Bruegal eyed Kowler warily, scratching at the back of his head. Sweat began to dribble down from his brow. The gnoll before him was certainly nothing that he'd expected, and now, in this heated moment, his expectations were all over the place.
"Got any…" He hummed, looking over his bounty, counting out what he'd need. "Fours?"
Kowler stilled for just a moment, and then let loose a harsh scowl, a decidedly ugly look on a gnoll, and gnolls were already not the prettiest folk in the world. He dropped a four of hearts onto the floor and slid it over. Bruegal greedily snatched it up and happily stacked it with his own four of clubs, sat alongside his various other pairs and sets.
"I should never have taught you this game," grumbled the gnoll, looking down morosely at his measly pair of nines.
"Prolly not," Bruegal agreed with good cheer. "But ya did, and we've a game ta finish. So no lollygagging!"
"Fine, fine. Got any two's?"
"Go fish."
Grousing, the gnoll did so, taking a little extra time to ensure that his claws didn't damage their already damaged playing cards. Which Bruegal thought was decent, since he'd had to trade a corner of his blanket for these cards. And since that corner had been the only one that wasn't completely filthy or ratty, Bruegal mightily wanted these cards to remain in good condition. Else it would have been a poor trade; and Bruegal Ironknuckle was not a dwarf known to make a poor trade!
Targorr snorted from his corner, glaring down balefully at them, Bruegal was sure. The dwarf did not like the orc, and the orc did not like the dwarf, but they'd come to an agreement. Er, well, it was more like Kowler had had to get the orc to agree, but the agreement was set, so Bruegal was alright with it. So long as Bruegal stayed on Kowler's side of the cell, and so long as he wasn't screaming, the orc wouldn't snap his neck.
Bruegal was named Ironknuckle for a reason and he hadn't feared a fight with the orc at first, but his new gnoll friend had set him straight quick enough. Much as Bruegal thought he was good in a scrap, he had nothing on Targorr's kill count, and was certainly not interested in being another notch on that number.
That was something that had always been a strongpoint for Bruegal; he knew where he stood. Back home, his wife wore the pants, and he minded it none; he found it to be sexy, really. And in the Explorer's League, he knew he was no archeologist. He could do a bit of the stuff and knew what to look for when he was needed to look, but as a whole he felt himself more a guard, or a bruiser, or even a well-paid mule. He took his orders, did what was asked, and that was that.
But damn him, if there was one thing that Bruegal hated about himself, it was his pride. His bloody pride was what brought him into the Stockades, or at least his wounded pride did.
I do not drink milk, he mentally stated, as if it were a mantra. Milk is for babies, and for the weak, and I ain't neither.
And yet, having been stuck in this cell for just under a month, Bruegal would be willing to even have milk if it meant he'd get to drink something other than water.
They wouldn't let him even a sip of a proper ale down here. He couldn't fight, else Targorr would just kill him for bloodsport or Kowler would just pin him to the wall with his water magic. And his wife wasn't around, still at home with their sprog, so there was no fucking to be done.
Thank the Makers for Kowler, he thought. Truly, without the companionship of that gnoll around, or the protection, for that matter, he'd have gone spare. Or been killed.
It was likely that he'd go spare and get killed regardless. The Stockades just did not agree with the dwarf.
And his back hurt something fierce.
Bruegal already had a plan for when he was set to be freed. First, he'd take the Deeprun Tram to Ironforge, head to the house, meet up with the family, play with his kid, plow his wife, then sleep on his soft feather bed for the next week. And if she took up with another dwarf whilst he was gone, he'd beat him bloody, shave off his beard, and then plow his wife, which would then lead to his week of bedrest. Let it not be said that he wouldn't understand her need for a new dwarf to warm her bed, she liked her rutting and wasn't very patient besides, but Bruegal was her husband, and so whoever she may or may not shack up with had better be gone before he got back.
The second thing he'd do would be to make a formal request to have Kowler be sent to the Explorer's League on parole.
