#alright you primitive screw heads listen up…

[justjessame]

Silence Chapter 1

Pulling the newest, barest, cleanest notebook from my pack, I softly sighed and sat carefully down with my back against the widest tree to keep watch while I rested and kept up my personal history of a world gone to shit.

I grabbed the hottest commodity in my pack, hotter than the food tucked inside, and uncapped it. An ink pen that hadn’t dried or ran out. Looking at my last entry, my pen poised over the top of the next fresh page, I began.

Day 3,775-ish

Why does that look so familiar?

 Most of my previous entries started similarly. Stream of consciousness was something my dad preached for his clients and as his daughter I was weaned on it. There was an honesty from allowing your brain and thoughts to run rampant, so I did.

 StarTrek. I sound like a fucking Trekie. I’d laugh or ‘lol’, but I’d rather not die. My pen, this wonderful instrument that allows me to keep track of the monotony of life after the end of the world, is nearly silent as it glides across the page. Allowing me to write without fear of becoming a snack for a rotting corpse that refuses to acknowledge its own death, or a human that refuses to acknowledge that life is precious.

Humans. When was the last time I was face to face with an honest to God person? I won’t count the creatures whose territory I’m currently squatting in, these beasts that wear the skin of the undead, that whisper and life as animals, hiding behind a primitive ideal so they can feign superiority to their plight. They count less than the very vermin that they skin.

I wonder, at times, if I can even make noise still. It’s been so long since the last time I attempted a conversation. Who was it with? The woman who tried to distract me while the urchin she called her son tried to steal me blind at knifepoint? Or was it the band of men who each yelled “claimed” as they tried to divest me of every piece of my clothing and body?

 My pen stopped moving before the realization that I’d heard noises was confirmed. Muscle memory was an amazing thing. The reactions of the human body to stress and the stress alone that this new world inflicted on a human being was mind boggling. I listened, so still that I wondered if I looked like a part of the very tree I leaned against.

The voice seemed abnormally loud, but being in the territory of those who called themselves Whisperers, what did I expect? A man, deep booming voice, and the talking went on and on. I was shocked that it continued, seemingly unabated for so long.

As they drew nearer, I moved as quietly and slowly as possible, making certain to make as little noise as possible on the off chance that the man would stop speaking or that he’d be silenced permanently and they’d hear and see me. I tucked the notepad and pen into my pack, hitched it back on my back, had my naturally camouflaged bow notched and ready with my body hidden behind my former leaning spot. I watched as they led the blindfolded, still talking man through the trees toward where I knew they kept a sort of camp.

“Honestly, fellas - or ladies. Kinda hard to tell underneath the outfits. I wanna join, alright? I am a joiner. Get me a damn application already. I mean, look at you guys, right? Cool-ass outfits, the whole back-to-nature paleo vibe? You are a survivalist's wet dream. Not to mention the number-one selling point: no more bein' eaten by the dead. But just, out of curiosity, 'cause it's killin' me, what do you got goin' on down low? Are you flyin' around commando-style, or do you got, like, walker long johns with the la flap?” My head tilted as I watched him, so cocky, so LOUD. The large man, the second to the woman leader, turned and I felt certain that the time had come for the man to be silenced for good, but instead of using the dual blades, he simply gagged him with the blindfold.

Feeling that the show was certainly anticlimactic, I leaned my shoulder against the tree and waited for them move on, including the rear guard, so I could backtrack and get the fuck out of their more populated area. Another show would be happening, and that one, where the blindfolded, then gagged man would be tested, and I’d rather have time to get the fuck out of dodge and find shelter far away from wherever the fuck the next round of insanity was coming from.

  The next time I came across the LOUD man, I was washing up in a stream. I thought I was far enough away from the freaks and crazies, but apparently not. He was alone, for which I suppose I should have been grateful, but for all I knew at the time he might have had a quota for skin suit recruits.

“Shit, I did NOT expect to see YOU.” I was a tad shocked, and a lot half naked. Fuck. But I was still cleaner than him and ALL of the group he was keeping company with, so screw the false modesty. His eyes roamed over my body in an appreciative way, and I hoped like hell that he wasn’t planning on doing something idiotic like wolf whistling, cause fighting a fucking corpse while topless wasn’t all that fun, trust me. “I’m Negan.” Really?

I nodded, and went back to bathing, now that I felt pretty confident that he wasn’t planning on calling up the Alpha, Beta, Omega gang. The downfall of human civilization was no reason to start smelling like you’d died and went to a shitshow. Even if some fuckers hadn’t gotten the memo. Once I felt cleaner, I brushed out my hair and twisted it back up into a knot on top of my head, and replaced my bra and shirts. He watched the show like it was the best thing on television, and since the only other channel was the water making slight ripples, I guess I could understand. I started to pack up my rucksack.

“Not gonna give me a name to go with the fucking wet dream fodder?” I rolled my eyes, and kept putting my things back in their pockets. “That’s cold, sweetheart, I mean what the fuck should I call out when I’m taking matters in hand?”

“Thought you said you’re Negan?” I offered, voice quiet, hoarse from lack of use, but happy to learn it was still capable. “I think your ego would demand you use your own.” I was turning from him when he sighed and asked me to turn back.

“Don’t you want your own show?” His eyebrow arched, his hands were on the hem of his shirt, and I bit my lip to hold back a laugh. He looked so certain of his own attractiveness that I had only ONE course of action.

 “I think I’ll live.” And with that, I turned and walked away, smiling as I heard his quiet chuckle follow me as I left.

[ill-be-istj-if-no-one-else-is]

The (indie) Kids Are(n’t) Alright.

[piece by Nick Southall of Stylus Magazine which has sadly been defunct since 2007; I’m reposting it here because I had to dig through the internet archive to find it]

The following was posted by one of our readers in the comments section of our recent Top 50 Singles of 2005 article. 

Posted 12/09/2005 - 08:07:34 AM by tintin1000: i hate this list. but before i get into a rant, i shall tell you all the "rules" which i relied upon to come to the conclusion that this list is a pile of steaming bullshit. (a) this is a snobby list (b) i understand that this is a list of singles, so it cannot include bands like deerhoof or anything because they don't HAVE singles, but ... (c) this is a lame attempt at justifying why you guys like top 40 chart songs ... a shoddly constructed "logical" justification of listening to top 40 songs, with the "indie mag," stylus, as a sort of buffer ... "oh -- we're really into indie music, so that means we can accept pop music from an "elevated" plane of existence or some bullshit like that. okay -- who the hell thinks that the friggin' backstreet boys write "better" songs than the mountain goats?! than the futureheads!? uh ... and sure -- the concept of r. kelly's trapt in the closet is cool, i think, but how in the hell do you distinguish which gwen stefani single is the "best" on the album? is it the originality of the song? nope? is it in the creativity? nope. is it the craftmanship? nope. is it the songwriting? nope. as far as i can tell, you guys compiled a list that should be dubbed "best singles that will get you crunked in 2005," but since you worded everything so perfectly, it sounds like there is an actual intellectual, logical reason behind the creation of the fucking whisper song. the whisper song is about fucking. since when has fucking merited any artistic credibilty? just plain, raw, primitive sex? if you guys like to dance to this shit, cool ... but don't be dumbasses and pretend that you listen to this shit because you actually think it actually has a true artistic quality to it ... damn. 

I usually try and avoid responding directly to people in the comments boxes, unless they ask a specific question about a piece or raise a factual error, because I think it’s slightly unbecoming for writers to be trawling their own work looking for flame wars, but I couldn’t help but respond to our friend tintin1000, initially with a couple of short notes in the comments box, and now here, in more length and with more thought. 

tintin1000 isn’t alone in his indi(e)gnation (I’m sorry, that’s a terrible forced pun)—you can see dozens, if not hundreds of other people spilling outraged bile into the comments boxes every week in protest at our temerity in choosing to review a country record favourably (and I’m not talking about Lambchop or Uncle Tupelo) or vote Kelly Clarkson as our single of the year ahead of, say, the latest 7” by The Ambivalent Corduroy Medical Students on Squirrel Records which features nine Canadian college graduates banging ukuleles and broken harpsichords and singing about their guinea pig’s gravestone. What’s wrong with us? Why are we pretending to like such manipulative top 40 pop shit? How could we possibly be so short-sighted as to not see the genius inherent in something like Pig On A Stick’s masterful limited edition EP, I’m Ugly, I’m Lonely, All My Friends Are Dead?!Especially when we lavish such shallow, fetishistic praise on hollow, manufactured acts. 

The thing is that Stylus has always loved pop, hip-hop and r’n’b singles, consistently voting them highly in the end-of-year singles lists over the last three years. Just look at the Singles Jukebox articles from the last 9 months—pop music is something we love and something we cover—we’ve never claimed to be an indie website any more than we’ve claimed to be an IDM website (something we used to get accused of every so often when we began). If you’re still not convinced, take a look at the Mission Statement; all we’ve ever been bothered about covering is music, not specific genres. 

So why are indieboys still so vehemently disgusted by our (un)surprising pop-centricity, our schizeclecticism, by the fact that some of us like country records and others like pop records and yet others really do enjoy Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (I’m still not entirely convinced that that particular band isn’t a complex hoax perpetrated by Derek Miller)? I’d wager, for a start, that the majority of our most vocal indieboy naysayers are probably in their late teens rather than their mid-to-late 20s, and that the music they like isn’t just a sonic preference based on what tickles the hairs in their ears in a pleasant way, but that it is a much more deep-seated culture-aesthetic choice. A choice as much about identity as music, perhaps. 

