcish I say!" Jabbey scowled back in Low Common. "How do you say 'kids?'" he asked more quietly.

("Calves," Natji said the Taurahe word.)

The boss sighed, repainted his smile grandly and finished with, "What know how many who ye calves Steamwheedle Cartel's most grape vegetables (heroes) have saved with this pretty grape sauce (heroic mission.)"

"Boss," Natji groaned quietly. "Per'aps I shoul-"

"Shut it," Jabbey sneered proudly.

The human sighed and sagged on his bonds, marked the moment as familiar.

"Ahem," a cough. Recovered his poise the Steamwheedle boss bowed low, held empty hands outright. "I lift up the actual, uh... sellers-of-bad-fruits-to-the-naive-for-profit and I mayhaps lift up backwards (trade) for my tasty vegeta-heroes."

He showed his palms to the Elders. "I trust to ye (untranslatable- proud?) wisdom," the goblin covered his heart with a spindly manicured claw. "Beg ye bring this matter to a flatulent justice," he ducked in a motion of somber pledge.

Long moments of thoughtful silence held pregnant. Finally a break in the tableau as a child screeched a query in naive demand to an momentarily inattentive parent. The audacity rated a hushed lightning reprimand and corrall of the offender youth against petticoats.

("Who's the pretty frog?" Natji translated dutifully and nearly choked.)

For his part, Jabbey responded with naught but a stately blink and only a slight shuffle.

The outburst brought the Elders back to life. Begun was a renewed round of discussion among the tauren leadership, backs turned. A few titters of nervous laughter from the crowd over a general rumble of dozens of quiet conversations. Tails whipped and manes shook. Hooves pointed, ears twitched. Insects buzzed their own tiny drama over the discussion. An impasse, a bellow of nonplussed rage. One outspoken Elder broke away from the Eldership and stomped off toward the main teepee with a wave of arms, a glare and a curse.

("Fools," Natji translated, blind to the goings on. "Smellin' of digested grass.")

"Gettin' somewhere eh?" Jabbey's brows lifted to the human. The boss goblin beamed back at the villagers, pursed his lips and rolled on his heels as he waited.

Grekthrope shrugged, "always gotta be somewhere."

The bigwigs haggled back and forth in their hectic scrum. A break to respond to more challenge and the majority waved to dismiss the exile and his tantrum. Huddled anew, continued the discussion. Their manner seemed mostly favorable and the dissenter had ducked in a huff into the main wigwam.

"Hey," Natji strained at his bonds. Nodded at the beast that demurely chewed cud over his arms. "Tauren sell here kodo trained fer mounts?"

He couldn't see the mildly dubious blinks of his compatriots.

"Ye cannae afford'em," Jabbey chided in Goblitesh. "'Sides, ye cannae ride."

"Dinnae ye want a fuggin' mechanostrider?" Grekthrope frowned, nose wrinkled. "T'is all ye go on about. Now ye want one of these fleabags?" He sneezed and held up, tensed wide-eyed as his kodos stirred. His head-end beast blinked tranquility with a grind of flat teeth. "Still," the restrained goblin managed. "Nice enough fleabags I 'spose," he admitted.

The wranglers and acolytes had failed to notice caught up with the Elders' drama.

The Lost Pup let his head drop. "Gotta understand th'beast," he muttered.

Finally the Elders nodded and stepped back. Turned and gestured animatedly. Jabbey twisted up a toothy grin to his vassals. Hiked up his gall and waltzed into the Elder midst. Blinked at, but eventually threw back on, an offered skin of Firewater. The goblin gagged, coughed a most humble thanks to the mountain of tauren that surrounded him. Recovered. Spoke quickly. After long minutes of doubtless awkward pleasantries (without Natji's assistance) the goblin again separated. He approached his imperiled folk triumphantly. Took a moment to grace the kodo handlers a regal and offhand goodwill.

