Navarion wore plainclothes for the first time in many weeks as he dressed himself that afternoon. It felt great to wear a simple shirt again instead of a leather jerkin and some chainmail, and he grinned wide as he flexed his fully healed shoulders back and forth.

"You can almost feel it in the air, can't you?" he asked the deaf blood elf crew member rhetorically. He wasn't even facing the man, and for sure the guy had no idea he was talking anyway, but Navarion was too elated to care. "We achieved something here. We really did make a difference."

He stretched his back, finding that for the first time since the battle at the bandit camp, his muscles weren't sore. It had taken him three days to recuperate, sleeping off much of his time as he switched between sulking over the loss of two people close to him, shirking his patrol duties to rest his wounds and being invited for meals by various locals grateful for the work the cartel had done for them. As low key and informal as always, the meals and their associated conversations had been light, and the tribespeople had given Navarion plenty of time to rest, repair his armor, recover his wards and help clean up camp. There was plenty to do in the last three days before the arrival of the first foreign ship - the Steamwheedle Cartel ship set to take stock of what the locals had to trade and to decommission the construction phase of their operations there. So busy had he been that he'd only passed Izzy twice, had no time to actually speak to her at length, and had only been able to attend a single meeting at the longhouse where Taiji and the parents of the four kidnapped children officially expressed their gratitude to the cartel.

Finally, with official business out of the way and his decommissioning document ready for his signature in the cartel ship, Navarion would be able to set about his new life after what hadn't been his biggest adventure, but what had felt like the one where he had made the biggest impact as an individual. He inhaled the crisp air outside when he exited the tent, a pleasant odor of ocean salt from the shore added to the mountain air descending from the high ridges to the west. Far, far in the distance, those grey-blue ridges were just barely visible, a stark contrast to the flat veldt of the Barrens or the smothering canopy of Ashenvale. One day the Hinterlands would be tamed, he thought, but that day would be a long time coming.

Most of the crew members had already disassembled their tents and packed their supply crates. Most of them would actually be leaving on the ship, and traveling on to new construction and maintenance projects elsewhere; the work was never finished for Steamwheedle. The clearing where their camp had been for over two months looked empty after so much of the equipment had been moved to the docks, a signal that his time in service of those other than himself had come to an end.

Feeling like a million gold pieces, the biracial young man strutted down the dirt roads, passing by numerous residential huts on his way to the pier. The workers had constructed a control office there to represent the cartel presence at Raventusk City, and there would be a brief meeting their to officially end the job and dole out new assignments to those remaining on board. All the way there, locals passed him like normal, treating him as if her were one of their own and going about their business without fanfare. A handful waved to him while passing about on their daily chores, but for the most part he had become accepted. It was a great feeling, to have a place to be where he was just normal, and his suede shoes squeaked on the ground as the brand new docks came into view.

They were quite a sight, really. Not quite as elaborate as the port of, say, Ratchet or Stormwind, but for an overgrown village they did stick out. Three large piers jutted out into the sea, ready to service medium to moderately large sized cargo and passenger ships. The size of them were daunting and, when the project started more than two months ago, he had honestly doubted that it would be finished on time due to the slow work rate of the tribespeople. Give the sheer number of unemployed, however, the elders had simply thrown more and more labor at the project until the twelve cartel laborers ended up working shifts twenty four hours a day to supervise the overly eager Raventusk workers. When they saw that their manual labor could cause tangible differences in short amounts of time, they took to the project with gusto, and locals not even involved in the project began to expand the city's stock of smaller vessels for fishing and local transport. Already, numerous Raventusk boats hauled in salmon, lobsters, clams and one even dragged in a whale for blubber and meat. A shipyard had been built under supervision of Vegnus despite that not having been part of the deal, and he promised to negotiate with the incoming Steamwheedle ship for a proper shipwright to be sent to train younger locals. Altogether, the project had been completed astoundingly well, both ensuring the future of a formerly stagnating, overpopulated remote city and guaranteeing the cartel duty free imports and exports for a good amount of time.

