It was hot. Too damn hot for Crank. The sweat ran from his failing comb-over bald head and dripped off his long green hooked nose onto the dusty floor, before instantaneously evaporating under the high sun. It was really no day for the zeppelin engines to go wrong, but go wrong they had and it was Cranks job to fix it. His boss had been very vocal about the situation, 'insistent' the sneering bespectacled assistant had slimily grinned at Crank before skulking off back to their deckchairs and poolside drinks back at 'the office'. And yet here he was, scorching his goblin behind over a broken engine, elbow deep in oil and cracked sprockets.
'Ere, Buster? Hand me that doo-hicky wrencher!'
Buster, nose deep in some dirty magazine half heartedly rummaged in a tool box next to his chair and lazily tossed the desired tool to Crank without taking his eyes off the page. Crank never really understood Buster's fascination for written filth. The pictures, sure, very nice, Miss Emerald rather pushed his pistons! That skimpy leather bikini and boots all over that lovely shiny mechanohog... oooh it made him all gooey just thinking about her. But Buster liked to think of himself as an 'in-chu-lek-tual', and that the words made the pictures in his head. Buster could keep his head pictures from his favourite author "Quickie McFingers" to himself; give Crank good old proper pictures to see anyday!
He wrestled his potbelly into a gap between the fan and the driveshaft to get a closer look at the problem. 'Slap me with a sack of spuds, who flew this thing? A Kodo?' He pondered the tangled mess of scrap metal before him. Several cogs had their teeth completely worn smooth, a main pipeline had been punctured by a fractured fan blade... he tutted at the mess "Some 'hiccup' they had on the last flight! Looks like they bounced their way over from Gromgol if you ask me! ...Oil connector size four!"
Buster grunted in response, shuffled over to a large box of various tubes, rummaging before slapping the length of black rubber into a grumbling Cranks outstretched hand, all actions executed with his nose still in his magazine.
"Well, that's got to go... and that... Hmmmm...aaaaaand this DEFINITELY shouldn't be loose.." He gives a wide pipe attached to what seemed to be several metal cubes welded together, a hefty
waggle. Which, to Cranks dismay, was the last thing the pipe needed: an almighty "CRUNNK!" followed by "Aaagh!" sounded as the item split cleanly into several pieces, covering the goblin in a mixture of oil and various engine fluids. Crank extracted himself as swiftly as possible from the engine and shook himself off like an oily dog, suitably irritated at the developments of the day and gave the engine a swift kick, only to stub his toe and hop about leaving dirty puddles in his wake yelping. Buster peeked over the pages at his superior, barely stifling a giggle before asking
"The Turbulating-Booster packed up then?"
Wiping his hands and face on a rag Crank gruffly replied "Yea. Seems that way, as well as at least half the Altitude windings too. We got a spare casing for that?"
Buster finally closed his magazine and sauntered out of his corner in the shade to what looked like a small outbuilding, stuffed to the brim with boxes, half assembled engines and whatnots. After some loud rummaging a muffled "No Boss" was heard. Crank frowned "Any Cogs type A, size sixteen... or possibly an eighteen would do?"
Rummaging... "No Boss"
"A Lump end fuser?"
"No Boss"
"Giggity fastner or Loopback set?"
"No...wait.. half a loopback"
"Half's no good. Do we even have a box of dropnuts?!"
"Nah Boss, we used the last of those on that mess they brought in from Dustwallow Marsh"
"Well how in blazin' Fel are we supposed to fix all their crap with no parts?!" Crank steamed stomping about still trying to wipe the gunk from his dishevelled comb-over "No, that's it, we can't work like this. Buster - write a list of what I said we needs and get it to Sneeve, he loves his paperwork and I'm sure all that poolside air ain't good for him, oh and stick our labour time prices up in the quote for the inconvenience..." The apprentice smiled at this "So an afternoon in our office then boss?"
"You got that right. Mechanics meeting at the end of the bar in the Broken Tusk! I'll get you a tall cool mug o' swill waiting for you when you get back from Sneeve's place"
With that the disgruntled engineer started to make his way down the dusty drag, smacking his lips at the thought of the awaiting beer he had lusted after all the hot morning.
