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The Amorous Adventures of Toodles Scroodles:
the Randy Gnome
...and so it begins...
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Assuming as aggressive a stance as her wee Gnomish form allowed, Toodles Scroodles placed her tiny fists upon her tiny hips, looking up at her two Night Elf companions with huge, resentful eyes. "You cramp my style," she stated with a peeved huff of judgment; her twin ponytails – bright lilac pompoms – bobbed in dramatic punctuation.
"Style..." Syla Riversong repeated, her forced stoicism lapsing into irritability, "your so-called 'style' is rightly termed suicide by sane people."
"Pfft. Sane. Borrrring..." Toodles intoned. "You dull old elf. You know nothing of adventure. That's just sad."
"Sad because we can think a bit above our nethers," Rain Darkling dryly remarked.
Toodles rolled her eyes with excruciating elaboration. Ah yes… the predicable path of retreat, she knew, when her companions refused to admit they were losing an argument.
"As if anything ever happens in that vicinity for you to know the difference," Toodles pointed out – not for the first time; and as always, she received long-suffering sighs, and glittering glances from hooded, silvery eyes. She snorted. "The most fuckalicous Gnome on all of Azeroth and I'm joined at the hip with two ancient moonkins… and virginal moonkins at that."
"Bitch, bitch bitch..." the lone male member of their party quietly complained.
"Hush Bloat, you know nothing," Toodles retorted, gesturing dismissively at the human man crouching before the fire. Usually too fixated on whatever gaseous preparation he was scraping together for supper – hence his name – and valued far more for his considerable brawn than for his brain, or its opinions, it was rare indeed for Mack 'Bloat' Jenkins – brother of the legendary Leeroy – to expend even a moment of thought on the perpetual bickering of his companions.
This was especially true as the subject seldom varied. Almost every conversation/argument hinged on some audacious idiocy committed by the gnome, in her on-going booty-quest to have her way with every living (or, in recent years, un-living) male, of every race, class, and disposition on the face of Azeroth.
Presently, however, and inconceivable as it might seem, the mad, gonadal gnome had something even more insane than usual in mind – something that lurked, cold and menacing, in the frozen north.
"Besides which, you fool," Syla stated, readdressing the issue that had launched their latest altercation, "even if by some inexplicable miracle you actually survived the encounter intact – which you wouldn't – you'd freeze to death, you idiot. You do know he's a block of ice, don't you?"
"I can warm the coldest heart," Toodles confidently replied. "And failing that…" she gestured unmistakably to indicate an alternative, and usually more accommodating organ. She then fully committed herself to an animated, air guitar style hand-job that caused her two Kaldorei companions to exchange weary, disgusted glances.
"There's no heart to warm," Rain stated emphatically when the appalling display finally abated.
Toodles pressed one deliberate finger to her left nostril, and then promptly blew her nose, expressing her scorn succinctly with one gooey missile. She chortled wickedly when both elves recoiled in horror from the rampaging booger. "Bullshit tales," the gnome then declared, "likely spread by Tirion Fordring, so's he can still pretend he's all righteous and shit whilst he strokes up the Ebon Blade."
"It is known the monster tore out his own heart and cast it away to crush all possibility of mortal weakness!"
"That is so lame," Toodles sighed. "You people will believe anything. Yank out your own heart and keep walking around… right."
"You do realize that he is the Lord of the Dead?" This was demanded with high-volume exasperation. "He can do whatever pleases him. He is not subject to Life's mechanisms… not any longer."
Toodles smirked lasciviously. "He can please me," she shrieked.
"He will please his fiendish blade by feeding it your reckless soul!"
"Just keep talking about blades," Toodles trilled. "As if that's going to discourage me."
"What is eluding you about He. Will. KILL. You?!" Syla snapped, at the end of her patience. "After which, he'll likely as not eat you. If he doesn't, I'm sure someone or something will."
"Even better…" Toodles snickered.
"I'm not having this conversation," Syla whispered, turning away.
"You know," Bloat commented, stirring his stew. "Toods might have something there. While she has him distracted – and I'm betting she could," he grinned at the chortling gnome, "think of the loot we could lay hands to in that place. I've heard there's fabulous treasure."
At that comment, Niss – the taciturn fifth and final member of the illustrious group of adventurers – glanced up from her hone stone, pausing in the measured strokes that were returning the razor edge to her beloved battle-axe. Tuning out the blather of her comrades often proved an insurmountable effort for the orc. Her tusked jaws ground noisily in a slow burn of aggravation, all too aware that they had arrived at yet another gnome-fueled juncture of Oh-HELL-No.
Niss scowled. Sometimes she just wanted to kill them all.