Bruegal was not the sentimental sort. This was not a matter of Kowler being a new friend. This was a matter of understanding both the culture and motives of another race, as well as giving the League a chance at exploring ruins and digs that gnoll packs had taken up in without resorting to immediate violence.
It might take a bit of convincing and would probably lead to a blackened eye or too, but Bruegal liked to think that Kowler would be of interest to the League. Hells, he'd stake his beard on it.
…Well, maybe only a few hairs. Beards were sacred things after all.
Unless it was a beard belonging to a dwarf rutting with his wife. Then it was just a weed that needed a good ol' fashioned whacking.
"You gonna go?" Kowler rasped, raising a brow.
"Oh! Right, sorry bout that laddie. Hm… Let's see… Got any seven's?"
"Nope, go f-"
Kowler did not get the chance to finish his words. Nobody got the chance to say anything really. One moment, there was a quiet lull in the prison, their game the only thing not allowing the oppressive silence to suffocate them into a nap, and the next, a great explosion BOOMED from the eastern quadrant of the Stockades, shaking and rattling the prison as if it were in the middle of an angry earthquake.
Shouts of panic and confusion echoed from all around, prisoners startled from their positions, Targorr even going so far as to flail and fall onto his side from his initial position in genuine shock. As one the Stockade prisoners rushed towards the bars of their cells, straining to see what had caused such a noise.
"…-ish." Kowler lamely finished, looking to the mess that was their card game, now scattered all throughout the floor. With a grunt, he stood, grabbing his staff, and made his own way to the bars, stood right next to Targorr without a care in the world.
No, Bruegal thought, looking closer at Kowler. Something was off about the gnoll. He was always a calm sort, the type to meditate with his staff and such, but he seemed to radiate something different now, something more. He was smiling. Grinning like a loon, he was. Looked a little unhinged.
Did he know that this would happen?
Bruegal shook his head quickly. That was a dumb thought. Of course Kowler didn't know something like this was gonna happen, nobody did.
A clank sounded from the hall. Then another, and another, and another. The clank continued to echo, with heavy footsteps now accompanying the sound. Actually, as the clanking approached even closer, growing louder and clearer, he realized that clanking wasn't the right word.
The word Bruegal was looking for a crashing.
A raggedy human raced the line, wearing a red cloth mask over his face. "BACK AWAY FROM YOUR BARS!" He shouted. "TRUST ME!" And then he continued to run, repeating his message over and over all the while.
Kowler seemingly was willing to do so, and both Bruegal and Targorr were willing to follow the lead of the gnoll on this. The cellmates all skirted towards the back of their quarters, stepping all over Bruegal's cards, which he would be cross about should this be nothing but nonsense.
Then the crashing sound and the heavy footsteps grew closer and closer, and he understood.
A great, massive ogre, singed with soot and ash all over, was rushing through the corridors, his two heads both making a great racket; the cycloptic one just laughing, whilst the other was yelling "HAMHOCK DO BIG FREE!" A Dark Iron Dwarf was sat between the heads, forming balls of flame in hand, throwing it at random intervals, causing detonations that echoed through the hall, cheering as if he were having the time of his life. Hells, the ogre was so big that he was able to literally break the cell doors down with a single full-bodied shoulder press.
And as he did so, Bruegal belatedly realized where the crashing sound came from.
Door after door was forced open, prisoner after prisoner shouting their joy as they were released, and when it came to their own cell, when the ogre that Bruegal now knew was named Hamhock knocked the door down and moved on to the next, when Bruegal exited the cell for the first time in weeks, when Kowler exited the cell for the first time in months, when Targorr exited the cell for the first time in years, they all only had one thing to say, echoed by the rest of the Stockades as if they were all of one mind, body and soul.
"JAIL BREAK!"