Which is fine, because adolescent cultural choices—hell, adult cultural choices too—are about identity. They’re about peer groups and aspirations and association. The music you like may well help determine the clothes you wear, the friends you keep, how you cut your hair—it’ll certainly determine which clubs or gigs you go to, and who you go with. It’s a chicken / egg conundrum, though, as to which comes first—the music or the identity. Do you like this music because of who you are, or are you making a definite effort to determine who you are and using the music as a tool to do so? Because like it or not, and whether you’re aware of it or not, your cultural choices are a signifier pointing towards who you are. 

Here are a handful of bands and what liking them says about you: 

Interpol - “I am deep, moody, urban and edgy, given to pathos and bad poetry. Please have sex with me, but don’t expect an orgasm.” 

Bright Eyes - “I have read a book about true love and am too scared to treat you badly. Please don’t have sex with me, as I will cry.” 

Embrace - “I really am in it for the music, because the public perception of my favourite band is terrible. Please have sex with me in a slightly dull, monogamous way.” 

Kompakt-style techno - “I transcend the body-mind divide by being intellectually into dancing. Please have sex with me on drugs.” 

Bloc Party - “I am very cool but not as alternative as I’d like to think, and I wish I knew more black people. Please have sex with me, but be careful not to mess-up my hair.” 

Girls Aloud - “I am a shallow pop whore. Let’s fuck! But it will be without true, meaningful emotion.” 

Arcade Fire - “I am into way more cool and obscure stuff than anyone else. Please let me say I had sex with you ages ago, before anyone else.” 

Oasis - “I am a piss-throwing troglodyte misogynist. I am going to date-rape you.”

Each of these assumptions says as much about the inferer as the inferred, if not more so. Each one is a value judgement based on cultural baggage, and everyone’s cultural baggage is different. Most internet-based discussion of music that I’ve come across deals not with what people like, but with what people dislike. What people like is a matter of assumption, some kind of unspoken test to see whether someone is cool enough to be spoken to, to be let into the secret club. You wouldn’t want someone uncool hanging around with the cool kids (on a messageboard, natch) and making them uncool by association because they like, heaven forbid, “The Whisper Song”, would you? 

Ah, “The Whisper Song.” Here’s what tintin1000 said about it: it sounds like there is an actual intellectual, logical reason behind the creation of the fucking whisper song. the whisper song is about fucking. since when has fucking merited any artistic credibilty? just plain, raw, primitive sex? This raises a whole other issue that indieboys can’t stand. Sex. It’s often been stated that indieboys are afraid to dance because they have an intrinsic “fear of the middle of the body,” a post-Victorian-era Catholic / Freudian guilt / paranoia about all things sexual which dates back, perhaps, to Morrissey’s fiercely foppish stance of asexuality and beyond, to Keats or Wordsworth or whoever, and the myth of the sexually-frustrated romantic, the idea that one’s art will be somehow purer if untainted by the dirty touch of lust. But go beyond that, go to Michelangelo sculpting David’s sensuous masculine frame; or all those countless portraits of St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows like an S&M; stunt gone awry, loincloth barely covering his genitals; all those pre-Raphaelite female nudes; every film to ever reveal more flesh than grandmother would like; to Led Zeppelin wailing about plain, raw, primitive sex and John Lennon trying to make the end of “A Day In The Life” sound like a great big musical orgasm. Very few people would question Björk’s artistic credibility, and she’s written countless songs about sex. People are rushing to proclaim Kate Bush’s Aerial a work of genius, and it’s positively dripping with eroticism. Sex is not the be-all-and-end-all of human existence, and to get too caught up in its alluring juices and scents can screw with your head (just ask Michael Douglas or any random Tory politician) but to claim that plain, raw, primitive sex has never inspired any worthwhile art is the folly of the hungry, short-sighted virgin. Pop music in particular (and The Mountain Goats and Deerhoof are as much pop music as Charlotte Church or Sisqo) is about sex. 

And of course sex is key to identity—as if I needed to say that after the assumptions about bands above. Anyone who ever wore skinny jeans or dyed their hair black did so because they wanted some of their idol’s allure by proxy, because they thought that listening to this record and wearing those shoes would get them laid. Everyone. Except me, of course, because I’m above it all. 

The problem with our intrepid hero tintin1000 is that he’s finding his identity, and is thus vulnerable to having the fragile foundations of that identity shaken. And so he sees Mountain Goats, an act he loves for their literate, melodic music made in the cottage-industry style, unadorned by commercial trappings but instead blessed with deep insight into the human condition, at number 50 on our list and is pleased, thinking, hoping and assuming that the rest of the list will continue to reaffirm his identity. Because he trusts Stylus, possibly, as someone he can talk to about these things. And there’s the fucking Ying Yang Twinz, wtf? And Gwen Stefani? And other music that is liked by the people he sees at college or in town and takes an instant dislike to for their shallow natures and unthinking ways, and it jars his assumptions about what it means to like Mountain Goats, about what it says about him when he realises what he thinks liking Kelly Clarkson says about other people. 

The thing is that once you stop worrying about what owning (and more importantly liking) a Girls Aloud record says about you, you can start taking it on its own merits, which are (generally) pretty plentiful. Something like Die Hard is a great film because it knows what it is and what it does and it executes its plan with zero faffing around—there’s no narrative fat in that film (unlike, say, the odious Goodfellas), every single event is a plot device, and there’s joy to be found in such craftsmanship, never mind the actual tangible visceral thrill of the finished article once we get past ontological rumination on the efficiency of the screenplay. Likewise Girls Aloud’s records are faultless exercises in meta-pop constructivism, not so much songs as processions of hooks and choruses with the boring, fatty verses left over for the likes of Okkervil River instead. And, of course, as with Die Hard there is the sheer physical joy of listening to them, of dancing to them, getting caught up in the beats and the insidious melodic hooks, which outweighs even the music-journalistic catnip attraction of playing spot-the-reference. 

And once you’re past the stage of crushing insecurity and aspirational identity positing, the idiocy inherent in statements like how in the hell do you distinguish which gwen stefani single is the "best" on the album? becomes clear. You distinguish your favourite (no such thing as objectivity, kids) Gwen Stefani song on Love Angel Music Baby in exactly the same manner as you would your favourite song on The Sunset Tree—by listening to the record and choosing the song that you like most, for whatever reason(s) it is that you ever like any song. Until your superego stops screaming at you that it’s bad to like Gwen Stefani though, that’s not going to happen. 

It works in stages though, this music / identity nexus. As a child one likes simple things, the multi-coloured hues of pop music perhaps, but once one senses the transition to adulthood one puts away childish things. By writing off whole areas of music for the simple reason that “it’s not the kind of thing someone like me listens to” you are, quite simply, denying yourself a whole lot of pleasures, both frivolous and profound. Malcolm X said in his autobiography that “children have a lesson adults should learn, to not be ashamed of failing, but to get up and try again. Most of us adults are so afraid, so cautious, so 'safe,' and therefore so shrinking and rigid and afraid that it is why so many humans fail. Most middle-aged adults have resigned themselves to failure.” It’s not just failing that we shouldn’t be ashamed of. A major finding in neuroscience in recent years is the extent to which our brains display advanced levels of ‘neural plasticity.’ We are not forever ‘hardwired’ for rigid modes of behaviour; we are not static ‘slaves’ to our DNA. There is a remarkable degree to which we can change ingrained patterns of thought, intention and practice. Our identities are not fixed, are not immutable—admitting that you enjoy a Britney record unironically will not destroy your future character. And that goes for an awful lot of things besides music. 

Of course this is all blatant assumption, and doesn’t mean anything at all. Except, perhaps, that you should give in to your ids, indie kids. 

[thetirisfaltheatretroupe]

[Script Archive] Hellthreequel: The Third One

<<The following is a play that has been retired from the Tirisfal Theatre’s library, and will only reoccur for private events for the foreseeable future. This script has been placed here so that those who enjoyed the play or wish to perform it themselves may do so. Credit for this comedic performance goes to the Tirisfal Theatre Troupe>>

<Scroll to the bottom for trivia about this play, as well as our original poster!>

<CAST: Garrosh Hellscream, Wrathion, Kairozdormu, Grom Hellscream, Kargath Bladefist, Durotan, Blackhand, Ner’zhul, Kil’rogg Deadeye, Gul'dan, Mar’gok’s Emissary>

<Thrall enters the stage and bows, then begins the opening narration>

[Thrall]: Hellscream… <he shakes his head.> If ever there was a greater mistake for a Warchief, I cannot possibly think of it.  

He escaped justice in Pandaria and fled to an alternate reality, where he was eventually found building an army from the Horde of the past in a land my people.. thought they would never see again.

<he runs a hand down his beard and looks down a moment before looking back to the audience.>

Yet.. was it fate, I wonder, that brought him down before this army could do any real damage?

Or was it just that they were all so very -stupid-?

Ladies and gentlemen, the final chapter in the Hellsqueal trilogy: Hellthreequel: The Third One! Enjoy!

<he bows and leaves the stage>

<The scene opens with Garrosh and Kairoz arriving in a ‘flash of light’ to Nagrand’> <NOTE: Invisibility potion before entering the stage, get in position, and as soon as said ‘flash’ effect happens, cancel the invisibility buff and begin> [Wrathion]: BEHOLD! What our discoveries upon the Timeless Isle have yielded! Through the chaos of the twisting nether, we have warped time and space itself, and created a branch on the tree of time that bore fruit! This fruit…DRAENOR! Uncorrupted. Untainted! Ripe with a powerful race of orcish legends to face off against the Burning Legion itself! [Garrosh]: <scratches his head> Wait a sec, who the Thok are you?