"Hey Pup," the boss goblin whispered, leant close to Natji. "How I best say 'nae on the goblin but we got wiggle with the human?'" he asked earnestly.

The human in question glared. "By ye-self," he growled and jerked at his bonds.

Jabbey knelt closer. "Oh come on! These be delicate negotiations," the boss soothed. "Trust me," he concluded with a quirky smile and a pat of Natji's head.

The Lost Pup just glared to the trampled earth an arm's length below his nose.

"Trust me, Pup," Jabbey reassured into his ear. "Unless ye got better prospects."

"Slavers," the nearest guard barked and stamped a hoof. "The fug with all the gob talk?" the brute demanded and held the ball of his crop under Natji's chin. "Slaver secrets huh?"

Jabbey glowered at the affront.

The human sighed and translated the proper phrase to his boss while so directed to the tauren's confounded glower. Natji peered up the rod to the acolyte at the far end and he smirked. Nudged his shoulder toward the gilded goblin. "The frog dun say ye Elders be delicate," he denoted innocently.

His dimple twitched as his chin fell instantly released of the disciplinary brace.

A roar of indignation and the brute's whip cracked down between Jabbey's ears. The boss goblin hissed, hid his cringe under a cross of arms. Jabbey's bodyguards jumped awake, swept forward hands poised on hilt and pistol grip, set to murder. The potential disaster of troll escalation was forgone by but a grunt and timely lift of palm from the assaulted boss. A stunned moment of silence from witness and player alike. Recovered first, the Elders bawled wide-eyed outrage at the baffled guard. Jabbey smarted and further waved his trolls down. Dramatically rubbed at his scalp as he again stooped to Natji. He mumbled in ersatz of the requested phrase.

("Say human," Natji suggested evenly in Taurahe. "Nae pork," the human emended.) Across the grounds the Elders waved at the goblin boss enthusiastically. Jabbey nodded, repeated the word and spun on his heel, made his way back with a wary glance at the vicious acolyte. A frustrated show of palms at his Elders, a sag, and the guard stomped in retreat. Stood to, arms akimbo, beside his partner. Both glared down at the prisoners and grumbled anew.

Again the goblin boss met with the Elders with a splay of hand and an artistic caress of his recently injured pride. Again long snouts nodded and lips were a blur. Eventually there was a flurry of hand-to-palm gestures and, of course, another round of the Firewater skin. Again Jabbey wheezed, this time doubled over as the Elders stood in a mildly concerned circle. A curt signal as he recovered and his trolls marched in, gave up their leashed wards to the Elder's escort with a bow. The boss goblin returned to his vassals, smiled broadly. Stopped before the nearest wrangler and waggled his finger pleasantly toward the exonerated. "Cut'em loose," he requested amicably.

The kodo handlers milled about in uncertainty as the lead wrangler made a face. Jabbey tapped his foot, graced balmy an expectant smile, arms neutrally akimbo. The wranglers squinted and vexed back unmoved as the prime kodo handler slipped a helpless glance to his leadership. An annoyed nonverbal from an impatient Elder set the matter straight and the wranglers snapped to, dutifully ducked and grumbled. Approached the exonerated and leant in. Made commendable attempts to untie the knots, sputtered and cursed as they fumbled. Eventually a knife swipe severed Natji's bonds. The human caught himself on his hands and wavered upright.

Made and stood to the gilded goblin's side unsteadily. "Boss Jabbey," Natji acknowledged as he rubbed his wrists, kicked life into his legs. Jabbey smiled angelically.

Grekthrope struggled and cursed as tribesmen worked to release him. Hit the ground hard. Shook his head clear and also stumbled bloodlessly alongside the boss, "hey boss."

"Shush. Play along," Jabbey muttered to the duo at his side. "Gotta keep good rep with these hicks," said as he lifted Natji and Grekthrope's hands in his. Stood tip-toed and announced in confident Tarahe, "My veget- heroes are lifted up (saved!)" Dropped and he bowed again, pulled his cohorts with him. "The Steamwheedle Cartel thanks a sexy, sloppy stew (proud, wise folk.)"