\ v /
/ ^ \
Ever since he'd determined the timeline with which he was born into, whelped right in the early stages of the tenuous pact between the Horde and the Alliance, a single year after events of Warcraft 3, where the peace was soon to be broken by tension and territory disputes and the birth of Blizzards cashbaby, Kowler had taken to writing and memorizing all the major events that he could think on before his memory settled away from such, in hopes that he would never not be prepared.
He started with the major events of Azeroth, such as when Deathwing would appear, or how the Lich King was to die, or the third invasion of the Legion, and then the list became more specific within each expansion. There were many details missing, examples being that Kowler didn't remember a lick of the story of the Sholazar Basin or that he never bothered to grind out reputation with the Pandaren farmers, but he liked to think he remembered enough to not be caught flat footed.
And because he'd noted the timeline as best he could, and because he'd primarily been an Alliance player and knew their histories and lore the best, he knew that eventually, whether it be months or years, a riot would eventually break out in the Stockades, setting all the prisoners free and forcing the wardens to send adventurers down in a culling spree.
Which was both good and bad. Good, because this also gave him the perfect opportunity to escape his bonds. Bad, because adventurers tended to not give gnolls the chance to talk before going for the kill.
Kowler had thought long and hard over these past handful of months and had decided that yes, he was going to risk it, because this was a land with which the stakes were always life and death, and only the daring stayed with life. The daring tended to die as well, but it was a moot point. Leaving risked death, staying guaranteed it.
Bruegal and Targorr did not know of his plans, however. And he'd not intended to tell them of them yet, primarily because predicting the future was likely to lead to questions he'd rather not have to answer.
Which might have bitten me in the ass, Kowler thought, shooting a quick eye towards the pair. He'd hoped to be able to escape on his own, without worry of others. But they did not care and were content to follow along, seemingly uninterested in taking part in the festivities echoing the prison.
Well, Targorr was uninterested, at least.
"We should join up with the rest!" Bruegal said, motioning to the celebrations going on from behind. "I think they mighta even found a cask o' ale! Let's go!"
"No, we shouldn't." Kowler denied with a heavy shake of his head. His totem was held taut in his hand, and he was gathering as much water as he could from the puddles and overhead drips he'd not been able to grab from before; a decently sized sphere half of Hamhock's bulk now hovering overhead. And it was still growing in size.
"And why not?"
"Targets," Targorr responded gruffly. He was holding a broken prison bar like shiv, and looked all the meaner for it. His other hand carried a lit torch, its deep fire allowing them further light.
Kowler nodded. "It won't be long before the wardens'll hit the place, and they'll hit hard. We might be able to fight them back, but that doesn't mean we'll be able to forever. It's better to take advantage of the chaos than it is to join up with it."
"But there ain't no advantage ta be had." Bruegal whined. "This place? There's only one way in, and that's the same way out. Where we're going? That's just further away from it."
"True, there's only one way out." Kowler nodded, seemingly in agreement. Then he stopped in front of a heavy stone door, a supply closet with a door thicker than a wall. The rest of the prisoners were away, grouping up to make a break for it, so he was in a good position to work. Willing the water overhead to split and thicken, he maneuvered it into the key holes, experimentally twisting it too and fro until a clank was heard and the door opened. "But it's not like we can't make one."
"Yer crazy, lad." Bruegal groaned, holding his head in his hands. "Crazy!"
"You're not wrong about that."
The closet was packed up with what looked to only be cloth goods. Clothes and blankets and even bits of silk lined the shelves, and the trio were not shy with what they took. Kowler and Targorr both were quick to put on what they found to fit, Targorr in a wool ensemble with a long scarf wrapped over his face and Kowler in a thick robe with a cowled hood, hiding the whole of his body, a pair of well pocketed shorts underneath. Bruegal did not take much, for he'd been clothed all the while; though he did happily snag a leather bomber jacket that fit him like a glove.
"You've a plan, shaman?" Targorr asked, huddling into his new clothes with a pleased hum.
"Less of a plan and more a hope." Kowler admitted. "I'll need the door closed, and some time to meditate. Stuff the spaces from the door to the floors and walls and ceiling with as much cloth as you can, too."