[Wrathion]: Why, I am the one who DOUBTLESSLY crafted this ingenious plan to spirit you away to this alternate timeline! Son of Deathwing and SAVIOR of Azeroth!

Your military charisma will sow the seeds of a grand new Horde! One that will surely be strong enough to square off against the Burning Legion!

[Garrosh]: …so we’re planting a garden? [Kairoz]: <turns to Wrathion> I hate you so very, very much for this. [Wrathion]: Oh what, you think you could come up with a better plan? [Kairoz]: Actually, yeah. I do. Because you’re incompetent. And he’s incompetent. [Garrosh]: Actually, I’m just hungry. This wobbly wibbly wimey timey stuff is murder on the old gut – got anything to eat? Not big on fruit.

[Wrathion]: Look, maybe Garrosh has a point here, Kairoz. Perhaps we are all simply…hungry.

<wrathion claps his hands together>

Yes. I’ll go and get us something to eat, then we can discuss our plan over our meal and a game of charades. Won’t that be FUN? [Kairoz]: It’s really difficult to take the son of Deathwing the Destroyer seriously when your voice cracks that high. [Wrathion]: I’ll just…<points off stage> Go grab us some sandwiches or something… You two have at it for a bit. <walks off stage, sulking> [Kairoz]: <turns to Garrosh> Alright, punk. Listen up. You’re obviously an idiot and a blow hard who can’t be reasoned with. But I need you to throw a wrench into Wrathion’s plan. [Garrosh]: Well, I mean…I guess I could. Only problem is uh…

[Kairoz]: <raises an eyebrow> Well? What seems to be your malfunction, Hellsqueek?

[Garrosh]: Hey, that’s Hellsqueal…I mean Scream! [Kairoz]: And that’s the title drop.

[Garrosh]: Whoa whoa, leave the fourth wall alone! It’s been through enough! [Kairoz]: Answer my question already. What is your issue with me? [Garrosh]: </rudes> Well, I just don’t like your FACE! [Kairoz]: The feeling is mutual, Hellmoan. But I have an idea that I think will work out better than Wrathion’s. Best part is, it’s something even you can’t screw up, BECAUSE it involves you screwing up! Would you be interested? [Garrosh]: Hrm…screwing things up IS what I do best. And momma Hellscream always told me to stick to what you know. What the Thok, I’ll do it!

[Kairoz]: Grand. All you need to do, is deliver a very important message to your father, Grom Hellscream. I-- [Garrosh]: My father? <sobs> MY FATHER IS DEEEEAD! WAH HAH HAH! [Kairoz]: No, no he’s not. Not in this era. [Garrosh]: Wait, huh? Daddy lives?! OH! OH THAT’S GREAT!

We’re gonna go fishing, kick a few gnomes off of cliffs, we’re gonna go Mechano-hog riding, and then we can go to the Darkmoon Faire and ride the little sandbox tigers together! Ooooh, oh oh and camp the Darkmoon Deathmatch too! Oh this is gonna be a great day! [Kairoz]: No no, listen. You need to tell him that everyone on the other side of the Dark Portal is in cahoots with the Burning Legion.

[Garrosh]: Wait, so you’re telling me to tell my dad, who in this era is still a primitive orc from a time when we were neck deep in superstition and so easily fell for the Burning Legion’s lies that the entirety of Azeroth is the demons…

..thus throwing both worlds into an inter-dimensional and inter-space time conflict that could result in...

...thousands of pointless deaths on both sides, repeat the same shit that corrupted my people in the first place, and paint my father once more as a villain in the eyes of history? [Kairoz]: Um… well…yes. Actually. <clears his throat>

That was astonishingly well phrased, Hellmumble.

[Garrosh]: What was well phrased? [Kairoz]: What you just said. [Garrosh]: What did I just say? [Kairoz]: That…that bit about how you telling your father that they are agents of the legion is-- [Garrosh]: <breaks into sobs> DADDY IS DEEEEEAD! Wahaha! [Kairoz]: <sighs heavily> Look, we’re going full circle again. Are you in, or are you out? [Garrosh]: <sniffs and dries his tears> I’m in. [Kairoz]: Good, good. Then remember that no matter what Wrathion says, you’re still to-- [Garrosh]: <turns away> On second thought, I’m out. [Kairoz]: …okay then, perhaps you’d rather-- [Garrosh]: Nevermind, definitely in. <nods> [Kairoz]: Dammit, Garrosh, you’re not a freakin’ cat. [Garrosh]: Fine, fine. I’ll go along with your plan, Kel’thuzad. [Kairoz]: It’s…Kairoz. Kairozdormu. How did you get Kel’thuzad out of―nevermind. Alright, let’s shake on it. Put ‘er there. <holds out his hand> [Garrosh] Okay! <slams his axe into Kairoz’s chest> Oooh! OH! Oops, sorry, I thought you meant―ohhhh… [Kairoz]: You…freaking…nimrod… [Garrosh]: Oh sheesh, that’s a lot of blood. Oh um… Better uh…get out of here before that Wrathion kid comes back. Um…so yeah, we’ve got a deal and uh…take care of yourself. I gotta split.

[Kairoz]: UGggh…

[Garrosh]: UM! I MEAN! I have to cut this short―

[Kairoz]: Aggh…

[Garrosh]: WAIT NO! Let me just get to it, chop-chop-- [Kairoz]: JUST LEAVE ME ALONE TO DIE! PLEASE! NO MORE PUNS! [Garrosh]: Sheesh, no wonder they axed your character so early. Alright, time to go get a slice of vengeance. <exits the stage> [Kairoz]: In my dying moments…what have I unleashed upon the universe? Am I but a cogwheel in the mechanisms of time, forever obscured and greyed upon the golden backdrop? Or did I serve as the spark that lit the flame? Time will tell. Time. Will. Tell. <dies> <Wrathion enters the stage with 2 hoagies in his hand> [Wrathion]: Alright, I was out of tuna, but I did manage some extra Elwynn ham while we were packing the picnic basket. Nothing says teamwork like a team lunch and― <he spots Kairoz’s corpse and drops the sandwiches> By my father’s monolithic chin! What the Thok happened here?!? <he looks side to side, shrugs, and stuffs Kairoz’s corpse in some bushes> Better get out of here, I am NOT going to be taking the fall for this one! <sneaks off stage> <END SCENE>

<Thrall returns to narrate>

[Thrall]: Wrathion was never found. At least, I think.

Garrosh found himself in a strange and yet familiar world, where Draenor was whole, and yet nothing seemed the same as it were.

Thinking himself above Kairozdormu’s plans, he located the Warsong Clan, after stumbling stupidly in the wilderness for some time.

His… sense of direction was never the best... You could put him in a room and tell him to move forward and he'd probably fall straight into the ground instead.

Soon, he stood before Grommash Hellscream, the Chieftan of the Warsong Clan, and..

His own father. However, as he would soon learn, the strangest thing about this world..

Was yet to be revealed. <Thrall leaves. Next scene opens with Garrosh kneeling before Grom> [Garrosh]: Wha…huh? Where am I? I feel like we’re missing some context here. [Grom]: Well, stranger, to better explain your current situation, you um… kind of happened to burst into my Warsong War Tent, screaming something about your father, then you collapsed, woke up, and repeated the cycle. Twice. [Garrosh]: Huh? OH! Oh wait wait, Warsong? I’M Warsong! We’re totally like…family or something! [Grom]: Uh..wait, hold on a moment. I need to get my glasses. [Garrosh]: Glasses? [Grom]: Mhm. One moment. <Grom reaches into his loincloth and puts a monocle on>

There we are. Now I can see you perfectly. Ah, you have the markings of the Warsong upon you. That’s uh…very good. Very, very good. Now we can spare a few expenses with the cleanup since we don’t have to eviscerate you. <Grom turns and waves off stage> False alarm, boys. You can uh…put the mops away. <he returns his focus to Garrosh> Anyway, you’re no Warsong I’ve ever seen. Hrm. Hope you, ahem, have a good reason for being here. [Garrosh]: <rises> Hrm…uh…oh, I had something tell you. It was kind of important. OH! Right! Demons! [Grom]: Care to be a little more specific there? [Garrosh]: Yeah uh…demons and uh. Something about blood, and a really bad drink.

And then there’s this portal that…things come out of. Oh, and there’s this awesome planet called Azeroth that has like tons of resources and stuff you can take to empower the clans to fight against the demons. [Grom]: Hum. I can uh…tell you’re not exactly the…brightest of individuals, but let me see if I can piece together your story.

You’re telling me that there is another world inhabited by demons or demon associates, rich with resources and land, and to unite the clans in order to seize control of this world for the betterment of our people…

…and prepare for the possibility of an invasion from said demons? [Garrosh]: …wait is that what I said? [Grom]: And a bad drink. Well, Gul’dan did send me a missive about some kind of destiny earlier, perhaps that has something to do with him. We’ll deal with that later. Seems like we’ve got a bit of work to do. [Garrosh]: We do? [Grom]: You’re ...kind of a boneheaded little guy, aren’t you? If what you’re saying is true, and considering the chain of events that have unfolded recently, I’d say it’s time indeed to unite the clans.