A rumble of uncertain cheer came up from the witnesses. Gained momentum as Jabbey again lifted his arms high, still clasped his two exonerated cohorts' hands. Aside glared at his bodyguards expectantly. The Twins blinked... and curtseyed. Grekthrope nudged Natji and the two waved numbly. Impressed by the pageantry the crowd responded. Tauren hooves pounded the earth, dust rose. The crowd had indeed been bored. The Elders shuffled uncomfortably and looked on with only a slight roll of the eye.

So caught in the glorious moment the Steamwheedle Boss proclaimed loudly, "Me hereby beg holy worms drink someone's calves bury over sexy dirt. Burn quaintly!" Grinned proudly as his last syllable echoed through the village.

Echoed, because the tauren masses had froze and stared back in stunned silence.

"I ask the Gods gift ye offspring with fertile grasslands under plentiful rain and a peaceful sun!" Natji corrected with the common blessing. Vehemently.

The crowd nodded and there were a lot of "ohs."

"Hmm," Jabbey winced.

"Brenner t'was from Orgrimmar..." Natji started to explain but his voice faded. Quieted and darkened, his eyes slid sidelong.

The tauren shuffled and murmured, looked to a trumpet of defiance. The self-exiled Elder glared from the main teepee, had gathered a small entourage. All armed. The recently exonerated, the cartel leader and his escort noted the aggressors with some sharp concern. The unsatisfied tauren minority glowered at the Cartel folk and advanced with an evident fail of restraint. The appeased Elders rushed forward, hooves raised, gobbled of peace and good fortune. Strategically placed themselves in the path of and checked the irate approach.

"Git to the fuggin' plane. Quick," Jabbey bitched discreetly in prison-whisper Goblitesh. Grabbed his folk by the elbow and nudged his chin to his bodyguard. "Nae TOO quick." The Steamwheedle quintet slipped away, dared not to rush. Gave no little effort to force an unruffled manner. Eased only slightly as they passed the gates and the steely gaze of tauren guards unmolested. Unhappily the Twins held hands to hilts at the rear as the parade clumped across the bridge toward the flyer.

Jabbey made a point not to look back in their path. Took a deep breath. "Sorry. Late," he said idly, "should been this mornin'." He shrugged, "but gettin' the flyer clean't."

"Dinnae think e'er be ye come," Natji admitted.

"T'was a risk aye," Jabbey admitted. "Fuggin' Regolt still at large. No fuss. I'll flush the bastard out," he assured the duo.

The human slipped a dark glance sidelong to the Steamwheedle boss. Such went unnoticed and he stayed silent. Grekthrope beamed.

"By the by," Jabbey added. Lifted a brow to the Pup.

Natji snapped into a pantomime of loyal, respectful heed.

"I dinnae 'preciate gettin' me skull thumped," Jabbey griped. "Dockin' ye for that."

"Worth the eggs," Natji mumbled in Arakkoan.

"Fast wing funny," his goblin cohort tittered at his side.

"What's that?" Jabbey menaced, slowed his pace before them.

"Said, 'sorry' he did," Grekthrope interceded quickly.

"Sure he did," the boss sneered unconvinced. "Ye both-"

"On the subject," Grekthrope asserted, again in haste. "I wanna file a complaint."

"Eh," Jabbey recovered his pace, turned away. Habitually painted a rictus altruism. "Ye opinions be important to us," he promised.

"Them lawyers," Grekthrope continued, "them Orcs be useless. Got the thrice-damn cows to murderin' us. Bolted quick as harpies they did."

"All part of the plan," Jabbey reassured him. "Them Orcs performed adequately."

"Bid us death and dun run off?" Grekthrope persisted, incredulous. "Save we asses ye paid'em for... and hold up the proceedin's 'till rescue come!"