"I'm not going anywhere that has giant spiders…" Syla was saying.
"Avoidable, if we take a bit of care," Bloat replied with the bizarre confidence of a living person who had, in fact, never endured the terrifying, life-altering reality that was Icecrown Citadel.
"Frost wyrms," Niss rumbled, casting him an intolerant glance, her amber eyes lambent in the firelight. As the only member of her war band to survive the disastrous Wrathgate offensive, her grim judgments were those of a seasoned, Northrend veteran. "I hate fucking frost wyrms..."
Bloat shrugged, judiciously sprinkling salt. "Those puppies are big," he wheedled, incurring a weary sigh from the pessimistic orc, one laden with apocalyptic doom. "I doubt they come inside much."
"Don't forget the vampires," Rain offered.
"I've heard they don't stray far from their lair."
"And where did you pick up that bit of intel?" Niss inquired, raising a cynical brow. "From one of the dead, sucked-bloodless husks who've actually been to the Crimson Hall?"
"Is the gnome's lunacy contagious?!" Syla shrieked. "Are you listening to yourself, Jenkins? We're talking Scourge here: Icecrown-fucking-Citadel. Where he lives. Where the seat of his power is. Every undead thing imaginable, he's got it – and it's devoted to him. Why are we even talking about this? Loot is good, yes... treasure is good, absolutely! But only if you live to enjoy spending it! I'm not seeing that happening in this scenario!" Syla paused to glare sternly at her tiny, unaffected companion. "Know this, Gnome," she said then, and with conviction, "if you go north, you go alone."
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…6 months and 50,000 arguments later….
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"Who are you, anyway?" the Lich King asked, peering curiously down at the tiny gnome. He was wondering, quite logically, how she had managed to breach the impervious defenses of his Citadel, somehow escaping the notice of his deadliest, most vigilant minions, and to now be standing before him – the very epicenter of Scourge-ness – with such a disturbingly-expectant look on her admittedly adorable little pixie face. Had he not been the most powerful, the most feared being on all of Azeroth, Arthas Menethil might have felt… unsettled.
"I'm Toodles, toots. A big fan of yours, as it happens."
"Oh. Well, " said the Dark Lord of the Dead. "So you have come to die for me, then. To serve me. That's excellent."
"Die? Nope. Serve? No way..." Toodles countered. "Service? You bet! So long as it's mutual."
Arthas looked slightly confounded by those words; but as he was a busy man, he gave the comment no extended thought, only adding, "Just make yourself uncomfortable. Someone will be with you shortly, to relieve you of the burden of your life and set you on your new and excitingly-murderous path."
Toodles frowned irritably, noting that Arthas was turning away as he spoke these unsatisfying words. "Feel free to browse the refreshments," he offered, as if in afterthought, pointing to a nearby table that sagged with odorous unspeakables. "I believe most of it is finally dead now. If not, a bit of bludgeoning will serve you, and could possibly act as a tenderizer, as well." He paused to muse; his expression, while a bit distracted, was accommodatingly attentive. "Disgusting fare, yes…" he said, "but you'll get used to it. Trust me."
"No, no… wait! You misunderstand!" Toodles called out.
"Ah. You have come to kill me. Get in line. I hope you brought something to read."
"Kill you? Hardly. Unless you can be fucked to death. I'm kinda hoping that's not likely."
Earnest in his deepening wonderment, Arthas bent down to peer closely at the wee woman yet again; she grinned up at him with manic cheer. "That's not a very Scourge expectation," he pointed out.
"I didn't come all this way for the Scourge. I came here for you, babe."
"I am not a negotiable commodity."
"Everything's negotiable," Toodles assured him with a dismissive gesture.
Arthas pondered. Well, at least it was a new proclamation of intent. He was becoming a bit bored with the same promises to right his many wrongs by condemning his corrupted, unrepentant soul to whatever personal notion of justice (predominately, exquisitely-painful eternal damnation) happened to satisfy his accuser's sense of order. "Indeed," he said, considering the smiling gnome. "I would know your terms, then."
"Simple," said Toodles, reaching out; and the Lich King – unaccustomed to being touched by anyone, let alone handled –flinched slightly as her tiny fist closed on the edge of his loincloth, giving it a teasing, come-hither tug. "I intend to give you the bounce of your life… or unlife, whatever. And I do expect you to return the favor." She winked. "Think you're up to it, Prince of Darkness?"
"You realize I am large and cold, yes?"
Toodles twinkled at him with a lustful snort that Arthas found a bit unnervingly acquisitive. "I like large…" the gnome assured him with a glance so brazen in its meaning it actually made the infamous object of her prurient intentions cringe slightly. Stepping closer, her wanton gaze roaming his imposing form, she added: "And as to the other matter… heh... I'm hot enough for us both."