"It will be done." The orc stated, quickly shutting the door, locking it from behind. The torch he held was the only source of light in the room, and Kowler was thankful for it.
Closing his eyes, focused solely on the head of his staff, where Astreamor's essence was settled, he made his request known.
'Can we do this?'
The staff hummed out a low sound, startling Bruegal badly for him to trip into a shelf. Kowler ignored that, however, and noted the tone of the response. Just barely, by way of a sixth sense of sorts that he assumed all shaman held towards the elements, he was able to make out a simple yes.
Lifting his staff high, the sphere of water overhead following along, Kowler began to twirl it. The water spun with it, twisting and turning with such ferocity that it formed into a miniaturized whirlpool. Then Kowler willed it to twist even faster, and the water did so, its shape sharpening all the while; adjusting into a decidedly dangerous formation.
For most elementals, brute force was how they determined strength and usurped territory. They would naturally fight when their territories were invaded, and the victor would absorb the other and grow stronger as a result. Only the older, wiser, more experienced of the elements took the time to be precise with their power and play with their capabilities. And while Astreamor was only able to offer a paltry sum of water to Kowler, in the right hands it had the potential to be horribly deadly. And having been stuck in a cell for eight months, Kowler had nothing better to do than to further his connection with Astreamor and perfect what little combative strength the elemental held.
Water was known as the most malleable of the elements. It was not stubborn like earth, nor was it ever changing like fire or barely-there like wind. And that malleability was its greatest strength, allowing Kowler to maneuver the water under his command in whatever manner he saw fit, so long as the magic held.
And it would be enough.
The water thickened in mass yet thinned in size, looking a precise tool now, contorted into a drill of sorts. Bruegal saw it and was quick to catch on. "Fuck me! Yer not crazy, yer bloody mad! I won't do it!"
"Shouldn't have followed us into this room then," Kowler said. His shoulders tightened, and his voice turned low. "Hold onto me with all you've got, else you'll fall away to the current and drown."
Targorr was quick to wrap his bulky frame around Kowler's torso, and Bruegal bolted for his legs, wailing and blubbering and muttering something about makers and wives and booze.
Then Kowler jerked his arms, and the drill of pressurize water began its assault on the stone.
It was a loud, screeching sort of sound. Highly pressurized water tore through the damp stone as if a knife to butter, but it was not what could be called subtle. No, it was so loud and keening that Kowler could feel the dribble of blood from his sensitive ears, as could he hear shouts of "What's that noise?!" from outside. More and more water began to spill inside, water that was magically collected into furthering the drill, enlarging it to such a degree that a hole just large enough for the trio to escape through had been wrought.
But with such a hole came difficulty. Kowler had made much headway into his control of water, but even with Astreamor's influence, he could not fully stop the rush. It poured down, slower than normal due to his magic, but still quick enough to flood.
Luckily, he didn't need to stop it, only direct it.
"Hold your breath!" Kowler cried out, taking one last greedy gulp of air. Targorr did the same. Bruegal was still blubbering.
With a flick of his wrist, Kowler dissipated his drill, swiftly manipulating the water under his control to take on a new shape; a platform of thick water that forced the trio through the hole, against the current. As water rushed in from all around, having already overtaken the whole of the closet, keeping them away from their pocket of air, Kowler's platform forced them against the current, towards their freedom.
It was a struggle to maintain the movement. Truly, Kowler wished he could have just made a bubble, but he was only confident enough to craft a singular one for his own head. He did not want Bruegal or Targorr to perish in such a manner. As his chest tightened and his body began to force out its need for breath, Kowler forced the last of his will into his platform, and with that intent, the trio rocketed away from the Stockades, and broke out in full.
They had not yet surface, but even still, Kowler could tell that it was night out, with only just enough moonlight and stars to see. Kowler was able to blurrily make out the edge of a dock, and so he willed his platform to shunt them in that direction, finally giving them the chance to surface when they were just under the edge of the dock, away from prying eyes.