I uh…have a job for you if you’re willing. [Garrosh]: <throws his hands in the air> Why does everyone want me to do jobs for them? Huh? What ever happened to people getting jobs from ME? [Grom]: I promise not to berate you on your enormous jaw line if you promise to stop whining. [Garrosh]: DEAL! [Grom]: Good. Then I need you to come with me. We’re going to gather the clans, starting with the Shattered Hand. <walks off stage> [Garrosh]: <stands there and picks his nose> My jawline isn’t bad…it’s just big enough to block a few dozen arrows. [Grom]: You uh..might want to get your ass in gear. [Garrosh]: <grumbles> Coming! Sheesh, way you boss me around already you’d think you were my dad or something. <They leave, next scene starts> <The next scene begins narrated by the narrator. Grom and Garrosh approach a hut with Kargath Bladefist sitting in front of it. Thrall bows and begins narrating the scene> [Thrall]: And so it was, The grand idiot Hellscream and his father, whom he was too stupid to realize at the time was in fact his father, made their way to the home of  legendary Kargath Bladefist.

Kargath was the most fierce gladiator of the Highmaul coliseum and chieftain of the Shattered Hand, a clan that was known to be...pretty savage. What Garrosh didn’t know was that this would be the beginning of a journey ridden with harsh trials, actual effort, and strange otherworldy accents. Hrm…why does that sound so familiar? <Narrator shrugs and leaves the stage> [Grom]: Alright, Garrosh. I’d like you to let me do the talking, if you don’t mind. [Garrosh]: Wait, then why did you even need me to come here? I could have been watching my goblin soaps―erm… I mean, crushing our enemies! [Grom]: That’s uh…well and good, but I need to be able to point to you when Kargath asks me who this prophet who informed me of this ‘Azeroth’ is. You understand. [Garrosh]: What’s an Azeroth? [Grom]: …I’m uh, just going to give you the benefit of the doubt and presume you hit your head as a child. [Garrosh]: Yeah, that’s probably for the best, not gonna lie. [Grom]: Hm. Well. Anyway. <turns to Kargath>

Lok’tar, chief of the fearsome Shattered Hand. I’ve come to you with dire news. Gul’dan plans to betray us at the summit. [Bladefist]: <grunts and rises to his feet, speaking in a deep, gravelly tone> Well that’s pretty Thokin’ savage of him. Just, y’know, not in the cool way.

Not surprised though, guys was always kinda a giant ogre sack. Uh…oh yeah, speaking of… who the hell is the walking phallus? <gestures to Garrosh> [Grom]: Oh, him. Uh. He’s the uh…prophet that came from another time and place to warn me of Gul’dan’s treachery. [Bladefist]: And you’re just gonna uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…roll with that, right? [Grom]: That would be the plan. Yes. [Bladefist]: <takes a deep breath> Yeaaaah I'm not gonna lie, this sounds like the kind of crap Ner’zhul would make up. Not really you, Grom, never really pegged ya for a uh… for an ordinary Grokoff like that. But hey, I’m always up to kick some ass. That’s doable. [Garrosh]: …hey uh…can I pull you aside real fast here? [Grom]: I’m kind of busy, Garrosh, can it wait?

[Garrosh]: NO! [Grom]: <sighs> One moment, Kargath. [Bladefist]: Naaah, it's whatever, not like I was doing anything with my day.

Hey, I’ll go get the rest of the guys while you deal with this giant clefthoof pile. We’ll all meet you at the Warsong place with that big ass campfire indoors, maybe dice up a coupla ogres and give it a paint job. <waves and walks off stage> [Grom]: Alright, what? [Garrosh]: So uh…not sure if you noticed. Really don’t want to alarm you but… [Grom]: But? [Garrosh]: <points in the direction Kargath walked in> That guy’s only got one arm. [Grom]: …yeah? [Garrosh]: It’s gross! In my Horde, we’d just execute the weak and injured who couldn’t fight to my standards. Well, that assumes I had standards, but…point stands. [Grom]: I uh…assure you, Garrosh, Kargath is definitely the kind of chief we would benefit from the favor of. That, and he’s a grand warrior, I can assure you. As for your ‘Horde’, well, I guess we can see why you’re here, now. There comes a time when we need to learn from our mistakes and iron them out. <turns away> Iron. Iron. Hm… Iron.

Horde. Iron Horde, okay, someone write that down. <walks off stage> [Garrosh]: <stops in his tracks> …but…it was my idea. I should get to name it. <walks after him> <Scene ends> <The next scene opens with Garrosh and Grom gathered before all the Warlords> [Bladefist]: So I went out and gathered these Grokoffs while you two were busy makin’ out or something, buncha time wasting pieces of…pieces of shit. [Grom]: Good. That should allow us to get a start on the task at hand. Garrosh, I want you to meet my fellow chieftans. You already know Kargath. [Bladefist]: Bite me, gronn scrotum. [Grom]: Over here we have Chief Blackhand. He leads the Blackrock clan. [Blackhand]: Ands I haves the most sexiests accents of any orcs. [Garrosh]: …why does he sound like that goblin I ordered pandaren food from and tipped with a booterang to the head? [Grom]: Kilrogg Deadeye, lord of the jungle and the Bleeding Hollow. [Kilrogg]: Eeh, more like lord of the deence reely, not much for lordin’ over mosquitoes and stuff. Suckin’ all the blood outta them veens of mine, really bites when yer tryin’a geet a buzz. [Grom]: Here is Durotan, lord of the frostwolf clan of Frostfire Ridge. [Durotan]: <in a REALLY high pitch voice> Ifs yous gots an ass, I’LL KICKS IT! [Garrosh]: Hey, you sound like Blackhand sorta. Cept really squeaky! Are you two brothers or something?

[Both Blackhand and Durotan]: Nos relations.

<Both of them stare at one another for a moment and blink> [Blackhand]: Stops copies mes. [Durotan]: No yous stops copies MES! [Blackhand]: You stops copies MES, you bigs boar piles! [Durotan]: Wells you knows whats they says, immitamations ams the best forms of flatteries, so I guess yous ams just beings really nices to mes. [Garrosh]: …wow. And here I thought I talked like a moron. I can forsee this getting annoying really quickly. [Grom]: Now that we’ve uh…done role call, I think now we should move on to the most important matter at hand. Gul’dan is-- [Ner'zhul]: AHEM! [Garrosh]: I think the wind just talked. [Grom]: Hrm. Oh, of course. I completely forgot. That’s Ner’zhul. Shadowmoon chieftan. Anyway, as I was say-- [Ner'zhul]: Oh thok you, sthtuck up ath-hole! I’m tha betht there ith at thhhhadow magic, so fathe it – you need me. [Garrosh]: <wipes off his face> He spat on me like three times just trying to say shadow. [Kilrogg]: Must be a new experience, meeting someone dumber’n you, eh big guy? <nudges Garrosh> [Garrosh]: Yeah, how does it feel Kargath? [Bladefist]: <grunts> Go uh…jump of a damn cliff or something, I dun really care, whatever… [Grom]: Let’s uh…remember why we’re here now. We’ve got to focus, boys. Gul’dan plans to deceive us at the summit coming up.

We need to teach him that nobody, um, pardon my language, ‘thoks’ with our people and gets away with it.

Make an example out of him. Honestly, it’s the best move, considering if we don’t, he’s likely to cause…utter panic and havoc anyway. [Ner'zhul]: Ugh…Gul’dan things he’s shoooo cool with his fancy green magic and thtuff. [Bladefist]: Yeah but uh…that shit ain’t easy to deal with. Like uh…it burns.

Pretty bad. Y’know, like…fire or something. [Blackhand]: Yeahs, excepts the fires cans actually damages me! I used to haves a full heads of hairs, then I calleds hims a rylakk's flacid you-know-whats. Then IT HURTS MES! [Durotan]: And its ams nots the best ways to cooks your boar meats. I trieds once and gots a tummys aches. I does nots recommends its, unless you likes your meats super spiced.

[Garrosh]: Oh, OH OH! I have a plan! I have a plan! [Grom]: Well, considering your insight into the future, Garrosh, I would say you have the best chance at coming up with a successful plan. I’ll uh…put my faith in you for this one. [Garrosh]: Yeah, it’s gonna be great! No no, just follow my lead, okay? Every last one! First, we build giant…

Metal…

Balls! [Bladefist]: …yeah, this plan’s already sounding thokkin’ stupid, but I ain’t got nothing better to do this afternoon.

<end scene>

<The narrator comes on stage>

[Thrall]: Garrosh then told them of the technology he’d amassed in his rule over Orgrimmar. He spent days and days trying to figure out how they worked – until finally, he found the power switch... It was then that he knew just what he had to do. And on that fateful night, when the orcs were supposed to be corrupted by the demon blood offered by Gul’dan, the very same that plagued my people, something quite different happened than what history originally foretold! <Thrall leaves the stage> <The scene opens with Grom and Garrosh walking to the summit together. Garrosh is wearing a cloth hood> [Grom]: I’ve been uh…meaning to ask. Why? [Garrosh]: Huh? Oh, why the sexy hood? It’s to make me look mysterious and build up my musk and sweat. [Grom]: Neither of those applications seem very well thought out. How do you think that’s going to help us in the fight against Gul’dan? [Garrosh]: It’s supposed to help? [Grom]: Nevermind. He’s already here. I can smell him from where I stand. [Garrosh]: Huh? Oh, that’s just me. I haven’t taken a bath since before the last play we did. [Grom]: Well, we’ll uh…have to have a chat about that later. Here he is…in all his unholy, befouled foolishness. <The sky rains green fire and Gul’dan appears in a blaze of fel glory> [Gul'dan]: Whoohoooo! I’m Gul’dan, the Lock and Roll orc! I TAINT ARCAAAAANE! [Garrosh]: He puts his taint on a cane? That’s gotta hurt. [Grom]: No, he taints arcane. From what you told me, that’s what this ‘fel’ is, right? Honestly, it sounds a bit easier to roll off the tongue, so we’ll have to patent that.