"Nae quite," the boss explained, patted the air. "I realized some Venture Coe villains hadda get the axe. In public. Else someone might figger things out. Situation changed."

"Buried them Venture Coe pushers," Natji noted. "Who them folk?" he nudged a shoulder at the village in their wake. "And why them tauren callin' us 'slavers' all sudden?"

"We killed them Venture dealers," Grekthrope clarified. "On the first day. Them tauren rally right piss't... even afore Natji started talkin' 'bout them womenfolk," he explained thoughtfully. "Seemed to think we slavin' out someone called Grimetootems." He eyed Natji for reassurance. His human nodded.

"Grimtotems. Heh. Ye gonna love this," Jabbey grinned, "I dun killt two… nae, six birds with one stone."

The two fixers glared dubiously.

"Them two replacements be from some Alliance Guild… be couriers," Jabbey chortled wickedly. "Them guild bosses needed them carry some relics back East. Too damn important for the Griffs I 'spose. So I stepped up to help them out."

"Dinnae look too helped out to me," Natji observed astutely, looked over his shoulder. Verifiably the surly acolytes were still engaged in a vigorous demonstration of Bloodhoof Village hospitality on the newly-acquired replacement condemnants. Assuredly the unconvinced faction was still held up by the Elder majority.

A tsk from the lead goblin. "They din't pay too well," Jabbey explained, "had a change of heart. FAR better use for'em."

The flyer pilot noted the Steamwheedle contingent clear the village, set high throttles and the brawny machine hunkered down against the brakes poised for a minimal takeoff run. A banshee dance of grasses and the lake in frantic ripples fled out from the hurricane of propwash. A swarm of embers from the village bonfires smoky swirled about the local witnesses in blink and swat fascination on the newest exhibition of justified brutality and leadership drama.

"Okay," Grekthrope grudged. "But them lawyer folk get got away with a half-ass… naw, thrice-damned kobold cluster of a job," he insisted.

"They weren't nae REAL lawyers," Jabbey corrected. "Orcs t'was from Camp Mojache on the hunt for the very-same dusty relics… outa Feralas. Jist a couple hunters. Them Alliance guildies carryin' some mighty interestin' relics 'seems."

"Dinnae make sense," the Lost Pup complained.

"I follow," Grekthrope elbowed his human, "I'll 'splain after." He nodded to his boss, "Go on."

"So I told them Hordies the relics-scrolls they was-be theirs... if they dun me a little favor," Jabbey smiled. "Alliance guildies become our new villains. Orcs be the hero lawyers and get their dusty scrolls for they own purpose."

"So ye let'em go," Grekthrope shook his head, exchanged frowns with Natji.

"First class," Jabbey shrugged. "Even gave'em free zeppelin passes to Grom'Gol," he added proudly.

Natji shook his head and swore. Grekthrope betrayed little more pleasure but a tad more patience.

"Oh relax," Jabbey chided. "Had the Iron Eagle pick'em up. Met on the Barrens near where we grabbed them Alliance Couriers." He gave a vicious little laugh. "Ye know the 'Eagle's Sky-Captain owes me for his little domestic SNAFU," he denoted.

Grekthrope blinked. The goblin's nose twitched on the first hints of a Bigger Plan. He tipped his chin, betrayed his curiosity and bade the boss to conclude. Natji, less equipped to detect high-order goblin malfeasance, stayed himself barely mollified and silent.

"Hate loose ends," the Steamwheedle boss went on. "AND I have a mighty concern for the welfare of the endangered Black Nose Dolphin in the Great Sea ye know."

The human and his goblin partner somehow managed perplexity in unison.

Jabbey rolled his eyes at their ignorance. "So I told the Sky-Captain his orc passengers were gonna feed the fishes," he explained. "They nae got to Grom'Gol. Shame."

"These relics... scrolls?" Grekthrope asked hungrilly.