Speaking of which...the first ship appeared to have already arrived and moored next to the Steamwheedle operations office, off to one side.

Picking up the pace, Navarion hurried across the dirt road leading to the docks, enjoying the rustic path as more locals passed by him casually. He could already see some of the cartel workers congregating outside, and some of them were people he didn't recognize - members of the recently arrived ship's crew. Just barely, he could spot Nephentha's serpentine tail beyond the doorway to the office, and he pushed past all the goblins, orcs and humans to make his way inside.

Benches and chairs filled a large reception area ringed by maps and charts all over the walls; goblins were never the type to leave an inch of space unused. He could see Vegnus seated with one of the big bosses from Ratchet behind the long reception counter and in the back room, and felt a little embarrassed that he may have missed some of the meeting. Nephentha already spotted him and dragged him behind the counter, her movements fluid and uninhibited since her wounds had fully healed.

"I've been looking all over for you, you're late," she whispered in Nazja, never seeming to enjoy speaking Common to him when they were away from others.

"Sorry, I took my time getting ready this morning. It's just been a while since we were able to wake up not in pain or on a twelve hour shift." The office had been constructed according to the size of smaller races, and he had as much difficulty as she did squeezing around all the laughing, chatting off duty sailors and laborers in order to fit behind the counter.

She tugged him forward past two local forest trolls who had been recruited into the cartel; apparently there weren't enough ogre sized uniforms and they simply wore Steamwheedle armbands in addition to their loincloths and sandals. Nephentha actually had to push the back of Navarion's neck down before he hit his head on the doorway leading to the back room, so euphoric was his feeling at being able to sign off and be done with servitude.

Vegnus, Traska, the warband squad leader and numerous goblins turned to greet them as they walked in. At the head of the table sat Gazlowe Junior, son of the founder of Ratchet and a shrewd businessman in his own right. True, he had taken over his father's position as head of Ratchet, but only through hard work and raw talent; Gazlowe Senior had never been one to put nepotism before efficiency. Unlike many of the other goblins, Gazlowe Jr.'s head and limbs were proportional to his body and he actually had a discernible neck, truly looking like an adult of a small race rather than an overgrown child of a tall race. Navarion had even heard non goblin women describe the young businessman as handsome, but his shark's grin evoked serious rather than suave.

"Hey, Hearthglen, right?" Gazlowe Jr. asked in a friendly enough manner. "Take a stool, your supervisor here already debriefed us and has everything ready."

He took time pulling a wheeled cushion over for Nephentha first, taking extra care to put on a gentlemanly act when people from his home town were observing. Vegnus shot him a stern look, though whether it was due to Navarion's lack of punctuality or false display, the young man did not know. Once he had himself situated, the sheet bearing the acknowledgment statement of having completed his assignment was slid in front of him before anyone else spoke. If there was one thing he loved about goblins the most, it was that they didn't waste time or mince words.

"Thanks, uncle Vegs," the young man murmured while he read over the agreement quickly.

"For those of you not on regular contracts, of course there's just a cash payout; no insurance coverage or company accounts involved," Gazlowe Jr. explained gleefully. He had likely gone through this monologue before, but harping about rules and regulations never seemed to tire the short green man. "You're free to go at your own leisure, and of course the door is always open whenever you're ready to sign up for your next assignment. Or for a long term work contract. It's your funer...I mean, choice. Right."

It only took Navarion a second to sign, eliciting just as big a grin from the businessman upon seeing another obligation ended. "I might check in with you guys in the near future, but for now, I'll be hanging around here a bit," he said, not paying attention to what he was saying just as the goblins didn't appear to be paying attention to it as they counted his wage, produced a compact iron container and then deducted the cost of the container from his wage before he would notice.

Nephentha snorted her surprise at his claim of remaining behind, and Vegnus' already tight lips pursed even tighter, to the point where they almost turned white. Noticing the tension but not knowing the source, Traska tapped the fingernails of her good hand on the table next to the angry dwarf. "Perhaps we should review the actual plans for your departure here with your organization's supervisor."