[Garrosh]: Nah, for some reason I like “I taint arcane”! Lets me get to know the guy better! Like what his hobbies are. Do you think he likes playing cards?

[Grom]: Let’s make this quick. What do you want from us, Gul’dan? [Gul'dan]: <approaches Grom and Garrosh> Kek kek kek kek yayeah, I just want you to drink this here green stuff and join my army of the depraved and fel touched! I TAINT ARCAAAANE! [Garrosh]: We heard you the first time, and that STILL sounds uncomfortable as hell! [Grom]: Well uh, let’s consider the ups and the downs. From what you told me, Gul’dan, this drink will give us phenomenal strength and power. [Gul'dan]: That’s kek kek kek kek right, baby! C’mon and join the legion – we got all sorts of demon hunnies here to cuddle with when you’re rulin’ over creation! <walks up to Garrosh and whispers> Seriously, man, LOTTA arcane! Turns ya all green and stuff! [Garrosh]: Just call it fel! It SOUNDS cooler than a cane’s taint! [Grom]: Hrm. Great power. Power is something all orc legends have, this is true, BUT…what, Gul’dan, do we have to give in return? [Gul'dan]: Aw, it ain’t much baby. Just a lil’ bit of…

KEK KEK KEVERY THING! [Grom]: Huh. Well, I was afraid of that. Judging by the uh…unfair and one sided contract involved with being enslaved to a force of universal tyrants, I believe it is in the Iron Horde’s best interest to refuse your offer.

[Garrosh]: Hrmph. I liked Garrosh’s Horde better… [Gul'dan]: Awww, come on, baby! You know you wannaaaaa! [Grom]: No. And if you call me baby one more time, what we do to you next will hurt a lot more. [Gul'dan]: What do you kek kek kek mean? [Garrosh]: <turns off stage> NOW! <Kargath, Blackhand, Durotan, Ner’zhul, and Kilrogg all come on stage and encircle Gul’dan, then begin beating him up>

NOTE: All target him and use ‘the pigskin’ in close proximity to make it look like they're beating him up> [Kilrogg]: Teek that ya green arse! [Blackhand]: Yous ams nots my REAL DADS! [Durotan]: This ams for the wolves, you big bloated broccolis! [Ner'zhul]: Yeah, and don’t forget who thent ya runnin home to yer mother! [Grom]: Alright, boys, that’s enough. Load him into the Iron Canon. [Gul'dan]: <twitching> Kek kek kek whaaaa?! No no no, anything but the canon, baby! I’ll do anehthing! <they walk Gul’dan over to the appointed ‘canon fire’ spot and Gul’dan gets loaded up. NOTE: Gul'dan actor must have obtained Darkmoon Cannon toy) (Additional Note: Canon is mispelled on purpose, explanation in Trivia)> [Ner'zhul]: FIRE IN THE THOKING HOLE! [Gul'dan]: THIS WAS NOT OUR KEK KEK DESTINYYYYYYYYYYYY! <gets fired out of the play area> [Garrosh]: Yes! My plan worked! My plan that I so carefully cooked up! NO ONE could have thought to shoot Gul’dan out of a cheap canon! I’m such a genius! [Kilrogg]: <grumbles> Anyone else wanna fire dis guy outta one’a dem canons too? [Durotan]: I mean sortas, cuz WOW-WEE he’s a dingbat. [Grom]: Boys, boys. Stop. No more fighting, okay? We should celebrate this union of the clans overcoming Gul’dan’s treachery.

Oh, and uh…Ner’zhul, gonna need you to retrieve his unconscious body wherever he lands. We kind of still need it to rip over a dimensional gateway through time and space. [Ner'zhul]: Thoking theriouthly? Thith blowths… <Ner'zhul exits in the direction Gul'dan was fired> [Grom]: Now let’s all go and celebrate our success with a big barrel of cherry grog. Then afterwards, discuss how we move forward. [Kilrogg]: Eh, sounds kinda borin, but…there’s booze involved so count me in I guess. <the warlords all leave the stage, except Garrosh> [Garrosh]: <sighs heavily> Me me…<sigh> Pick me... <walks after them, unenthused> <end scene> <The next scene opens with the Warlords all at a meeting of the minds…or lack of minds, rather> [Grom]: Alright, so brainstorming session. How can we drive the Iron Horde war machine ever forward? Let's toss some ideas around, chop chop. Let's move.

[Ner'zhul]: Well I think we should justh call the Dark Sthtar, kill them all and enslave their SOULS--!

[Bladefist]: Damn it Ner'zhul, we told you to close your mouth when you speak, Thokin spitting everywhere...

[Blackhand]: Yeah, no ones really gives a shits anyways, Ner'zhuls. Why ams you even HERES?

[Durotan]: I gives a shits!

[Blackhand]: You takes a shits ams more likes it.

[Bladefist]: Yeah, you...<grumble> Damn tryhard, always trying too hard and shit...

[Kilrogg]: Oh wait, now that I theenk of it, Kargath, you had a friggin' awesome idea earlier, deedn't ya?

[Bladefist]: Huh? Oh, oh, yeah I was just thinking that...if I we like all had blades or something for hands, we wouldn't be disarmed, uh...yknow?"

[Blackhand]: Jah, likes I coulds puts my hammers on my hands and I could go FWOOSH BOOM BURN CRUNCH, TAKES THAT IMPREGNATORS MAR'GOK!"

[Durotan]: Oooh, ands Is coulds puts myselfs an extra axe on my hands whats could helps me chops firewood without havings to hauls it around likes a dead animals!

[Bladefist]: Yeah like, you wouldn't have to Idunno, pick it up or whatever cuz it's always there.

[Ner'zhul]: Yeah but--

[Blackhand]: No one CARES, NERZ'ZHULS! <chucks a prop at him (NOTE: Tree trinket from Stormheim is perfect for this – no one expects it>

[Grom]: Boys, I've told you this before. We cannot replace all of your limbs with blades. Oh, and they're right, Ner'zhul, no one really cares.

[Ner'zhul]: Thok…

[Bladefist]: Aw come ooooooon, why nooooot?

[Grom]: Because then you wouldn't be able to walk or pick things up.

[All of Them]: ....soooooooooooooooooooooooooo?

[Garrosh]: Alright, I've got a better idea. What if we all...just focus entirely on making tons of single use, really expensive and time consuming to construct and barely better than a large catapult explosive Iron Stars?

[Grom]: Hum...I...hardly think that would be an efficient use of resources, especially when you brought over schematics for far more uh...impressive machines.

[Bladefist]: Look, Grom, we'll make a deal with you.

We promise to stop asking to have weapons grafted onto our limbs - except for me, because I'm above all this - IF...you make all those Thokin’ Iron Stars, cuz that sounds savage as thok. Only good idea he's come up with, really.

And...OOH OOH, make a big ass canon too that we can fire it out of!

[Grom]: Um...sure, I suppose a massive canon and siege carrier of some sort could be made. It would certainly help bringing along our various turrets and--

[Bladefist]: No no, see, that's the best part - make this thing ONLY a big canon to shoot Iron Stars with.

And like, make it only go forward, so when people see it coming, they're like "Ooooooh. Ooooh noooooo! Everythiiiing in this general direction is screwwwwwwed!"

[Grom]: Look, if you allow me to have a few smaller defensive canons mounted to it, will you shut up about it?

<The Warlords all nod>

[Durotan]: Hey, cans I names it in that case? I wants to names it after my mothers wolves whats dieds when I was just a boys.

[Grom]: Fine, what was the wolf's name?

[Durotan]: Worldsbreakers.

[Blackhand]: You ams lyings, your wolfs had pansy ass name like White fangs or some shits!

[Durotan]: Hey don'ts you calls hims that you big melting rlyak dongs! I'LL KILLS YAS!

[Kilrogg]: I dunno, I kinda like Worldbreeker and stuff. But can we paint fleemin' stripes all over it and stuff?

[Garrosh]: I'd prefer the name "Garrosh's Idea". Since it was MY idea!

[Bladefist]: Hell no! We may as well call it the Grokoff's left nut if we're gonna do that.

[Ner'zhul]: HYEAH! Or the Pain in my Asth!

[Grom]: Garrosh, perhaps you should let me have the floor. [Garrosh]: But it's MY IDEA!

[Grom]: <points off-stage> You've done enough, now go.

[Garrosh]: <cries and walks away, stomping his feet and throwing a fit> Was MY idea! MINE! Nobody talks that way to me, ARGH! <kicks a marmot into the crowd, use marmot toy from Valley of the Four Winds>

[Kilrogg]: Gee there, you...kinda think we hurt tha poor guys' feelings?

[Bladefist]: Are you kidding me? That douchebag's been nothing but whine whine whine since he first showed up. Build a portal thiiiiis, unite the clans thaaaat, waaah waaah waaah!

[Grom]: Hrm. Well, to be fair, you guys, without Garrosh, none of this would be happening right now.

[Blackhand]: Yes, but withouts Garrosh nows we can actually takes the plans and makes it GOODS! I did not sees him suggests anythings after the Worldbreaker that woulds have covereds the glaring flaws it hads!

[Durotan]: OH, wow-wees! You guys ams usings my name ideas after alls? <gasp>

Oooh I'm so happyyyys!

[Bladefist]: Look, bottom line and I'm gonna level with you...<pauses and throws his arms to the side, the Bladefist prop flying into the crowd>

We can't work with this dildo! He smells like he came out of a clefthoof's asshole, tries to turn good war plans into shit war plans, has this fetish for giant steel balls of flaming glory, and he keeps drinking the Thokin kafa!

[Grom]: We wouldn't even be having this conversation right now if not for Garrosh. Now look around you and see this? See this Iron Horde we've made?