"Eh," Jabbey shrugged. "Tacked up in the Captain's suite on the 'Eagle." The boss made a motion of wide arms. "Guess he thinks they pretty. 'Course I know where they be… jist in case someone rally gonna pay. Sky Captain dinnae read Gnomish no how."

"Gnomish?" Grekthrope prodded. "Gnome-speak from Feralas?"

"Nae a clue," Jabbey admitted evenly. Yawned. "Who cares? Been a long day."

"Busy," Natji groaned. "Whynaw jist give the fuggin orcs to Bloodhoof?"

"Pup, ye a great killer," Jabbey patted the human's arm. "But ye nae an artist like me," he grinned.

The contact between the goblin and human produced an odd change in the nearby prairie. A perpendicular trace of disturbed grass had faintly betrayed a predator at stalk. A bold creature that hunted with a grizzled lack of concern for the ruckus of technology or the advantage of numbers or steel in his prey. At the catalyst of Jabbey's touch the disturbance increased with the predator's ambition and speed, angled in as beast moved to intercept said unawares prey exposed on the Overland path. A whine of bloodlust and crash aside of overgrowth, the bloodthirsty charge of razor hooves and saber tusks. Tiny pitiless eyes locked on the human with a determination of instinct. A snort and sneer bore in, red dust wake rocketed dead-set on the hapless targets.

The two goblins shouted alarm. A troll jerked free a snub-nosed pistol from his tunic as his partner's blade cleared its sheath. Both bodyguards were a sudden shield of armor and grim professional detachment between Jabbey's gape and the unexpected threat.

The fatal charge skidded to a stop inches from Natji's leg. The human seemed relieved, indeed the clicks of his tongue against his cheek had seemed a tad urgent until the boar relented. The human smirked a slightly breathless reassurance to his companions, butted off his gait by a burly nudge for attention by his pet as they moved on.

The beast huffed and sputtered, porcine back end wiggled, the odd corkscrew tail shook. Nosed in and roughly sniffed at the human, a boggle over the confused patina of scents in the sharp, black little eyes. Natji smirked and scratched at the boar's cowlick. The burly beast took up a serine trot, considered the bodyguards' stand-down glares of annoyance with an insolent blithe.

"Ah hah," Jabbey gasped. "Thae the new pet? I hear 'bout'em," he mused. He straightened his ruffled dignity and made a pointed examination of the surly creature, nose wrinkled. Wisely he snatched his hand back from a dart of red-rimmed black glower. "What sorta name t'is Grampose?" the goblin pondered as he verified his digits.

"Jabbey t'was taken," Natji mumbled.

The boss rolled his eyes at the Lost Pup. "Well dismiss the pork chop. Nae pissin' in me flyer. Just clean't ye know." Fretted back as the boar grunted and glared.

The hunter blinked. He clicked his tongue. A kick and huff of beastly indignation and Grampose faded, banished to magick storage. "The flyer?" Natji asked as his unheeded hand prodded at the sudden small bulge grown from his beltline under his tunic.

Grekthrope elbowed against his human. "Thought ye had him under control!" he chided in Arakkoan.

"We still learnin'," Natji shrugged.

"Anything I should know?" Jabbey asked without a turn about.

"Why they," Grektrhope threw a thumb over hs shoulder. "Why they callin' us slavers?" he asked quickly.

"Ah. Gettin' to thae," the boss waved dismissively. Urged up in pace by bodyguard prod the entourage continued toward the flyer. Jabbey peered back to the village. A gold-capped grin split his countenance as he spotted the two exchanged prisoners distantly frogmarched between their hostile tauren escort. "Celebrate me boyos!" he declared. "The Venture Company 'Bloom trade been squashed," he smiled at his two Fixers. "Get me new pushers out here in no time… Take up on the demand. A new franchise and profits for all!"

"Good we inna herd thae loves us," Natji muttered.

"Slavers," Grekthrope reminded them.