Alyssya preened her glossy long black hair into place with the star shaped gemmed pins and admired her reflection. This was going to be a wonderful night after all! What luck that not only did Vel get an escort but one that would put those wagging tongues of Felicity and Yenariel's to rest.
It had been fun, when it was the four of them, 'One of each flavour' Beliel used to say referring to the four girls similar dress sense, age and build, but different coloured hair. She, of course, had the longest darkest ebony locks. Felicity had gloriously white blonde hair, which shone like spun light in the sun. Yenariel had her striking red hair in a short stylish cut which she used to keep out of her face with differing gemmed bands. And then there used to be Anayis with her long loose chocolate tresses. One particular famous admirer of the girls had declared the girls to be 'of such natural worldly beauty' and had named them 'the Seasons', and they played up to that, lapping up the attention it gave them at the various prestigious events they attended in and around Silvermoon. If you wanted YOUR social event to be the best of the year, you HAD to have the all four of 'the seasons' attend. Always the prettiest dressed, the best dancers, the nicest smiles. They had 'almost built a career on partying' Velandra had put it.
It had all gone wrong when 'Summer' got herself married and disappeared from view. Alyssya missed Anayis. They had been all smiles and congratulations when she had broken the news to her three best friends, but underneath the cracked pleasantries a certain jealous feelings settled into the hearts of the trio –
Anayis had got married first.
To a Champion nonetheless, she was the best of the seasons.
And so the seeds of doubt had crept into every girls mind – who would be next? And who could woo someone betterthan a champion? Childish bickering and sniping ensued. Parties had changed from fun into a thankless job, each event a structured act balancing performance with information gathering. Who was the most eligible, who had recently been seen with whom, who was currently worth more, who was more handsome, who had strong family lines... the list went on. It wasn't that she disliked her friends, far from it, a little competition brought out the best in each of them. It just wasn't as 'fun' as it used to be.
Once a week, the three would meet in Velandras inn, share a jug of lightwell while they discussed the months events – who was attending, what they would be wearing etc. They still believed in sharing the information between them, just not 'all' of it. Felicity would always manage to dodge the question of where she got her fabulous jewellery from, and Yenarials's dance instructor just 'happened' to always be away/too busy/ill to accept additional clients. Alyssya herself would never dream to reveal that her most beautiful shoes were actually imported from a very talented Draenai who had a strange fascination for 'real feet' she had put it.
Besides, Yenariel had claimed a few months back that the most eligible bachelor on the circuit, according to their statistics of wealth, looks and prospects was Lord Saltheril who lived on the outskirts of Silvermoon. Each girl had attempted to claim territory on the prize, but they weren't the only ones in the 'competition'. Lord Saltheril was the complete package, more or less. Good looking, land, young enough to be handsome but old enough to know better. The trouble was, every single woman (and some men) in Silvermoon had similar ideas – and the Lord himself had a good idea of what was going on, and seemed to be hosting more and more decadent parties every other week. The Seasons had held off attending for greater social impact ( 'You can't simply turn up to the first one and on time unless you know the host personally. We'd simply look desperate!' Felicity had drawled examining her perfectly painted nails). So they had agreed, the Seasons would attend the third party, they would turn up just after sunset (so not to be all sticky from the suns last evening heat) and they would wear their traditional colours – Felicity in a light spring green to match her eyes, Yenariel would wear a scarlet ensemble to compliment her red hair and Alyssya would wear ice blue... 'To match your personality' Felicity had giggled.
She added a finishing touch of perfume and admired herself in the mirror. Her delicate blue dress hugged her curves delightfully and draped off her ivory skin revealing her slender back. Her lips were painted red and the finest sapphires hung from her ears, no necklace mind, to emphasis the 'almost undressing' nature of the dress – there was no way Lord Saltheril could resist this, especially if she turned up on the arm of such a tall dashing competitor Vel had procured; with his chiselled jaw, strong arms and long chestnut hair. She smirked in the anticipation of victory. Absolutely nothing could get a man's attention quicker than a pretty girl in a stunning dress who was apparently 'unavailable'.