This she professed with libidinous impunity; and the Lich King sensed that a nonchalant response to this subject might prove to be at odds with his best interest.
He considered this proposition, idly caressing Frostmourne's pommel – hearing, but dismissing, the runeblade's suspicious whispers of warning.
"Perhaps such a task would be a worthy test of your endurance and future usefulness to me," Arthas said thoughtfully. "Yes. You may prove yourself to me, little one," he decided with an agreeable nod. "Impress me, and your reward in undeath shall be great."
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Spoils of Battle
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For several silent moments, the four women stood together in a rapt cluster, pondering the sprawled, exhausted Lich King.
"Wow…" Rain said, wide-eyed and staring, "he's... really well-preserved, for a dead guy."
His long, powerful body outstretched upon the rumpled white pelt of some great beast, Arthas Menethil lay unconscious before them, stark naked and supine. His argent hair draped him in frosty tangles, and his alabaster skin was marred by a host of tiny bruises that bore significantly more than a passing resemblance to energetically-applied, gnome-sized hickeys.
Syla stared fixedly, before muttering in a strident tone: "Are those bite marks? On... his... oh blessed Elune! I would un-see that, I beseech You..."
"Love bites," Toodles gleefully corrected. "Heh heh. They are. And he loved it."
"Scroodles, you are such a slut!"
"According to him, I'm a goddess," was Toodles prompt and proud response, her eyes lingering on the bested treasure.
"Had no clue you could actually bring down The Man, Himself, Toods," Bloat said admiringly, glancing up from the bulging bags of gold and jewels he had just lugged into the chamber from the Lich King's private coffers.
"Had to get him up first," the gnome declared.
"But... how?" Rain wondered. "He's dead, isn't he? No heart, no blood to, well... you know..." she pointed tentatively, at a loss for words.
"Bone up?" Toodles supplied, her eyebrows bouncing. "You do know he's a necromancer, right?" she held out her arms to the insensible prize in a grand, encompassing gesture of presentation, proclaiming: "Hail to the King! And let me just say, he earned the title!" When Rain's only response was incomprehension, Toodles sighed, adding: "Ye gods, wake up from your celibate fog, elf... I'm talking Magical Boners! Now how sweet is that?" Rain blinked; beginning to get the picture, she peering at the Lich King again. Presently that icy, overworked expanse of perfect muscle was laid to waste in every part.
Toodles snickered at the night elf's bemused scrutiny. "Against gnome vigor," she stated with confidence, "even sorcery has it's limits."
"No more..." Syla whined, covering her ears.
"So what now?" Bloat mused. "How do we cash in on your... heh... hard work?" he chuckled when the gnome gave him an approving grin. "Do we talk to Highlord Fordring? The Dawn? Reckon they'd be willing to pay a pretty penny to glom onto this one without a fight."
"Pfft," said Toodles, "Fordring prefers to pay in blessings, which translates to: Fuck Fordring!" She tilted her head. "Hmm. Maybe I will."
"Ain't he a bit elderly for such matters?" Bloat offered.
"She just fucked an undead monster into unconsciousness," Niss said flatly. "You really think she has ageism issues?"
"He's a paladin," Toodles reminded them. "The Light bestows its bounty. He can probably out-perform men half his age."
"I don't think that's what…" Bloat began, only to incur a dismissive hand waggle from Toodles.
"Hush, Bloat. You know nothing."
"But what're we to do with him?" Bloat persisted. "When he wakes, he's gonna be a tad pissed off, don'cha think? 'Specially when he finds a goodly chunk of his treasure boosted from under his very nose."
"His nose was busy," Toodles said with a wicked snort of laughter. "Wanna hear how I showed him why they call me "Jackhammer" in Tinker Town?"
"Oh gods! NO!" Syla yowled. "You promised no details!"
The gnome cackled, returning her attentions to the pensive-looking human. "Try not to think, Bloat; you'll only hurt yourself. Besides, I know exactly what to do with him. Now, it won't hold him for long – not here in Icecrown – but I learned a neat trick in Silvermoon about laying temporary restraining spells…" She began rummaging in her knapsack as she spoke, "All you need," she instructed, "is a talented mage... and..." with a flourish, she pulled forth a pair of spell-forged manacles and a loop of hefty chain, "the proper inanimate object!" A web of magic, skillfully woven into the very essence of its metallic lattice, imbued the metal with a faint shimmer of twinkling vapor.
"And how many of us just happen to have enchanted shackles at the ready, I wonder," Syla said sarcastically. "I'm sure that hasn't come in handy for you."