It's all because of him. Now I suggest you all be mature and not try to screw things up. We still need his help.

<Ner'zhul opens his mouth to speak>

[Grom]: And no, Ner'zhul, you're not more useful than he is. I suggest you reflect on that for a moment and think about what you were about to say.

[Ner'zhul]: ....THHHHHHHHHHHHHHOK!

<end scene> <Thrall enters the stage, with Garrosh moping by the edge> [Thrall]: Garrosh finally came to a grim realization that…No one liked him! <He shrugs.> …well, it was a realization to -him-, you must understand. Garrosh sat all alone with pitiful self under the skies of Nagrand, until he was soon joined by his father. There, he realized humility for the first time in his arrogant stupid life. <Thrall bows and leaves> [Garrosh]: <sniff> No one gives me credit for anything anymore. [Grom]: <approaches from off-stage> Garrosh. Mind if we uh…have a little talk? Little man to man, as they say? [Garrosh]: <sniff> No… [Grom]: <sits down next to Garrosh> Look, I understand you came here to warn us of this invading legion, and help us mount a counter-strike out of the honor in your heart. But we’ve got a job to do here. Everyone has to play their part, you hear? [Garrosh]: <sniff> No. [Grom]: Are you just going to say no to everything I say in an attempt to emotionally wall yourself off from what is happening right now? [Garrosh]: …n…ye…maybe.

[Grom]: What I’m trying to say is…despite how hard I've been on you, we need you. So with that said, I’d like to give you a gift for helping us out. [Garrosh]: <sniffle> Is it a pony? [Grom]: A what now? [Garrosh]: Oh, right, see, Azeroth has these things called horsies and there are smaller ones called ponies. I can’t explain why but I REALLY want one.

My own…little…pony. [Grom]: That’s….fascinating. Anyway, no, I want to give you control of the Warsong clan while I act as Warchief of the Iron Horde. [Garrosh]: <eyes widen> You want to appoint me Warchef so I can cook all the delicious food for the Iron Horde? I could be…the IRON CHEF! [Grom]: Ahm, no, not exactly. What I mean is-- [Garrosh]: I ACCEPT! [Grom]: <shrugs> Good enough for me. Alright then, Garrosh, I trust you to lead us to victory. [Garrosh]: Hah, you underestimate me! I’ll be the best Warchef ever! <end scene> <Thrall returns to the stage and bows> [Thrall]: He was not the best Warchef ever. Nor ….Warchief for that matter.

He stayed in Nagrand for many months as the rest of the Iron Horde prepared for war without him. It…did things to him. And he soon regretted his decision. In time, a vangard from the future – that is to say, our timeline - came to bring Garrosh back to Azeroth to face justice. It didn’t exactly end well for Garrosh…

<he pulls out his mace and straightens up> <Thrall bows and enters the stage. Garrosh and Thrall face each other down for the last time> [Thrall]: It is time to answer for your crimes, Garrosh. I’m going to end what I should have ended long ago… [Garrosh]: No. NO NO NO, stop taking credit for everything I do! [Thrall]: …I’ll wait till your impending tantrum is over. [Garrosh]: <points> I am sick of this blame game! Credit where credit is due, this is NOT your fault! It’s mine, ALL MINE! And I love it! [Thrall]: You…hit your head on the way over here, didn’t you? [Garrosh]: <paces back and forth> All these years, I was built up by you, from the moment we met in Nagrand. You told me I was destined to follow in my father’s footsteps. Well guess what?

I DID! And it was all me. [Thra;;]: No, Garrosh. You are not worthy of calling yourself the son of Grom. [Garrosh]: That’s the thing – do you even KNOW what Grom was really like? You practically just met him when you started hailing him as a hero! Spent what, a few weeks with him, tops? See, I’ve gotten to know the real Grom over the past few months. He’s a freakin’ deadpan! Always business, never “Hey son, you wanna go fishing?” and “THOK YEAH I WANNA GO FISHING!” Then he dumped this job on me just to keep me away from the action. Seriously, I haven’t seen a fight in WEEKS!

Just sittin’ here with my thumbs up my ass, ordering around these primitive Warsong warriors who were too stupid to work the tech we’re using in Tanaan! I can’t even get them to clip my thokking toenails properly! WHAT KIND OF BASS AKWARDS PEON CAN’T CLIP TOENAILS?! [Thrall]: …I am…not going to lie, I feel very uncomfortable right now. Should we just…continue this later or…? [Garrosh]: NO! We end this now! And I’m going to slay you. I’M going to be the one to get credit for killing the mighty Thrall! And you’re going to bask in the irony that you made me what I am, dammit! [Thrall]: …so it IS my fault? [Garrosh]: No, it’s mine! [Thrall]: Okay, then there’s not much irony for me to bask in, there. Gonna be honest. [Garrosh]: Fine, then it’s your fault! [Thrall]: No, because you chose your own destiny. [Garrosh]: LA LA LA LA, DON’T CARE, FIGHT TIME! [Thra;;]: Alright, alright. Just to be clear, these are traditional Mak'gora rules, right? Just weapons, no armor, just loincloths, maybe some...oil and low lighting- or…?

<he starts to unbuckle his belt> [Garrosh]: I don’t have TIME to take off my pants! Fight now! [Thrall]: Gotcha! MOCK'gora it is then. <Use Akunda's Firesticks if outdoors around the stage. Otherwise, be creative with this one. A storm opens up around the stage, and Garrosh stares into the sky at it> [Garrosh]: Oh… oh damn, I should have specified… [Thrall]: Any last words, Garrosh? [Garrosh]: <puts up his middle finger> Thok you, and thok the horse you rode in on!

<Garrosh is struck and dies dramatically> [Thrall]: At last.. It is over, the rein of <sniffs the air, gagging > Oh...Oh spirits.…I- BEUGH- made him smell even worse! Now he smells like BURNT worg ass.

Ohh....Ancestors...I need to go over here..

<he walks off to the side to catch his breath.> <Thrall leaves the stage, scene ends> <After the stage has been cleared, Thrall comes onto the stage one final time and bows> [Thrall]: And so...Garrosh’s tale had finally ended. But the legacy he’d set in motion could not be undone.

As the Iron Horde began to lose to the Vangard that followed Garrosh, Grom was meeting with an emissary of the Ogre Empire when he learned of how the Warlords were failing… <Narrator bows and walks off stage. Enter Grom and the Emissary of Mar’gok> [Grom]: Alright, so for Mar’gok’s cooperation prior to his fall, we’ll allow you all to continue hosting those coliseum games so long as you agree to advertise via the Iron Horde’s new logo. I’m thinking of slapping it on every seat in the house. [Ogre Emissary]: Uh…da sorcerers not gonna like dat too much. Dey tink it look dumb... [Grom]: Well you can tell them it was your idea then, and that you already signed the papers for them. Also tell them that if they to improve negotiations in their favor, they should come to these meetings themselves. [Ogre Emissary]: Hrm…OKAY! Sound good! Anything else you need me tell dem? [Grom]: Yes. Tell them to have their forces take baths more often. We’re savage, not animals. Mar’gok would agree if he were alive.

[Ogre Emissary]: Dat sound like bad idea… [Grom]: Again, tell them it was your idea. <Kilrogg bursts into the room> [Kilrogg]: Hey um…theenk ya should see this here report from tha field, Grommy boy. [Grom]: Not now, Kilrogg. I’m in the middle of ogre negotiations. You know how taxing it can be to lower my intelligence enough to negotiate with them. [Ogre Emissary]: HEY! Dat not nice! [Grom]: Well it was your idea, big guy. You uh…may want to just point those fingers at yourself. [Ogre Emissary]: Huh? Oh, me not very nice. [Kilrogg]: Um…just so ya knows then? Blackheend is dead. [Ogre Emissary]: …me sensing lots of tension. Me go now. [Grom]: Hrm. Probably for the best. We’ll continue this another time. <The ogre nods and leaves> [Grom]: So Blackhand fell in battle? [Kilrogg]: Well, in battle aaand about three floors through that feency foundry of his. Can’t tell if he did it himself or someone just hit ‘im REEEEEALLY hard through that there floor of his. [Grom]: Huh. That’s…quite a sizable loss. Without the foundry, we can’t make more weapons. Inform Kargath right away to salvage any weapons we’ve distributed to the Spires of Arak and bring them to our forces in Tanaan.

[Kilrogg]: That’s another thing. He’s uh…dead too. [Grom]: What? Kargath Bladefist? That doesn’t seem plausible. [Kilrogg]: Yeah, died in the arena against some small army. Was like…ten…or thirty people or sumpin like that what took ‘im down. Kinda cool, actually. I was watchin’ the whole thing, was badass. [Grom]: You…watched one of your fellow Warlords die? [Kilrogg]: Yeah? Gotta entertain myself with sumpin, right? [Grom]: Ugh…well maybe we can ask Durotan to-- [Kilrogg]: Oh uh…yeah, about that, shortly after our meetin’, he started having second thoughts about joinin the Iron Horde, and uh…called yas a giant assmelt and left with his middle fingers held high, went beek home. Not gonna lie, I think he was just here for the kickass war banner. We should probably just pretend he was never there. [Grom]: Hrm. Well, that’s not a terrible loss I guess. The others, yeah, but we can survive without the Frostwolf clan. What of Ner’zhul? [Kilrogg]: He’s dead too. [Grom]: Unsurprising. Did he at least die with dignity? [Kilrogg]: Kinda hard to have dignity when you get killed by five grokoffs in your own dimension of void powers. [Grom]: This…this is a pretty unrecoverable loss. Please, allow me a customary moment of silence for my men. [Gul'dan]: <enters> KEK KEK KEK KEK YAYEAH! Gul'dan gonna make ALL your dreams come true, Grom baby! Hows about you guys come and take some of this here sweeeeeeeeet fel blood? Oooooooooooh! <Gul'dan places a cauldron between them (NOTE: Goblin Gumbo toy is best, but flask cauldron or dragon feast works>

[Kilrogg]: OOH, PUNCH! [Grom]: You’ve got to be―who the hell let this guy in?! We told you before, Gul’dan, we don’t want your damned poison! [Kilrogg]: No no, you see man, it’s bloodbooze, gotta get it right. It’s booze made of blood that makes ya all strong and freaky and stuff. [Grom]: I don’t care what it’s called, frankly. Garrosh told us it would enslave us, and-- [Kilrogg]: Oh, yeah, forgot to tell ya uh…he’s dead too. [Grom]: …so you are literally my only high operative in the Iron Horde now? [Kilrogg]: Hey, I uh…I’m just teelin’ it like it ees. [Grom]: <deep breaths and rubs his temple> We’re literally on the cusp of ruin here, and all I have to help is Kilrogg Deadeye. What do you even DO?

