Copyright, Helmholtz Pillus, 2009. Warcraft and all related fiction, characters, settings and any other fabricated devices belonging to the franchise are property of Blizzard, and are used without permission. Any characters that have not appeared before in anything sanctioned by Blizzard are of my own creation and may not be used without permission.

The Sleeping Mines

Or

An Informal Yet Accurate Depiction of the Life of Marsz, the Faded Inferno, as interpreted by Helmholtz of Gilneas

Marsz felt more guilty drinking from his water skin than he would have had there been a drop of liquid anywhere around him. He found it somewhat vexing that there was no familiar drip-drop echoing in the distance, as he had become accustomed to in his previous underground exploits, which were not few by any means. It had been long since his last encounter with the Deadmines, as I have mentioned more than once, but he could specifically remember small patches of water around the place, of which there now were none. The mines, it seems, were completely without water, save that which Marsz kept with him, and had begun treating as something of a personal treasure.

That was not the only thing that had changed within the mines. In its past it was never easy to navigate but now that the number of tunnels had grown exponentially it felt, to Marsz at least (who admittedly possessed a rather pitiful sense of direction), rather impossible to find anything. Marsz had never been an able tracker and could not at all tell the difference between his own tracks and anyone else's nor even see any tracks for the most part.

Despite this, he was never quite lost. Marsz enjoyed referring to what he called the luck. It was this luck of his, perhaps, that spurred him into the right direction for he would begin trudging along a pathway only to suddenly decide that he was going the wrong way, after which he would journey back a little and start again along a different passage. I do believe in luck, only a pompous fool would not, but I have come to believe that it is not luck that directs Marsz but something of a less haphazard nature. Indeed, this odd paladin was caught within the invisible yet powerful hands of fate. However, when you have come to live a life like mine you realize that luck and fate are two separate entities working independently from one another. It is when these two mysterious forces meet in opposition that things truly become interesting. Especially since fate can rarely, so hard as it might try, predict what luck is planning. This is because luck rarely considers its actions before performing them.

Were Marsz of a rational mind, as he sometimes is, he may have accredited his successful routing to his memory, which was generous enough to pick up certain familiarities about the place, buried deep within his subconsciousness, and guide him toward where he needed to go.

On that note, he thought, where exactly was he going? Where was his destination? He asked himself this question as he planted one foot in front of the other.

He had arrived, after hours of trepidatious wandering, at a room Marsz recognized as that which once belonged to VanCleef's Foreman, the worker or tradesmen who was in charge of the construction crew. The chamber was adorned with dark, dusty crates, some of which had been broken into, and what appeared to be large brass or bronze bits of machinery. These had become dirty beyond any relation to their former colour, obviously unused and uncared for. The high ceiling had a heavy, four-face lantern at its centre. The lantern was unlit, however, and three of the four circular glass panes were either broken or removed entirely. Marsz need not have even taken notice of the infinite cobwebs about the place to realize that the Foreman's place of work had been left to its own long ago.

"I wonder," spoke him to himself, "why they do not keep the prisoners here..."

Seeing this room helped memories resurface to the forefront of his mind. He had run into battle against the first ogre he had ever seen without a weapon with which to fight it. In his excitement and anxiety, Marsz had left behind his hammer (which had been much smaller than that which he now carried) and was forced to fight with his shield. He could remember thinking, as Cheifner resolutely tried to test his strength against the bulking creature, that the group really could have used JT's talents in such a battle. A silly thought, really. If JT had been with them, they would not have been there rescuing him in the first place. This image was followed by several others. He saw Cheifner's duel of blades upon a half-finished mast, suspended many feet above the ground, against a mechanical monstrosity, and Gamook's ricocheted shot, replacing the Smelter's eye with a bullet as the goblin held Denitian's face inches from one of the basins of lava attached to the centre pillar. Suffice to say, had the little dwarf blundered his shot any more than had, in hitting the wall instead of the goblin, it may have rebounded into the night elf's eye, which would have been unfortunate indeed. Not only that, but had Denitian not been exerting a significant amount of force already to keep the Smelter from killing him, he might have perished under the weight of the dead goblin. The next image was at the bottom of a ship. He could almost hear the horrifying crack of Noa's arm, caught between the fists of an enormous dark-haired tauren and the splash as his limp body was thrown into the water. Finally Marsz saw the highest point of the ship, where all hell broke loose.

That was where Marsz must go. Surely there would be answers there, if nothing else. VanCleef had used all his resources to reconstruct an ogre juggernaut, a ship employed by the Horde during the First War. He presumably intended to lay siege to Stormwind, to destroy the city he had helped build. Luckily, the juggernaut never left port. They had stopped him before he could carry out his massacre. Nothing had been done about the ship, however. At least, considering the level of attention shown toward the rest of the mines, Marsz could only assume that the ship remained where he and the others had left it, untouched.

His eyes did not so much widen as they drooped despairingly. He could not possibly guess at what this place's new master had planned, but there was a very good chance it involved that damned ship. Still, this did not account from the prisoners... or whatever it was they actually were. It did present an explanation for the lack of guards. The new master was trying to keep a low profile, to remain hidden and undisturbed.

Marsz was beginning to wish he hadn't chosen to come alone. He could always turn back, of course, but what if that gave these deviates all the time they needed?

He sighed. It was his duty to stay. He tried to reason with himself, to convince himself that the outcome would be worse should he perish within and fail to alert anyone of the danger, but to no avail. Denitian, his older friend, knew he was here. Should Marsz meet his end, people would come looking. He had no choice but to press on. His honour demanded it. He would be a coward otherwise.

Ahead was a corridor that branched off into several paths. At least one of them, if his memory served him, lead to the lumber room. He guessed at which one this was and started down it. He winced, as he walked, with every step. His footfalls were like drumbeats upon the stone-ridden soil. He could not be silent, no matter how he tried. This was more for his impatience than his lack of finesse, although his want of the latter was strong indeed.

He did not walk long before he was bathed in darkness. Behind him was the light of some lantern, blocked perhaps by jutting rock. Ahead of him was nothing. It seemed the lumber room was as abandoned as the Foreman's office. Marsz hesitated, briefly, before turning back. The dark was not his friend. It festooned him no protection but kept his enemies hidden and safe. It was within his power to illuminate dim passages but such actions would certainly alert the villains to his presence more so than his heavy feat. He would prefer the brigands of this place to be ignorant of his existence for as long as possible.

Returning to the crossroads he found that most of the tunnels lead into darkness. All, in fact, but the tunnel he had first come through and one other. The second glowed with an angry red radiance that was hardly more comforting than any of Marsz's other options. Still, with a grim sense of determination he walked onward into fire.