"I'm always ready," was Toodles's smug response. "And since you're so interested, the archmage who charmed these chains for me can attest to how handy I am. That is, if he's recovered yet." She paused to reminisce. "I love the sin'dorei. They're so limber. Such fuck machines."
Syla groaned, covering her eyes with both hands. "Please stop," she whispered.
As a woman who trusted dependable steel and muscle a great deal more than magic, Niss was pondering the dainty lace of spectral light with a dubious squint. "Who's to say a bit of smoke and spark will even give pause to the likes of him?" she muttered, recalling with a chill of dread just exactly who and what lay there – only momentarily undone – just one thin veil of unconsciousness away from furious and pitiless reprisal.
Toodles shrugged. Actually, Aethas Sunreaver had cautioned her about not using the spell in the presence of any sort of death magic – as it was so unpredictably corrosive; but Toodles could see absolutely no purpose being served by giving her anxious companions even more to grouse about. They were too unappreciative of her contribution as it was.
She looked back to the spoils with a lustful leer. Considering his present condition, Toodles was confident she'd worked enough meanness out of the Lord of the Dead to drain his violent, wrath-based powers to all-time low. In fact, if he'd had enough mana left to lift his little finger – which he did not – Toodles would have been very disappointed in herself.
The gnome hefted her chains; they rustled, crackling with energy. "Even he won't work his way out of this spell before first light," she said with certainty. "Giving us plenty of time to take our leave – and our loot. But in the meantime, I have a source of further and substantial profit to contact. Someone, I think, who will pay handsomely for a little alone time with the Lich King. I doubt if I'll even have to haggle over price. I just need to find a mage to open a portal for me."
"A portal?" Rain said with a frown. "To where?"
"Why, to the Undercity, of course."
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The Dark Lady Cometh
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"You…" Arthas snarled. "I should have known."
"I would happily accept the credit for such genius," Sylvanas Windrunner said, stepping closer to the glowering Lich King, and eyeing him with cold amusement, "but I am as in the dark over this matter as you clearly are." She gazed at him, so satisfied by his dilemma she actually experienced contentment in that one, gloating moment. "I am simply reveling in the luxury I paid such an exorbitant sum to enjoy – the sight of you in chains."
Arthas sneered, closing his formidable grip on the restraints that bound him, ignoring the stinging needles of magic that worked to wound him for his resistance. Redoubtable muscles rolled, swelling to readiness as he tugged his chains taut; and he felt the spell waver from his assault, losing one more facet of its power over him. "Not for long," he murmured, leaning toward the banshee with an evil smile.
"Long enough," she crooned, mimicking his arrogant tone, and then his actions by tilting her willowy body closer into his ferocious aura – just out of his reach. His smile darkened. Strong fingers clenched in anticipation. His desire to seize her was a very special sort of lust. One of the few rare, savage things they shared.
Sylvanas studied his confinement with knowledgeable eyes. She easily recognized the origins of the spell – elven magic had a singular signature – and this holding charm was potent, clearly created by a masterful hand if it could persist, even briefly, against the all-devouring will of the Lich King, himself.
His immense power, laid solidly upon an unbending foundation of pure, seething rage, was incredibly dangerous in its focus. Utterly at odds with the arcane, it had already eroded the binding magic to its bare bones. He would be free very soon; and her need to be gone before the arrival of that deadly moment was paramount. Still, in this brief, but irresistible interim, the Nemesis was hers – just as the wily little gnome had promised – and the restless hunger to shove at the edge of danger had always been a part of Sylvanas's nature.
"The mighty God of Death," she whispered spitefully. "Bested by a gnome."
Anticipating a fit of rage, Sylvanas was surprised when Arthas only shrugged at the taunt. "I'll never punt another gnome," he said with a thoughtful sincerity that made the Banshee Queen stare in wonderment. "Not after that experience," he added. "I so regret not being able to kill her, and raise her as my champion…" he sighed, shaking his head. "What a loss."
Sylvanas's eyebrows peaked at this strange specter of authentic admiration.
Humans, she mused. Even undead, they were mystifying creatures.
"Your gnome is on a quest to Outland," the Dark Lady told the Dark Lord. "Something to do with Illidan Stormrage, I believe…"
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Two days later: The Black Temple
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"And who are you?" the Lord of Outland asked of the tiny, smiling gnome before him.
"I'm the one who's going to rope you, hog-tie you, and then use your horns as a swing," Toodles informed him with a covetous leer. "And I'm not even gonna buy you a drink first."
Baffled, Illidan was uncertain if he had just been threatened, or... seduced.
"Who am I?" Toodles said further, "I'm your lucky day."
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