"Pish. Ye me best troubleshooters," Jabbey soothed. "Got a nice cushy job in Feralas for ye." He betrayed a moment troubled, "kinda a rush though. Flyin' ye right to the former smugglers' camp. With me old rival Regolt still creeping about, gotta hunker back to the roost soonest."

"Ye rally takin' us flyin'?" the Lost Pup blurted with a perk of rare, honest interest.

"Shuddup Natji... slavin'?" Grekthrope winced at the more poignant concern and waved his human off. "Why we slavers all oh sudden?"

"Jist to Dire Maul," Jabbey murmured offhand. He stopped short of the worst of the propeller wash a few yards shy of the flyer. His bodyguards and the Fixers nearly trampled him, attentions still lingered on their wake. He frowned at their awkward disentanglement.

"Feralas, Dire Maul, Grimtotems, smugglers," he counted and held upright his fingers, punctuated with "slaves" and an upright thumb. His growl grew more aspirated, "smugglers dinnae listen. Too caught up in old scrolls and guildie folk gold." He dropped two fingers. "AND sellin' Grimtotems as slaves," two more fingers folded and the Steamwheedle boss shook his head in artful frustration. "THEN they play loose with MY ports to the 'Maul," he bitched. "Givin' a bunch of pissant guildie fugtards MY SECRET MAGICK," he shrilled and held his thumb prominent. "The "Maul t'is Steamwheedle racket 'cause only I got the ways in and the good guides. We smuggle the 'Maul finds or charge thems who want in. Simple."

Natji and Grekthrope blinked, lifted a brow each and eventually nodded.

The Twins maintained wary swivels alert on the savanna, though one troll rolled his eyes at the outburst and the other just sighed. No doubt Jabbey's bodyguards had heard the tirade repeatedly on the flight overland from the 'Port.

"Grimtotem slaves and 'Maul scrolls," the boss poohed. "Both got the Horde all worked up. I gotta go runnin' all over Azeroth with me arse hangin' out. Tryin' to calm things down." He lifted his chin indignantly. "So why me?" he flagged a finger at his audience.

"Ye dip-lo-ma-tic," Natji replied simply.

Jabbey stared at him.

Grekthrope jabbed his elbow at the human's gut.

Natji shrugged, ducked and shook his head.

Jabbey sighed, lifted his gaze skyward. "Cause my best fixers off fixin' friggin' Murloc Bloom biz that MY predecessor," he spat. "Trade that MY predecessor let slip." He tipped his head. "I assume we ARE done here?"

Grekthrope prodded Natji and both agreed with spirited nods.

"Swell." Steamwheedle's prime goblin let his eyes wander as he cursed under his breath. His glare happened to meet with the eyes of the Twins. His bodyguards gave quick, impatient acknowledgment and returned to a concerned overwatch on the environs at large. Triple digits tapped on hilts.

"As for the slavin'," the boss looked askance. "As ye find out, word gits 'round."

"Grimtotems?" Grekthrope prodded.

"Bah," The boss lifted a brow. "Jist a bunch of tauren who decided fire and the wheel t'was overrated 'bout a dozen or six years ago. Simple life, ye know?" he harrumphed. "I guess Feralas be grade-A basket-weavin' territory to'em…. Anyhoo, Grimtotem folk be thrice-damn protected; a nae-go for the flesh market. Horde touchy 'bout it. Besides themselves ye see, blame all of Steamwheedle for no-no slavin'."

He lifted a hand to corral any comment. "I know ye two not keen on that biz..."

Verily, the countenances he considered were troubled. And surly.

"Steamwheedle nae slavers," Natji grumbled.

"'Cept the penals," Grekthrope denoted with a lift of finger.

"Oh course," Jabbey shrugged, red-faced he patted reassurance in the air between them. Reached out and tugged the duo into a close huddle. "Slavin'. Don't want THAT rep," the boss elaborated. "I dinnae think my smugglers git them ideas all on their ownsies."