[Kilrpgg]: Well I uh…lots of…stuff, I mean I can…do a little jig? Would that make ya happeh? < Kil'rogg /dances>

I mean, I’m great at drinkin’ games. Watch, I’ll prove it! Betcha anything I can chug that bloodbooze no sweat! [Grom]: No, wait, KILROGG DON’T! <Kilrogg takes Gul’dan’s felbood and chugs it>

KILROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGG!!! [Gul'dan]: CHUG CHUG CHUG! Kek kek kek beautiful, baby! [Kilrogg]: <belches fel> See? Wasn’ so beed, just a bit spicy is all, I mean I can hold my liquor. Though I do kinda have this urge to serve Gul’dan now, and the legion. I mean, aside from that, I’m fine. [Grom]: <kneels down> Kilrogg…you idiot. [Gul'dan]: You can’t kek kek kek win, Grom! My fel drink is just too good! I TAINT ARCANE! [Grom]: I have lost…everything. [Gul'dan]: Aww, it’s okay Grommy baby, cuz you still got uuuuuuuus~! [Kilrogg]: Yeah, I mean why not just drink it yourself? This shit feels thokkin’ great, my bulging Bleeding Hollow dangledonger ain’t never felt so big. You gotta try this, it’s���It’s just good, man, try it. <suddenly Ner’zhul appears floating as a ghost> [Ner'zhul]: FINALLY, Got thith plan to thokking work! Now I’m an immortal thpirit and can command the armieth of the DAMNED without ever getting hurt mythelf! It’s a pretty good plan if I do thay though mythelf. [Grom]: <shakes his head at Ner’zhul> Too late, Ner’zhul. Far too late. [Ner'zhul]: <looks over at Kilrogg who grins and waves> Aw THOK no! I did not intentionally die to make mythelf one with the void JUTHT to have thith happen! I’m calling my agent! <floats off stage> [Grom]: I uh…better follow him. I’m his agent’s agent, so… <sneaks away> [Kilrogg]: Huh…hey uh…shouldn’t we go after them? [Gul'dan]: It’s kek kek kek cool, baby! We’ll get ‘em some other time! <walks off stage> I TAINT ARCANE! [Kilrogg]: Hey, works for me. And uh…to all you slackoffs in the audience, I take fan mail in booze-a-grams and vouchers for brew of the month. <Scene ends, all leave the stage>>

<Thrall enters the stage> [Thrall]: And thus ended the tale of Garrosh Hellscream. His charred remains forever forgotten in the place in which is tale began, those many moons ago...

Except in another timeline entirely. One that we will likely never have to see or speak of again..BUT!

His legacy endured. For it was due to him that we fought and bested the Legion, just that it was a lot sooner and lot more costly than we would have hoped!

And as we fight on into the future, Horde, never forget...

<Hellscream suddenly ‘floats’ onto the stage as a ghost and waves then /dances, the narrator points at him>

<Thrall points to Garrosh very sternly and then looks to the audience.> It was his fault! SERIOUSLY! THOK THIS GUY! [Garrosh]: Hey, at least people are going to remember I actually did this one, right? [Thrall]: <facepalms> For the love of....THE. END! THAT’S IT! NO MORE! HELLSQUEAL ONE, TWO, THREEQUEL, NO PREQUEL! NO SPIN OFF, NO VERSION WHERE WE GET TO SEE HOW I'M DOING.WE’RE DONE! THAT’S IT! -SHOOS- IT’S OVER! YOU CAN ALL GO FIGHT NOW! WE’RE DONE, THERE’S NO MORE! THAT’S IT! NADDA! DONE! <Thrall wanders off screen muttering>

[Garrosh]: <looks to the audience and shrugs> Hey, at least I made it interesting, right? Good night, Snorehowl bless, and don’t forget to poke holes in all your rubbers…

Rubber ducks, that is. Thok ducks.

Uh…

<he waves at the crowd>

Later.

<Garrosh’s ghost vanishes (use invisibility potion)> <END>

TRIVIA

Hellthreequel was originally part of Hellsequel, but realizing the play would last far too long and there being more we wanted to do with the courtroom scene, we split the plays. Regardless of this fact, it still took years for us to actually have the cast size needed for this play.

Hellthreequel boasts the largest on-stage cast requirement of any of our plays, with the largest scenes having anywhere between 7-8 characters needed on stage at a time. Some scenes made it impossible to have the proper numbers, so we wrote flexibly in those scenes, such as the first meeting of Gul’dan, so we could drop our numbers when needed.

This play was only ever performed twice. Since we were retiring the first two, however, we felt it would be improper to keep this one around too, since so many jokes build upon references from Hellsqueal and Hellsequel.

In our last run of this play, WoW’s very own in-game cinematics project director Terran Gregory attended the show, and even recorded a portion of the play on his Twitch channel! Needless to say it was a surprising honor!

Many (see; Almost all) of the jokes in Hellthreequel regarding the Warlords was based upon the fictional Death Metal band “Dethklok”, and their show formally on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim block “Metalocalypse”. The personalities of the main cast of that show were given to each of the Warlords, but we made sure to write them in a way where their banter and lines were still funny out of context. Even the poster, done by @shamanofthewilds much like Hellsequel’s poster, was a reference to it!

Kargath Bladefist was “Nathan Explosion” (Kargath Orcsplosion), the gravelly voiced vocalist of the band.

Durotan was “Toki Wartooth” (Durotoki), the happy-go-lucky animal petting ‘why the hell is he even with these guys’ member of the group.

Blackhanz was “Skwissgar Skwigelf” (Blackhanz). Contrary to some crew member’s confusion as to why the blonde, long haired guitarist of Dethklok would be played by a bald orc, we added a line about how Blackhand used to have hair, which is actually true. Also, Hanz’gar and Franzok kind of opened the gates of hell by introducing out-of-setting accents to the Blackrock clan, so we had fun with it.

Kilrogg Deadeye was “Pickles the Drummer” (Kilrogg the Deadeye), the booze and drug addled drummer and voice of reason, but not by much.

Ner’zhul was “William Murderface”, the bass player. Just based on what he plays, one should gather what the joke was.

Grom was “Charles Offdensen”, the straight-faced, no-nonsense business minded manager of the band.

And of course, Gul’dan was Dr. Rockzo, the rock and roll clown. He does cocaine. 

Speaking of, many of the quirks of Dr. Rockzo’s zany behavior was added to Gul’dan, including his catch phrases, and adapted of course to the WoW setting. “K-k-k (yeah)” became “Kekkekkek”, effectively the same sound, but referencing the in-game language barrier, and “I do cocaine” was changed to “I taint arcane”, since fel is technically tainted arcane energy. That, and “I do fel” didn’t seem to have the same appeal.

Despite these massively out-of-world references, as with any references we put into our plays, we worked hard to make sure they made sense in-character, but also gave ourselves freedom enough to have fun with it. While Hellsequel was Atos’s favorite overall, Threequel remains Atos’s favorite to have written.

[camthewizard]

Gil: Alright, you primitive screw-heads, listen up! See this? This is my BOOMSTICK!!!

[shotgunscn]

alright you primitive screw heads listen up are you out of your mind im out of options 

[solotheloso]

A Rash Decision - Ch. 2

This one feels a little short. Might fold more into it or continue into a new chapter. Depends on how it flows. Additionally, pasting text into Tumblr’s text editor screws it up to high hell and I have to make fixes manually. If you spot what looks like a formatting error, feel free to let me know.

Roruvi’s day began like most others, save for the fact that he rose well past noon. The sky was cloudless and the sun hung high to the west, sending a blazing pane of light through his window to illuminate the whole room in a soft glow. He trudged sleepily through his study– past shelves stacked high with documents and books and practically groaning under the weight of it– and into what served as his bathroom, a small space with a rudimentary toilet and a copper basin full of water for washing. Folly’s plumbing system was primitive but it was heads and shoulders above what most smaller villages had to work with. He had taken pains to maintain his washroom, as he was a stickler for hygiene when possible. He made it a point to thoroughly scrub himself every rising, a habit that some of his peers found quite amusing.

The first sight he was greeted with on descending the stairs from his living quarters was the haggard face of his niece, Tovana. The girl had handled the bar admirably in his absence, but he still ended up having to tend the fungus in the greenhouse before collapsing into bed, a task she rarely seemed to remember. He had applied the usual punishment, having her rise at dawn to open the tavern and serve the morning crowd. Consequently, she seemed about ready to collapse into the nearest chair– or perhaps the floor. The place was empty now, but he imagined he would be able to hear the clumping of departing boots if he listened hard enough. He chuckled quietly to himself as he watched her sweep the last of the dirty mugs and plates onto a bussing tray. “Such a beautiful morning, is it not?”

