"In Search of Alcohol and a Purpose"
Just a few yards ahead on the left, Rumer came upon the makings of a Dark Iron dig site. She noticed first the kegs stacked neatly behind a rocky hillock. Either they were filled with gunpowder or water, neither of which she had any use for, but the Dwarves were sure to have some kind of alcohol lying around.
Sunrise, from what she could tell, would be in a few minutes, so she had to work fast if she wanted to loot what little wealth and sustenance these mutant geologists had stored before they awoke. The camp looked deserted enough, but as she crept closer, she noticed large piles of dark stones beginning to move. At first, Rumer didn't believe it. Maybe a drop of sweat had blurred her vision or the oppressive heat had finally taken its toll, so rubbing her eyes and shaking her head clear, she approached slowly.
No, it was definitely not her imagination. The piles of stones scraped together to form giant, lumbering golems. They trolled the path and surrounding hills as if they were just waiting for a chance to kill. They must be part of the army Prisanne, Jack, and Burrian Coalpart had been talking about.
Slipping into stealth mode, she ventured as close to one as she dared and took note of the intricately carved details: the overgrown Dwarven beard and mustache, the inscribed helm and armor, and even the sandaled feet complete with crusty toenails. Solid stone, yet animated. Whoever created these golems were master craftsmen and magicians. The army even shot fire out their mouths from deep within their core, as unsuspecting Fire Beetles and Glassweb Spiders met their demise.
For a moment, Rumer entertained the thought of hiring the golems to sear some bear flank, though the likelihood of finding a bear in these parts was unlikely.
Not willing to get any hotter than she already was, Rumer steered clear of the golems and made quick work of quenching her thirst for the moment and picking the sleeping Dwarves' pockets. One never knew when a few pieces of silver would come in handy, and she didn't know how long it would take for Pasha to meet up with her in Redridge. She could already taste the chilled tavern ale she would no doubt overindulge in there.
Keeping her eye on the towering volcanic mountain in the distance, Rumer continued to trudge along the path. Though she had often run alongside Pasha as they traveled, rather than make him carry her, she felt an ache in her hips and back from the trek. Perspiration, no, sweat, drenched her skin. Her leather panoply became too tight and too hot to bear, so it wasn't long before she stripped down to her cotton tunic.
Rumer was known for choosing some risqué pieces of armor and received much chiding from Pasha about them, but what she wouldn't give right now for the leggings that stopped about six inches above her knees. Even if her choices hadn't always been protective, at least they were well ventilated.
Mopping her face with the Defias handkerchief, she couldn't remember a time when withdrawal from alcohol felt this miserable.
As she ventured further into Searing Gorge, the number of chicken carcasses increased and foretold the presence of predators. They were unlikely to be from any of the usual suspects—bears or wolves, because of the distinct lack of water in the region, so she could only imagine what kind of vile creature could endure this clime and had developed a taste for whitish meat.
It wasn't long before she found out. Having never seen such creatures before, their thick, orange, leathered-skin and sharp fuchsia spines webbed together along the creatures' backs, astonished her. But unlike lizards, these beasts were the size of small dragons. Luckily, they were too busy chasing prey to notice her approach. She'd heard of adventurers hunting these primal beasts for their hides, and what she wouldn't give to have a set of leather armor made from incendosaur skin, but they were also hunted for their meat. It tastes like chicken, people said. And why wouldn't it, seeing as that was all there was to eat?
The idea of trying to slice through that hide just for chicken meat didn't appeal to her—she was more of an herbivore by nature, preferring to live off what she could gather in her travels, though she was not opposed to indulging in a shank of meat, if cooked properly. Unfortunately, her cooking skills ranged from raw to burnt and nothing in between.
The sun had only been up for a few hours when the heat really began to take its toll on her. Rumer felt nauseated just thinking about food, and the water in her wineskin was close to boiling when she finished off the last drop. Even though she was sure she was gaining ground on Blackrock Mountain, it never seemed to look any closer. She just hoped that once she made it inside the giant carved doors, she could rest her head on the cool stone floor.
With each step up the steep incline toward the entrance, the pain in Rumer's hips almost brought her to her knees. She cursed Searing Gorge, its molten core, the Cauldron and the Dark Iron Dwarves. Almost in tears, she mourned for Pasha and the Thorium Brotherhood's dead rams. She realized just how treacherous this pilgrimage was and how Pasha never would have made it this far with all that fur, but she wished he was here nonetheless. He would tell her to straighten up, put some clothes on, and stop crying. It was easy for him to say; he was frolicking through the snow on his way to Ironforge this very moment.
With her last ounce of energy, she heaved herself through the giant, carved doors to Blackrock Mountain and threw herself on the ground. She lay there on the stone floor with sweat pooling around her body. Her throat stung and, when she ran her tongue across her lips, she felt only dry, cracked skin.
This was not how she was supposed to die—dehydrated and half naked. No, she had always envisioned herself the last rogue standing around the dead bodies of her sister's abductors, glorious, yet succumbing to the wounds of battle once and for all. In her dying breath, she would take comfort that she had avenged her family's tragic demise. The Nightblade line would die with her, but its legacy would live on in the Dwarven annals stuffed high on an Ironforge bookshelf and be forgotten by everyone except Glittergold.