Jabbey jabbed a finger at the pair. "Ye two goin' to Feralas. Find me former smugglers' friends. Bury'em deep. Bury'em bloody. Let the rumors fly. Steamwheedle dinnae trade in slaves. Only WE run the 'Maul."

The two Fixers grinned. Grektrhope nodded. "How hard we gotta convince them Grimtotems?"

"Eh. Keep murder to a minimum," Jabbey corrected him. "Jist work some, uh, fear oh gods stuff wit'em. Grimtotems do make them some fine baskets… and trinkets," he added thoughtfully.

Again a response of grinned comprehension.

The boss stood to full gall, upright and beamed, "Fix the slavin'. Fix the Steamwheedle rep. Then jist sit back and run guild folk in Dire Maul on their little escapades. Use MY secret ports." He wagged a finger under their noses. "T'is good money in thae racket. Jist till I find some new suckers-I mean volunteers-for the Dire Maul ops."

"Know naught 'bout Dire Maul," Natji murmured. "Place be rough. Big mana. Big baddies. So we hear." He squinted at a gather of clouds over the distant cliffs on the northwest horizon.

"Ogres up the yin-yang," Grekthrope agreed unhappily. "Demons. Banshees. Hear both Feathermoon n' Mojache crackin' down on smugglin'."

"Pish! Old fart elves and Horde tourists," Jabbey waved a dismissive hand. "No slavin' and things clam right down. 'Sides, we got PREEMO maps and some nice crooked local guides. T'is a cakewalk, all profit... a vacation I say!"

"Women?" Grekthrope ventured hopefully.

Another poignant glance from his bodyguard and Jabbey nodded. A grunt and the boss ushered his entourage toward the flyer hatch. "Nae rally," he admitted offhand as they moved into the propwash. "Oh. Watch them Grimtotems… guess they aggressive xenophobes an' xeno-celibate ta boot."

Grekthrope sagged and groaned.

"Wha thae all mean?" Natji asked at his ear as Jabbey waved off their concerns.

"Nae rally a vacation," Grekthrope tugged at his sleeve and mourned.

The human rolled his eyes and drooped.

"Flyin' ye in," Jabbey announced quickly. "Quickest way in. Plus we wow the local color-a little show of force sure to help ye in ye tasks."

Natji nodded numbly. His hair flailed and he grinned up at the flyer. The massive machine shook of unimaginable energies, coiled down on squat oleo struts to fat wheels buried in the swirl of prairie grasses. He stopped, mesmerized by a blur of the nearest propeller. His nostrils flared under assault of oily dragonbreath.

"Kodos nae gonna like it," Grekthrope griped and slipped an uneasy glance to his human. He took in the boyish wonder and grinned automatically. Grabbed the human's double-looped belt and pulled the Pup along. "What 'bout the Steamwheedle smugglers? They started the mess," he yelled above the tumult.

"Sorry," Jabbey shouted back. "MY fools, MY privilege to fix THEM loose ends," he grinned. Turned on a heel at the ramp. Waved the duo up to the flyer hatch. Signaled his bodyguards with a single curl of finger. Stopped Grekthrope short and cupped his hand at his fixer's ear. "Blacknoses gonna gain some weight this week!" he laughed. At that he turned and trudged up into the fuselage, left Grekthrope to nod his appreciation on the ramp. Steamwheedle's prime goblin disappeared into the womb of darkness, the Twins marched behind him.

Natji followed on the heels of the bodyguard, brushed past Grekthrope. He spared a glance to his partner and his dimple twitched before his eye was drawn by some other hypnotic machine detail. T'was such a rare introspection! Again he was stayed with an unsuppressed ragged grin of boyish wonder. Grekthrope allowed him a heartbeat before he shoved him along. Guided left through the hatch by a crewman, the human awkwardly dropped onto a jumpseat. Head twisted about as he scrunched into the goblin-scale accommodations nested in a corrugate of metal ribs. He found himself sat across from Jabbey, so paused he met the goblin's twist of gratification. He blinked into the dim artificial blue found in the belly of the beast.