At that comment, Gazlowe Jr.'s eyes actually did light up in interest. "Yeah, actually I was wondering about your estimated time of arrival. We could really use your skills at the project over in Dustwallow."

"It's been a good number of decades since what happened in Theramore," the sole human member of the cartel management representatives sighed sadly. "It sure will be nice for the renewal project to kick off."

Looking at the table for a moment to calm his nerves, Vegnus cleared his throat to speak. "We fully intend to participate in the reconstruction project, but it's been a long few years in the Eastern Kingdoms. We wouldn't really mind some down time back home in Ratchet first."

"So I've been told," Gazlowe Jr. mumbled while scribbling on a schedule of labor divisions and movement of ships and material that had been slipped over to him.

"We heard the next passenger ship heading to the new port here will cast off for Northrend, which isn't where we need to go. I have a dear Forsaken friend back in Ratchet who negotiated for us to enter New Southshore. From there, we can take-"

"Our first cartel ship sailing to and from a Forsaken port," Gazlowe Jr. interrupted politely, but wanting to get to the point. "You have a whole week; I'm assuming you'll fly to Arathi and then take the overland route into Hillsbrad?"

"Yes, exactly, and we expect to be there about a day ahead of time for the voyage back to Ratchet," Vegnus confirmed.

"Six days. Got it. You and Nepha here, right?" The goblin kingpin continued scribbling, trying to keep an accurate record of where his workers would be at any given time.

Vegnus stared at Navarion long and hard, but the young man refused to return his gaze. None of the goblins even took notice, all of them too enveloped in their note taking and calendar marking to pay attention. Not wanting to let the tension linger, Navarion answered for them. "Yes. I might join up at a later time."

Finished after some furious scribbling, Gazlowe Jr. looked up, dissolving the tension via his upbeat demeanor and complete lack of awareness of the acrimony in the room. "Alright then, good stuff! Now, for the bad stuff. Hogar was a beloved member of our organization, but unfortunately he left no next of kin. He didn't own much, in fact everything fit inside his foot locker back in Ratchet."

"I'll collect his things," Vegnus sighed in defeat. A mixture of residual disappointment toward Navarion and sadness over the loss of their friend danced around on the short beared dwarf's face, rendering him unable to continue the staredown across the table.

"Anchorite Traska, we greatly value the sacrifice Ranger Summerdrake made for the sake of our project and the wellbeing of this settlement," the goblin boss said, sincerity laced in his voice but a cold formality written into the almost flowery words. "We've provided an escort to accompany you back to Quel'danil Lodge, and it should be able to transport you and the dear Ranger back home in about three days. I trust the Raventusk have properly preserved her remains."

"They have," Traska replied sadly, her expression blank.

"We'd like ta send an envoy with ya, if ya approve," the squad leader asked in his accented Common. "We really were touched ta have one of tha Sindorei provide help for tha future of our city."

Traska nodded, saying nothing as she rubbed her mangled left hand with her right. Oblivious to the multiple sources of tension and melancholy in the room, Gazlowe Jr. stood up and clapped his hands in celebration. "Meeting adjourned, then!" he chirped as the other cartel bosses began filing out of the room. "Good working with all of you, and everybody knows where they need to go. Be good!"

Vegnus had already left the room by the time Navarion found the space to stand in the cramped area, as had most of the others. The broad shouldered squadron leader blocked the entire doorway from view as he squeezed himself through, and Navarion was once again drowning in a sea of people as he made his way out of the building. By the time he could see clearly again, he spied Nephentha looking at him from just outside the door of the small building.