Bruegal and Targorr and Kowler all hacked out simultaneous coughs, desperately gasping for breath. They flailed towards the edge of the dock as one, cold and damp and chattering at the teeth, but more importantly alive and free.
Bruegal just seemed happy for it, but Targorr… He was beyond happy. Beyond elated. He looked genuinely awed, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
"I never thought I'd see the sky again," he said, breathing deeply, in and out and in and out. He turned to Kowler, actually smiling. "I thank you, friend."
Kowler felt a pleased thrum sound from his belly at the word. This was the first time Targorr had ever called him a friend, and it settled into his bones quite well. "Thank me later, we're not free just yet."
"You're not free, I am though." Bruegal said, pushing out his chest.
Kowler and Targorr both eyed the dwarf, and he shrunk in at their stares. "Er… was just a joke, lads."
"In poor taste," Targorr growled.
"But not untrue," Kowler mused, grinning slightly. "Bruegal, head up and scour us a path. Targorr and I will stay down here till you return. Find out where exactly we surfaced, and what the best way for us to leave Stormwind is. The guards won't care for a single dwarf roaming around when compared to us."
"Aye, that I can do!" Bruegal exclaimed, kicking his way out from under the dock. Kowler watched as he moved onto the stone bricks and heard the squelches of his feet pitter pattering away, whistling a jaunty tune.
Kowler just hoped that his friendship with the dwarf would not leave them screwed.
\ v /
/ ^ \
Bruegal returned two hours later, for which the pair were thankful for. Though they were strong, treading water for so long was not easy, and they feared they'd need to land soon for their muscles to relax.
"Lads," Bruegal began, bent over the dock Kowler and Targorr were hiding under with a laughing grin. "You two'd best come out."
"Do you have a path?" Targorr asked.
"Better, c'mon up and see!"
Wearily, they did. It was jarring to look on at Stormwind properly, its white cobble pathways settled with trees and buildings all around. Kowler had only a little moment to appreciate it upon his initial entrance into the Stockades, and even then, the current ambiance held no equal yet for the gnoll. Wicks and metal torches lined the city streets, but that was not all. For scattered all throughout the city were black and orange banners and pumpkin carved jacko'lanterns, their cartnoonish smiles bright with fire.
Kowler couldn't help it. He burst into a cackling laugh, falling to his knees. It was just so ridiculous; beyond any good luck he could have expected. Fate was on their side, it seemed.
"Right?!" Bruegal crowed, letting out a laugh as well. "Walk and talk lads, walk and talk!" He said, heading off towards the dock's left, handing the pair some candy buckets too. Kowler and Targorr both followed, though while Kowler was content and happy to ramble along with the dwarf, Targorr was silently rummaging his body into his clothes, hiding as best he could, uncomfortable in his dampness. Kowler saw this, and extended his hand, pulling the remaining water from his clothes; the orc looking more comfortable by the second, though still quite confused. Then Kowler belatedly realized that Targorr likely wouldn't understand the significance of the decorations line the streets.
"Hallow's End is a holiday of the Alliance in which they celebrate the dead." Kowler informed Targorr. "But more than that, it is a festive time, where all can dress up and act the monsters of the world. We escaped at the perfect time, Targorr, because nobody would believe us any different from the festival goers."
As if to echo that statement, a kobold and a troll passed them by, talking happily to one another in an excited Common, each holding small buckets teeming with candy. The pair waved to the trio and graciously cried out that their costumes were fantastic. Bemusedly, Kowler offered them the same praise, and then they went on their way once more.
Targorr looked as if he could not believe this was even a thing.
"I did you two even more'a service and got some wickerwands ta boot!"
This time Kowler was the one that was confused. "Wickerwands?"
Grinning, Bruegal pulled out a seemingly inconspicuous stick from his jacket pocket and pointed it at Targorr. A flash of purple emanated at the tip and raced towards the orc, and in a puff of smoke a human wearing a bandit ensemble took his place.