Tovana glared fire at him for a brief moment before remembering herself, tamping it down to a dull simmer. “Uncle. It’s well past mid-day.”

“Ah, that it is!” He sauntered around the back of the bar and filled two small wooden mugs with a light wine. “Then I suppose I should begin my day. How did you fare last night?”

She snatched the second mug with a huff and knocked it back before he had even taken his first sip. “Last night wasn’t the problem. I don’t know what happened between then and this morning, but I must have served a battalion of humans in the last six hours, all wanting a full plate breakfast.” 

“Then you should have remembered to tend the shrooms! I swear, it’s as if you try to forget your duties.” He sipped delicately at the wine, savoring its mild sweetness. “And they were here because it’s the first day of spring. Any sailor or longshoreman worth his salt knows that now’s the best time to find honest work down at the docks, since the weather’s at its kindest. I’d considered lending a hand, but you need to be able to handle these crowds yourself.”

She blinked at him deliberately, in a way that implied deep boredom. He knew that her sour mood would make her deny her interest, but she often professed that she hoped to own a tavern herself some day. She would soak this fact up like a sponge, just like every other bit of wisdom he spouted. “Your ranger friend is unconscious at the corner table.”

Ruvi barked out a short laugh. “Of course she is!” He left his niece to her work and walked over to the corner of the main floor, where Lika was passed out with her upper body sprawled over the table surface. Golden sunlight poured through an adjacent window, spilling over her and making her short shock of black hair glow at the fringes like a wreath of flame. He stopped for a moment, absorbing the sight. In his younger days, during training with their master, he had entered a brief fit of infatuation with his partner. He had pined for weeks in uncomfortable silence before propositioning her for a relationship, only to be utterly shot down. She had little interest in romance so far– either physically or emotionally– but it had pained her to reject him like that. Their friendship eventually recovered, but some small part of Ruvi had never healed and he occasionally found himself confronted with momentary pangs.

“Lika,” he said, gently. He didn’t touch her in his attempts to wake her. It would be foolish to do such a thing with any ranger. “Lika!” She only groaned in response, mashing her face into her arm. “Wake up. We’re out of cheeses and I could use your company in the market.”

She shot up suddenly, blinking rapidly with bleary eyes. “Huh? Oh, yes! Cheese.” Ruvi smirked at that. He had his ways after all these years. “How’s Tovana doing?” she asked, stifling an enormous yawn. “I offered to lend a hand when I came in, but she was weirdly insistent on doing everything by herself.”

“Uh, she’s fine,” he replied. “Nothing she couldn’t handle.” Despite Lika’s skill as a ranger, when it came to more domestic activities she was utterly hopeless, somewhat resembling a natural disaster. Tovana was wise to refuse her “assistance”.

“Alright, then. Shall we go? You’ve gotten me hungry, and you know I don’t like being hungry.” They left the tavern together in high spirits.

–

Folly’s market was arguably its biggest draw. Its position as a hub for shipping and importing goods ensured that a vast medley of artisans and merchants passed through every year while seeking their fortune, whether from sea or further inland. With them they brought a higher variety of goods than most people could ever claim to see, let alone indulge in.

Luckily for Lika, this afforded her the opportunity to satiate her seemingly bottomless appetite with something new almost every day. She and Ruvi walked through the market at a leisurely pace, passing fishmongers, jewelers, spice dealers and every other sort of stall or booth one could think of. The crowds parted around burro-drawn carts hauling goods by the ton. Merchants crowed and crooned at passersby, each of them assuring that their prices were the best and only a fool would pass them up. The odors of smoke, fish, cooking food, spices, musty textiles and animal dung mixed together in a chaotic storm that felt almost intoxicating with every breath. Lika found that she often missed the sensation when she was away, as it had come to represent the comforts of civilization that she so enjoyed– and, in no small part, her friendship with Ruvi.

The dwarf stared at her in fascination as she munched on a wax paper-wrapped ball of brined cheese with a steady pace he could barely muster for his favorite foods. She didn’t seem to notice, her eyes already busy scanning the stalls for her next prey. “Are you even enjoying that?” he asked, slowly.

“Huh? Affaloofly!” She swallowed and cocked an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?” He shook his head in exasperation and changed the subject.

“So… I went through the archive last night.” Some years ago, Ruvi had come to inherit their master’s small collection of books. Composed of various tomes and documents detailing encounters with beasts, monsters and unidentifiable creatures, the collection had come to be his most prized possession, and he had taken care to expand it as much as possible while still maintaining what credibility its contents had. 

“And?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” He took care to step around a group of silk-robed merchants locked in a shouting match. “Or rather, no complete matches. There’s no creature I’ve heard or read of that has the strength to inflict that kind of damage and can move unhindered in this terrain.”

She shook her head, exasperated. “Nothing. It’s not often you’re stumped, Ruvi.” He waved a hand dismissively, grumbling to himself. 

“I’m thinking we might need to pay a visit to Eland after our errands,” he said. Lika groaned in response, an almost instinctive reaction on her part. 

“Please, no. I know she means well, but I just– I can’t.” 

“I still have no idea why you have such a visceral reaction to her.”

She shrugged and sighed. “Neither do I. She just… something about her rubs me the wrong way. She’s so positive!”

Ruvi laughed. “One might think you were allergic to positivity!” he exclaimed. She merely scowled at him in response. Lika had never thought of herself as a particularly dour person, but she had to admit that excessive cheeriness left a bad taste in her mouth. A dark thought occurred to her: was this her inheritance, as the books were Roruvi’s? She couldn’t help but let a wry smile creep onto her face.

They reached their destination, a large set of stalls set into the wall of a seaside warehouse. The row was sheltered from the sun by half a dozen massive tarpaulins, their corners elevated on narrow wooden beams anchored crudely to the boardwalk posts beneath by heavy iron nails. Cheese of every shape and size was stacked and packed on the stall counters in large quantities, shielded from the elements and errant insects by thin layers of wax paper. The aggressive stench of the market proper was well behind them at this point, leaving only the soft pungency of herbs and dairy to mix with the fresh salt breeze of the ocean. In a strange way, it was calming. This was only complemented by the presence of the rotund man sitting placidly on a stool at the end of the row. He was known to the pair only as Severo. An experienced and charismatic man with a thriving career, he was well-liked by the locals and most sailors alike. Officially speaking his business was cheese and dairy, but the rangers had an inkling that he dealt in something else besides. Every so often, rumors reached them of Severo’s involvement in less-than-legal affairs such as smuggling and forging, but they never reached any solid conclusions and thus decided to do little but keep a close eye on him. The city wasn’t within their jurisdiction, anyway.

Severo looked up as they approached, his face immediately adopting a beaming smile. “Lika! Roruvi! How good it is to see you today!” He stood with a grace that belied his size, his flowing white and gray robe rustling gently in the breeze. His body still bore the remnants of what may have been an athletic build, his forearms especially; lined with pale scars and corded muscle, they betrayed a past of either heavy labor or consistent violence.

“Ho, Severus,” Ruvi replied. Lika nodded politely and approached the booths, her eyes roving over the selection. Her companion was the one who had business with Severo. She was just here for the view. “How’s the cheese trade?”

The man barked out a short laugh, as if Ruvi had just told a passably funny joke. “Just this morning I wrote a sales note for sixty-five pounds of mountain rock bleu, so I suppose I can say I’m doing quite well! What brings you here today?”

The two haggled over prices for the next twenty minutes while Lika browsed and made mental notes of things to try in the future. When the deal was done, Severo was a pouch of silver richer and Ruvi gained ownership of an entire barrow of cheeses, to be delivered to the tavern later that evening. 

Just before they were about to leave, Ruvi turned back to the merchant, one finger in the air as if he had just remembered something. “Oh, Severo… “ he said in an offhanded manner. “Have you heard tell of any land-bound shipments being disrupted recently? Animal attacks, perhaps?”

Severo shrugged. “None that I can think of. Aside from that silk trader two days past, but I imagine you already know about that. Ranger business, as always.” Lika frowned and turned away, gazing out over the water. Was Severo having her followed? Or did he have sources in the Guild? The possibilities troubled her.

“Yes, it is,” said Ruvi. The ranger huffed out through his nose, slowly rubbing his scalp.“But we still don’t know what did it, which makes us quite uncomfortable. Considering the target, the possibility of a repeat occurrence should make you uncomfortable as well.” 

Severo grimaced for a moment, then tilted his head in a small nod. “I suppose that’s true enough. But I’m not sure how you expect me to help.”

“We’re not looking for financing, Severo. Just information. Keep your ear to the ground.” Ruvi stared at him pointedly. “I know you have your ways.” Lika forced herself to suppress a chuckle. A part of her enjoyed needling the merchant now and then, making him sweat a little. From all indications he wasn’t a bad man, but she found his less legitimate business to be distasteful, and reminding him that they could investigate at any time kept him honest… or at least honest enough for their purposes. She wasn’t worried about ruining their professional relationship. Severo was a businessman first and foremost, and much of their dialogue in the past had been respectful sparring, little games of cat and mouse.

The merchant feigned an innocent expression, raising his eyebrows and stroking at the scruff of his goatee. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. But I’ll keep you in mind if I hear anything.”

“That’s all we can ask,” Lika replied. The pair left the merchant to his own devices and headed deeper into the city. As little as she liked it, they had a scholar to see.