Snakelike eyes glassy but unmoving, she pursed her lips at him in a line the same way Vegnus had inside, albeit in a much less strained manner. She wrung her four wrists in front of her, looking in front of herself on the docks before looking back up at home. Despite his determination, he felt the sense that his childhood friend felt let down by his decision, and even if it didn't push him far enough to question his choice, he did feel the guilt. Navarion stood and looked back at her, sad not because they were saying goodbye - he'd said goodbye to friends and family far more times than most people his age - but because he could see she had hoped to see one of the Hearthglen siblings who had been her companions for so long return home again. He wished he could tell his friend it would be alright, that he was still the same person, and that he would see them all again back home one day. He wished he could alleviate her fear that their community would be losing him once more. He wished he could do something.

But he hesitated too long, and she took that as his answer. Head hung low, the young reptilian woman slithered off after Vegnus, looking back only once as she did.

Always the master of repressed feelings and self delusion, Navarion quickly swallow the negativity down. Walking outside and breathing in the ocean air, he worked extra hard to rationalize it in his mind. It was his life, he told himself. His family and friends back in Ratchet cared about him, and in that case they had to understand that he was his own person, making his own decisions. He repeated a hundred and one mantras in his head as he walked down the developed portion of the docks and onto the open area between the opal mine and the far, far away northern wall of the city.

The wind blew his mane about slightly, tickling his ears the way he and Izzy had done for each other during their ride back form the bandit camp a few nights ago. If he closed his eyes as he strolled under the afternoon sun, he could almost smell her on the wind. Earth and ozone filled his nostrils as he basked in how different she was from the other women he'd been with.

Natural, primal, savage but in tune with nature, as if she'd been pulled from another era. Unspoiled by the world, she said very little - indeed, they'd never had a detailed conversation about either of their lives during the time they'd spent together. That was part of what he found so great about her. She knew there was a big wide world out there, and she didn't care. The simple things in life satisfied her. She didn't need all the traveling, excitement and worldliness he had spent his adult years gaining. No complications whatsoever.

He opened his eyes, realizing that he hadn't imagined her scent. Further up the beach, a group of young tribespeople about his age sat in a few circles. The moon wouldn't rise for a few hours, but they already had fires burning beneath iron grates their people probably didn't have the technology to forge themselves. The smell of sea lion mixed in with ozone as the Reventusk youth grilled, chattering about everything and nothing in Zandali as they laughed and relaxed. It was a serene sight, unlike the often serious, focused and supposedly enlightened discussions the people his age preferred to engage in back home. Even the jungle trolls in the Barrens talked so much about politics, adventuring and lore. He'd lived those things; wasn't it time to unwind and stop worrying about what was happening beyond his field of vision?

At the same time, he and Izzy spotted each other. She sat huddled among a group of other young women and a few young men, their light brown fur loincloths and trinkets and jewelry fashioned from bone and sinew all matching as much as their war paint. Most of them were difficult to distinguish from one another even after more than two months there, save the current apple of his eye. She whispered something to her friends while grinning wide, and a few of the other women teased her a bit as she stood up, patting the one next to her on the shoulder.

Ever so slowly, the two of them ambled forward toward each other, her smooth hide barely even tensing up at each step. She was incredible, like a goddess, yet her aura never spoke of anything except humility. By the time they reached each other, she had taken up a mock defensive body language, trying yet failing to stifle her grin as they looked into each other's eyes.

"So..."

"So."

"I did my best to thank you in my own way the other night...but it bears saying out loud," Izzy started, unusually eloquent for the quiet young lady. "Thank you. For everything. Me, the kids, our city. I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

He smiled warmly, the winning smile he had won so many over with, and she reacted on cue. A barely visibly tint darkened on her round cheeks, and he fought hard not tours her right there and give them a bite. "You don't have to say anything. It's what I do, and for what it's worth...I couldn't have been luckier to have found you."

Gulping visibly, she tried to steel her nerve and he reveled in the unease he had caused her. She was visibly nervous, because of him. Cheering inside for a conquest well done, he stared at her longingly as she spoke, making her all the more nervous.

"So...I guess you'll be moving on, right?" Izzy asked while intertwining her cute, thick fingers into her bouncy hair. "Adventure calls, right?"