"Wickerwands! Y'know, the toys that let ya change forms fer a bit. Trekked to the Mage District for em and bought a big lot of the Alliance disguises. I bought twelve of em, an' they've five charges per wand."
"Change me back." Targorr snarled, advancing on Bruegal. Kowler had to hold him back with the whole of his strength to halt the orc. Even then, it was a near thing.
"Where'd you even get the money to buy those?" Kowler asked, still struggling to keep Targorr back. "Why did you buy them? We should be safe for the holiday."
"Aye, safe for the hols." Bruegal agreed, not at all bothered by what was soon to be imminent violence on his person. "But if'n ya want ter get outa these lands, you'll need em. Only the big cities like Stormwind and Ironforge celebrate Hallow's End with wickerwands, the smaller settlements just use masks and costumes. You show up as you are to Goldshire or Kharanos or any other town in your usual skins and you'll be speared 'fore you can form words."
That… made a fair amount of sense. Not only on a security level, but also on an intellectual one. These wickerwands, they had to be magically taxing to make, so it was only logical that they be produced where city spellcasters resided. And similarly, because it their creation was focused to the city, it made further sense for the nearby towns to be even more alert for suspicious activity.
Targorr seemed to understand that as well, for he huffed and snarled but was no longer making to throttle their dwarven ally.
"As fer money, heh. Me supply partner for the League, a human lass named Imelda; she's a crafty little bitch. Likes to spend our money more than I do, on jewels and silks and such, but doesn't like ta take the blame for it. She's gotten me into enough trouble with her ways and lies ta force me into the habit o' hidin' our coin whenever we work together. She'd not found my spot in the Park since I've been with you lot, seems like, so we've some gold to use."
"Well then." Kowler blinked. "Where are we going?"
"Dwarven district. Deeprun Tram. I've a wife ta get back to."
"And you expect us to follow along, is that it?" Targorr asked lowly.
"No, actually. That's me point. We ain't gotta stay together now." Bruegal said, gesturing around. Humans and dwarves and gnomes and night elves walked the streets, as did various other races, all holding those candy buckets, looking as if they hadn't a care in the world. "We've all different plans, different goals, see? Should be a good time ta split, I'm thinking."
"But the guards…" Kowler protested. "Aren't they up in arms about the Stockades?"
"Oh, they're panicking something fierce, they are. But they're bein quiet so they don't spook the city. And they're also focused only on the prison. One way in, one way out, remember? They'll think we're still in the rigs, and won't be lookin' for us for at least a few days, I reckon. Maybe even a few weeks. Might not even look at all. It's kinda a mad house 'round there, swarmed with guards and clerics and such. Lads, it's honestly the best time fer you lot ta make for the hills."
"Hm… The dwarf speaks smartly." Targorr said, honestly looking contrite to admit such. Bruegal preened, and Targorr snorted in annoyance, continuing his words. "I have been away from my regiment for nearly four years; four years too long, I fear. Those newblood whelps have likely made a mess of things. Indeed, I need return to the Redridge Mountains, and then to the Blackrock Spire after."
"And I've a wife ta see, a sprog to spoil." Bruegal said. "It's better we go our separate ways now."
Kowler shuffled, uncertain as to what to do. "Fine. I just- I admit, I did not have any immediate plans aside from escaping. It's been such a focus, those plans and methods in mind, that I'd not given much thought on what I'd do after. I am undecided. Hm… Maybe hop on a ship for Kalimdor? The docks should be near enough by. Or-"
"Or nothin'" interrupted the dwarf with a crow. "Well ain't that just perfect?! I wanted ta take ya to Ironforge anyway! Come with me, I'll bring ya to me wife and get a proper meal down that gullet and then see what comes."