She gives her reflection a flirty wink on departure "Look out Lord Saltheril, Winter is coming!"
The harsh heat from the Orgimmar was softening as the burning orb began to dip behind the red hills. The market people were beginning to pack up their stalls for the night, others opening up for the nightlife, Crank thought he could smell the beginnings of grilled meat (hopefully a plump chicken rather than rat) and set his mind on a little spicy charred treat on the way home later. He supped some more frothy beer, smirking at Buster who had fallen asleep propped up against the wall making whining snores, drooling out the corner of his mouth. Couldn't hold his beer properly that boy! They'd only done four a-piece and he was out for the count. Although, his own head was starting to feel a little fuzzy, but he'd never admit that to Buster, had a reputation to keep up, it was definitely just the heat. But that tall skinny ill looking fellow at a table towards the end of the bar, he had been getting a refill when they had arrived, and was still going strong. He wondered who he was waiting for and where he managed to put away all that beer! Just as he mused about the important thought of if that man ever had to 'spring a leak', when the most wonderful pair of blue legs strode past his hazy view.
She was a vision to Crank, her toned figure, flaming hair, those legs, and tusks, even the strange dangly bones and bells in her hair. He'd seen her at the bazaar while on his monthly oil gathering from the coin n' carry. She worked with inks and books...an educated lady (by goblin standards – paperwork was one thing, but books and flighty literature involving spells and such, you had to have real brains for that sorta work), and she never seemed too ashamed to wriggle her toes in the pool near her stand, laughing at the heat of the day. Crank had a real weakness for a nice smile and a genuine laugh. He blushed and his ears curled in delight as she winked at him when she caught his gaze, he quickly drained the rest of his tankard to hide his face in the oversized vessel. Unfortunately for Crank, his eyes weren't the only ones on her. A gaggle of lecherous miscreants (in Cranks humble opinion) also decided to voice their approval of the new customer with various whistles and cheers.
"Hey sweet thing, I'm on a hunt for treasure, can I look around your chest?"
She sways up to the bar, draping herself on the rough wood, promptly ignoring the leering rabble to order her usual – a pot of redleaf tea (exotic by the usual standard of fare) and a hookah of cherry and peacebloom tobacco. Morag assembles the hookah on the bar, the blue bulbous glass bottom slopped around with water. "I'll bring the pot over when it's boiled. Goin' on Slims bill is it?" he asks with his usual half grimace smile. "Joo know it! Can ya put some lemon in?" He chuckles at her, she'd once sold him a sword, dwarfish in origin with a wickedly sharp blade, probably looked mighty on dwarf warrior, but it was barely large enough for Morag's large hands to hold. She laughs heartily at the orc gathering up the smoking equipment back to 'Slims' table.
Jonas looked wearily at the elaborate pipework as Pu'shala puffed merrily on the nozzle. "Vulgar habit. I never did like smoking, even when I had lungs to worry about"
"Joo never tasted Gkinka's blend! Ooh mon, could she make some damn fine smokies." She cheekily blew a smoke ring to settle over his stump "She be makin it so smooth…." She sighs "Naht gonna get any o'dat for a while, she be stuck in de Outlands. Joo done much inna Outlands Jonas?"
"I can't recall much. I sent an envoy with some marketing out to Shattrath, but she's not returned. I figured it wasn't quite worth the personal risk yet."
"Hmmm.. mebe." She ponders sucking and puffing blue smoke around her "Well... Ah gots ya scroll right here for ya." She pulls out a tattered parchment and unrolls it on the table. "Here ya go. If we jus' hold it here …" The hooka and mugs are used to keep the scroll open, so that the lavish purple circular pattern can be seen "..and ..here.. Dere! Ya good ta go! Just trace da pattern wit da wordz and Joo be in Underciteh in no time"
Jonas smiles "I remember these swirls. Back in the proverbial day when not everyone and his dog could access a portal. My thanks Lady, you really have got me out of quite the predicament…"
A thick hand grabs her wrist as she points at the parchment and pulls her to her feet, her hand above her head. An excessively tall and muscular troll held her close. Jonas though he has the look of a forest troll about him, or at least somewhere in his lineage, possibly a Gron for his father, he was that ugly.