He had her. He knew he did. The winning smile flashed again, and he looked at the sand for a moment while pretending to think it over. "Well, it could leave..." he hummed softly, half expecting her to jump into his arms right there. "Although if there was something to keep me...something special...I just might end up staying." Navarion finally looked up at her then, satisfied that he'd put on his best performance.

Navarion, the ladies man;

Navarion, the heartbreaker;

Navarion, who loves them and leaves them;

Navarion, who beds but never weds;

Navarion, the cocky, smarmy one who was far too aware of how handsome he was and far too absorbed within himself to actually feel the intentions of women, stood there in front of a forest troll villager. A young woman with a lifespan unbelievably shorter than his, a worldview so much more narrow than his, an experience with the world miniscule next to his.

And with one word, she destroyed him.

"Why?"

The waves crashed on the beach as they had since the dawn of time, uninterested in the misunderstandings and intracacies of mortal communication. Her sincerely perplexed look and honest question took a moment to seep in, but eventually the arrogant smirk faded from his face as he realized the light at the end of the tunnel was actually the Deeprun Tram.

"Um…what?"

She twirled one of her dark green locks with her dainty three-fingered hand, waiting for him to answer. Her expression was that of a person who was on the inside of an inside joke. Only he was on the outside and she didn't know it.

"I mean, like, you staying here, what?" Izzy chortled, incredulous and amused that he'd even suggest such a thing. "Yeah, you've had adventures all over the world and have friends everywhere, but you come settle down in a village in the Hinterlands before you're even thirty. Yeah, of course, you'll fit right in here!"

The tenderness in her eyes let him know that she legitimately thought he was joking. There wasn't a hint of mockery or scorn in her demeanor. There didn't need to be. The honesty and truth in her words cut deeper than any razor would.

"Oh…um…of course, right," he stammered with a fake laugh that successfully masked the pain of having been rejected. Ever the actor, he pretended the wound didn't exist rather than tending to it, and played along as it rapidly festered. "I mean, I could never live in a place like this. It's so boring, ha ha!"

She snorted a little laugh and flashed her cute tusks, patting his shoulder like they were old friends. "Hey, to each their own, right? I know you could never stay here, but our home is good enough for us."

"Yeah," was all he could answer, mustering all of his lying ability to force a fake smile.

They lingered for another moment as she took him in for the last time, raking his body with her eyes. "Well, the sex was good, right?" She winked at him suggestively, and for the first time in his life, a pretty lady winking didn't excite him.

"An exciting fling," he fake chuckled as he worried his bright silver eyes would betray his misplaced feeling of attachment. "It was fun while it lasted."

Looking him over for another moment with no inkling that she understood his real intention, she reached out and twirled his long, braided goatee one more time. "Take care of yourself Navarion, alright?"

Severing the painful connection, he fought the urge to run his hand through her mane one more time. "You too."

Without any hesitation or regret, she turned and walked back up the beach to her friends, her cute two-toed feet leaving those distinctive trollish footprints in the sand. A few of the other Raventusk youths waved to him as she joined their beachside campfire, displaying sincere thanks. And then, in the blink of an eye, their focus went back to their own lives and he was forgotten.

Humiliated and embarrassed to be standing alone amongst strangers, he folded his hands into his pockets and turned around, pretending to watch the ocean waves as he walked back toward the main part of the city. The iron lockbox containing his pay clinked as it hung in the backpack over his shoulder, giving him something to focus on as he was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of emotions and memories he tried to repress all at once.

Once he moved from the docks and onto the dirt road lining them, he noticed how filthy his nice suede shoes had become. The undeveloped, third world nature of the city's construction and development - save the docks - no longer seemed rustic; it seemed unsanitary and impoverished. The way the locals walked by without saying a word to him, having already delivered their thanks over then preceding days, didn't make him feel accepted; it made him feel anonymous. The fact that his connection to the cartel had ended didn't make him feel free; it made him feel homeless. The fact that the city council had already expressed their gratitude officially didn't make him feel wanted; it made him feel as if they no longer wanted anything from just another unemployed young man at all.