"Ye ne'er flew afore," Jabbey shouted.

Natji shook his head.

"He ain't," Grekthrope hollered from the door. "'Cept on griffs," he added with a shrug.

Jabbey beamed. He reached across and patted the human's knee, his hand had materialized from the green-blue murk under a glitter of gold-capped and sharpened teeth, pylon perked ears, a lump of shadow fused with the dark shiver.

Dark skinned, clad in what of his leathers the tauren had allowed him kept in captivity, Natji was but a wiry silhouette hunched into the curve of fuselage. His grin glowed back impossibly wider.

"T'is Steamwheedle, boyo!" The Big Boss proclaimed with a rare twinge of honest pride. The engines coughed and blatted and he snatched a handhold on his seat and leant in. Natji mimicked him and they were near nose-to-nose in the slim fuselage.

The goblin was all gold and gloat as he shouted, "mana-smanna!" He winked. "Fug the ogres AND them flowers kid. The fun JIST begun!" he promised, all teeth and ears.

The Lost Pup stared for a breath. His dimple twitched. A creak of hydraulics and a rip of combustion, the flyer jerked into motion. The human nodded and ducked, craned around and became hopelessly riveted on the prismatic portal over his shoulder.

Grekthrope had tarried just inside the hatch, gripped tight and swayed as yellow and red blurred past the opening. The wail of engines in banshee concert, a staccato of backfires and a stream of black smoke past the ovoid of prairie as the door/ramp scythed grass. A strain of spindly goblin limbs and spine against acceleration. A bounce, a last slam of wheels on the earth and the big ship clawed skyward. The pilot fed a surplus of power through the intakes, t'was no doubt eager as his passengers to see Mulgore put to their wake. A thought, and Grekthrope slipped a sidelong glance. But his human was hopelessly rapt wide eyed and tucked up at a prismatic portal, sky glare in steel blue eyes under a hard brow, a jag of chin and hungry cheeks. A flash of teeth, taught a very goblin smile. Tanned and gaunt, all elbows and knees. The investment had matured raised in years of blood and profit.

Grekthrope grinned. Yep, they were good. Had to be. Steamwheedle's best. T'was one of them moments, he decided and allowed himself thoughts not of profit, but silly emotions. Live forever, he thought for some reason. His gaze fell down on Bloodhoof as they banked over the village center. A glance to sky, a dragon in the distance. A bronze; Rare.

Eventually the goblin was ousted by a crewman's duty to secure the hatch and fell aside to a jumpseat. The goblin mused on unlamented memories and his last visage of thrice-damned Mulgore.

In Bloodhoof Village the hapless replacement villains had been led to the nearest anvil by the laconic Elders in a parade with two grim acolytes took up the rear. Massive two-handed axes held ready in bloodless hands, eyes dark and angry on the necks of a near-panic dwarf and inconsolable human. The condemned had doubtless grown wise as their blindfolds were cast off to saucers of terror and a sputter of useless blather. The wranglers returned their kodos to the corral, shoulders sagged and grudged vigilant with whips wary for any disruption as the flying machine roared away.

"Sure," Grekthrope murmured, unheard over a cacophony of goblin state-of-the-art malfeasance. "Now them hicks get out the fuggin' axe," he bitched to himself.

Eventually Grekthrope Zang Witx Frong let his head loll, eyes closed tight. Sought shuteye but expected to find ogres and the curse of slavers in his slumber. A particularly sooty hack from an inboard engine and he winced, bloodless gripped his chair frame. He hated air travel: Midair breakups cast broken bodies to a prolonged spiral downward. Victims burned slowly in magick-fused metal heaps. Twisted wretches bled out slow or froze solid trapped in crumpled wreckage smashed on the jagged spears of isolated mountains.

Not at all preferred: To be beheaded was still top of HIS list.