The assailant take a deep sniff of her braids and licks his tusks hungrily "Joo look great an' all, but joo know what really look good on Joo? ...Meh." She felt his fetid hot breath on her skin and scowled at him. He just laughed and licked her neck as she wrestled against his grip.
This was too much for Crank. Here she was, his fantasy woman, being mercilessly held and tortured by a brute of an ogre, or troll or whatever he was. Regardless of being at least six times smaller than his opponent, probably sixty times weaker but he was filled to the brim with Morag's finest alocoholic courage and the true calling of love, Crank yells out whilst storming over to Jonas's table.
"Oi.. OI! You can't be treating a lady like that! You put her down right now...or…or else!" He points up at the troll male fiercely, trying not to shake… this guy was a lot larger up close, a LOT. Crank mentally began to question his actions.
"Oh yeh little mon? An' Whachoo gonna be doin' about it eh?" He looms over her sweaty green knight in not so shining armour. Pu'shala looks at Crank, his eagerness to prove himself. She knew damn well that she could place a well aimed kick to floor the towering idiot, or Jonas was more than likely brewing a fire bolt…still it was interesting to see where the empowered short one was going with this, so she stayed her foot, in the worst case Morag would break it up.
Crank puffed his chest out in, what he hoped was an authorative manner "What am I gonna do you say?..." he reached behind for his trusty arclight 40 spanner from his belt "..how about THIS!" He lands the heavy lump of metal smack on the trolls large nose, spurting claret blood on the impact and a sick pleasurable feeling of crushing bone and cartilage. The goblin cheered inside at his well landed strike. Sadly, his joy was short lived as the furious troll dropped Pu'shala (who landed rather ungainly on the stone floor with a squeak) with an angry gurgling roar and his huge calloused hands, grabbed Crank by his neck and flung him at the wall. The goblins small body making a sickening crump as he hit the brickwork and bounced off onto the table shattering the hookah and spilling tankard contents over everything.
The air was still with the sudden outburst of hostile activity, no one dared to move. A solitary 'gulp' as one patron loudly swallows their mouthful. Jonas audibly sighed and was the first to break the silence, squealing his wooden chair on the floor he used his good hand to stabilise himself to his feet. However, something didn't feel right beneath his palm. The table started to shake, a little at first, then more violently. A flash of purple crackled under his fingers like a miniature storm brewing, arcing magic between the digits. He looked to the cause, a sinking feeling in his heart as to what was about to occur in the immediate future. What he saw confirmed his fears – the inks on the scroll sparkled and rolled about the page with the spilt beer around his hand, licking and leaping purple arcane sparks over the runes.
"Oh, Boll…." The mage disappeared as if being sucked into the table itself – a peculiar view, as if he were liquid being drawn through an invisible plughole, finalised with a loud CRACK and a wisp of yellow smoke where he once stood.
The bar remained in hushed silence trying to comprehend what had just happened. Even the forest troll looked bemused and seemed to forget the reason for the activities of the last few minutes, his nose still dripping blood down his long chin.
"WHAT THE FEL IS GOING ON IN HERE!" Morag steamed out the kitchen with a small iron kettle, presumably with the water for the tea and his ever present grubby towel over his shoulder. "I leave for 10 minutes for an order and you bar monkeys CAN'T KEEP IT CIVIL FOR 10 MINUTES?!" The rest of the tavern goers remain shamefully quiet and stare intently into their own glasses. Morag was not an Orc to anger, especially if it was your favourite place to dodge work in. The barkeeper was on the warpath. "You! Clean him up!" He nods towards the groaning Crank under the table and tosses the towel to Pu'Shala, "And YOU! OUT! I've 'ad enough of your shit!" He points at the troll and then to the door, the troll rises to argue, but thinks better of it, and angry Morag with his 'lemon knife' was not a fight he wanted to be part of... Wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve and muttering under his breath he skulks out into the drag night to find another bar and another conquest.