He watched the locals walk by, flashing around their exposed hides, unpleasant and excessive piercings, primitive war paint and bare feet. These people weren't his roots; they were as foreignt to him as he was to them. He may as well have been a restoration Druid like his brother Zengu wandering Undermine, or a priestess of the moon like his sister Issinia wandering Undercity, he felt so out of place. Or...like a biracial, multicultural kid from a neutral port wandering forgotten through an overgrown forest troll village in the Hinterlands.

"Ow, what the hell," he grumbled as his foot kicked something sharp. Not quite enough to damage his shoes, but he felt it.

Kneeling down to clear a potential danger from the dirt path next to the docks, he saw something...familiar yet not familiar. Next to two unused woven baskets, a dirty scaling knife used to gutting fish or skinning seals stuck up out of the ground. Not wanting anyone else to get hurt, he tossed it aside to one of the many as of yet uncollected piles of refuse that formed rather quickly in a city that only had four children pushing wheelbarrows as their garbage collection. Just as he was about to leave, something shiny and silver caught his eye.

Buried partially in the dirt sat a silver flask. It looked to be rather intricate and for sure was dwarven made, but was obviously a long way from its place of manufacture. After looking around and seeing nobody in the general vicinity, Navarion picked it up and brushed it off; it would be a waste to leave something so nice forgotten in the dirt like the way he felt at that moment.

The flask jiggled as he lifted it up, and he could tell by the sound that the liquid was alcohol. He took a few sips occasionally, but after his first taste of hard liquor at age thirteen - a full decade ago - he had decided to stop. The elves like his mother's people couldn't deal with drugs, tobacco or alcohol as well as other races, and the regeneration of trolls like his father's people caused them to often not know when to quit. Alcohol simply didn't sit well with him, and it was only from curiosity that he opened the flask to sniff it and see if the drink was still good before pouring the poison out.

It was whiskey. Intoxicating even just by smell. He'd never tried it before, but he'd heard about it. It was supposed to burn a bit on the way down. Cheap, strong, awful, the stuff of farmers and villagers.

Yes. It really did taste that awful, he thought. The second sip failed to give him a buzz, but he swigged it around in his mouth, testing the exact flavor. The third sip made him want to sit down, although he was no longer by the docks.

The motion remained, but he was no longer taking a sip of the flask. He could feel it beneath his palm even as it sat tucked in to the pouch on his belt. Another motion involving a tongue ran up his face, and unlike the other incidents, he didn't lash out at Furball for licking him on the face.

"I'm awake, I'm awake," he grumbled, blinking in the darkness of night as he fumbled among the fallen pine cones and tree branches of a wooded area within the confines of the city.

His duskbat nudged him cautiously, trying to help him to his feet. As much as it understood commands in Common, it likely didn't understand his rambling.

"They say they have an inn in this city...it's just a dirt hovel," Navarion murmured while holding his head in his palm and gripping a tree for support to stand. He didn't know what day it was. "Sleeping out here is just as good."

Furball chirped in disagreement, trying to nudge the distraught young man out of the woods. In addition to the general idiocy always plastered across the duskbat's face, there was a measure of concern Navarion hadn't excepted from the dumb animal. It was touching, and he scratched behind Furball's big ears, reveling in the fact that at least somebody was trying to help him get back to his feet.

"Alright, alright," Navarion grumbled once more as Furball crawled behind him and then between his legs, trying to forc percent him to mount up. "We're going."

He didn't know where his mount wanted to take him, or where. Falling in to a combination of trust and apathy, he held on to the reins and slumped over, not even giving an order for a specific destination or trying to elicit from the duskbat where it wanted to go. He fell asleep at one point, saved only by the skill of the mount he often heaped so much scorn upon. Not until he woke up under the heat of the morning sun did he realize that one of the cartel laborers must have instructed Furball to head for Quel'danil.