Kowler did not really want to say yes. That stray thought on heading for Kalimdor sounded quite nice, in actuality. The land was less touched by the hand of mortals, and thus was more in tune with the elements, meaning he'd have an easier time finding new contracts. And added with a possibility of learning some druidism, possibly even the ability to change forms, it was sounding an even better idea.
But Bruegal… Bruegal was a part of the Explorer's League, and was meant to go on an expedition in the Badlands, wasn't he?
"Do you know if the Explorer's League would have left for the Badlands yet?"
"Not the full force of it, no." Bruegal shook his head. "I was part of the initial supply crew. We were to set up camp and wait for a couple o' months for the rest ta show up, creating a perimeter and the beginnings of an excavation. My crew should already be set, but I'll be able to join up with the larger group once I'm there. I'll have me ears boxed fer bein' late, sure, but they'll still take me, no sweat."
"And do you think I'd be able to come along? Maybe even join?"
"Hard ta say," Bruegal admitted, scratching his beard. It could really use some oil. "The League rep would like ta meet you, I think. He's the big boss of all our operations, so he'd be the one to ask. But joining up? Well… I dunno, lad. But there's only one way ta find out, right?"
"Right."
And Kowler did indeed want to go to the Badlands.
There was only one reason to go really, and it wasn't for the weather or the people. In the northern pass of the Badlands, inside a mountainous clearing leading to Loch Modan is where it sat; the great ruin of note, one that the League would love to get their mits on. One that Kowler too would love nothing more than to loot and claim for his own.
Uldaman.
Yes… Yes, that sounded a treat.
"Then it seems I will join you." Kowler said, nodding. It was unlikely that he'd actually be able to loot Uldaman, that was just a hopeful dream, but still, it was a decent enough path, and gave him room to think on what he'd like to do going forward.
They were now in front of the bridge between the Cathedral District and the Trade District. Bruegal had told Targorr the general directions he'd need to take to return to his base, and the orc had Targorr grunted his acknowledgement.
Bruegal had also given Targorr a handful of wickerwands, all of the same category of transformation that he was currently under. That got a grumble from the orc, for he did not like having to use such a disguise.
But he was at least smart enough to know it was a needed thing. "We part then. Go with honor, friend, dwarf."
"Aye, you too, orc." Bruegal returned, offering a hand. Targorr eyed it carefully for a moment, and then hesitantly shook it with the air of a foreigner uncertain about a new custom. He blinked in befuddlement and looked at his shaken hand, eying a gold coin sat snuggly in his palm. Bruegal winked. Targorr sneered, though pocketed the coin all the same.
Kowler may not have spoken with Targorr much at all, but the orc considered him a friend and he wanted to show that that meant something. He wracked his head for the proper Orcish phrase of goodbye. "Un-…ah! Un'dabu, Targorr."
The Blackrock orc jerked at the usage of his native tongue but looked pleased all the same. He offered a quick salute, his fist hovering over his heart. "Aka'Magosh, Kowler. Should our paths cross once again, I hope it will be as shieldbrothers."
And with that, the orc left, heading down the Trade District bridge.
"Now let's go!" Bruegal cheered after he was out of sight. "To the tram, I say. The Deeprun Tram! Then home sweet home!"
Grinning, Kowler followed, for once happy to take the lead of another.
Today had been a good day.
Go fish is a game I both love and hate. It is a game that Kowler also both loves and hates, though he probably hates it more than I do.
So the Stockades riots happened, and Kowler took advantage while he could. The cellmates are free, and their adventures begin again. The method with which the riots began were never really described, so I took some creative liberties and decided that the singular dark iron dwarf in the dungeon broke the singular ogre of the dungeon out of his cell and then incited him into a rampage.
And I set that Hallows End thing up last chapter! Or at least the possibility of it. …Anywho.
With this chapter, the majority of the stuff I'd already written has been released. I've finished chapter 6, but I will be letting you all know now that the updates will slow down to a more manageable level. The speed was to get things going and to give those that doubted the intentions of the story the chance to see how things were going to go.
If you liked this chapter, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!