Glittergold?
There was no way she was going to die with her last thought being about that Gnome. Or being sober.
If she remembered correctly, there was only one place a girl could get a cold drink around here, and it was deep in the heart of Molten Span. There was word about a secret inn that served only the most dangerous and inebriated of patrons. Bloody Dwarves, Goblins, and yes, even Gnomes would all be there. Well, they were going to serve her, a washed-up, has-been Night Elf assassin trained by Master Mathias Shaw himself.
Now she just had to stand up, put some pants on, and stop crying. If only her tears weren't dried up with the rest of her.
Instead of growing cooler as Rumer descended deep into the bowels of Black Rock Mountain, the temperature rose as a force of hot, oppressive air rushed up the tunnels and overtook her. She staggered down along the winding corridor, pressing forward through the heavy air, her head bowed as if it were being crushed by rocks. Sweat dripped from her nose and hissed on the hot stone floors. If there was another way to Stormwind from here, she would have seriously considered backtracking, but according to the maps she'd studied while at SI:7, this was the shortest and most direct way by foot. And besides, that first drop of Dwarven ale would taste so much better after enduring this much agony.
Sobriety had never been a positive character trait for Rumer. She learned at a young age how alcohol numbed the hatred and abandonment she'd felt since that day her father had been executed in Teldrassil and her sister had closed the trapdoor on her, promising they would reunite in Darnassus.
That day never came. She'd waited months hiding among the trees, under the vendors' shops, living on fish she'd stolen from the docks. She had never been caught, which reinforced young Rumer's penchant for thieving. At first, she'd just stolen discarded food and scraps of leather for clothing. Then she realized she could steal other things too, like silver coins and gold from unsuspecting travelers.
On one particular occasion, she'd been holing up near the inn, waiting for one of its occupants to stumble into the night air, trip down the steps (with a little help from her), and pass out at her feet, so she could pick the unlucky bastard's pockets. Only, she didn't find any coins on this occasion. She found instead a wineskin, its dark purple liquid seeping into the ground as the stupid Human fell into an inebriated slumber.
Picking it up quickly, she took a long drink, parched from the warm summer day and brilliant sunshine. The liquid inside wasn't sweet like the Snapvine Watermelon juice her father had often brought back from the city and couldn't have been made with anything native to Teldrassil. It took several seconds and two long gulps before the sour, fermented fruit bit her tongue and, when it did, she spat it out in a spray all over the drunkard's face.
She was about to pour the rest of it on him when she felt a warmth creep from her belly and a fizzy feeling in her brain as if tiny bubbles had somehow begun to percolate. Contemplating the strange sensations inside her body, she thought better of wasting the dark liquid and crept away from the inn to her makeshift shelter under one of the shops in Tradesmen's Terrace.
After dark, the vendors closed their doors, some traveling back to their homes outside the city, some to the inn for a hearth-cooked meal and the day's gossip. The crawl space beneath the blade merchant's shop was Rumer's home. An unattended wolf pelt curing near a huntsman's shack became her bed, her blanket stitched together from cloth remnants snatched from the robe merchant's trash. Stored in a small trinket box camouflaged with dirt and stable hay were a few candle stubs saved for emergencies.
Even in the dark, she knew every dip, stone, and tree root between the inn and the blade merchant's; however, tonight, she lost her balance and stumbled over nonexistent obstacles. Curious, she thought, and a giggle escaped her lips. Clapping a hand to her mouth, she whirled around to make sure no one had heard her, then scrambled on all fours into her hideout.
The lanterns in the shop above were dark, and at last she was home. Giggling again, she sprawled out on the wolf pelt and, for the first time, really felt the softness of the fur beneath her hand. She wondered at how she'd never noticed this before and wondered how many other things she'd never noticed while trying to stay hidden and safe. The leather wineskin in her hand, for instance, was worn and smooth, pliable, and almost cool to the touch. Inside, the liquid undulated, much like the way the warmth from its contents did in her veins.
She sipped more, the wine, still sour, was less repulsive than it had tasted earlier. With each swallow, waves lapped at her senses. For once, she wasn't worried about being discovered, accused of being a traitor's daughter, arrested, and thrown in jail. Or worse. For once, she didn't think about how her sister had left her to fend for herself all these months. How she would never see her again. How she would be alone for the rest of her life. Lost.
No. Somehow the magical elixir she'd drunk tonight made her feel strong and capable of anything.
She didn't need Whisperra to come to her rescue. Or her father to be the hero she'd always thought him to be. Rumer had survived this long on her own without any help from anyone. She'd watched the soldiers train on Warrior's Terrace then mimicked their moves, she'd listened to the craftsmen discuss their professions and tried her hand at mixing potions, and she'd practiced the skills she'd been taught during her schooling at SI:7. There was nowhere she couldn't go in Darnassus. She was invisible. There was nothing she couldn't do. She was invincible.
And she wasn't about to waste any more time lamenting her past.
Finishing the last of the wine, she settled back on her bed and laughed.
And thus began her life in search of alcohol and a purpose.