Postcards (Book 2)
- - by Fizzlepocket
To Fizzlepocket Tweek from Calithos Alec Blyde, Captain of the Seven SinsEdit
- A rather well written letter, despite the writer fleeing several mechanical squirrels*
Dear Fizzlepocket Tweek,
While your care package of lovely friends to keep me company is quite generous! I'm afraid I'll have to return some of them in pieces. Enclosed is several of the squirrels you sent to greet me. Apparently they don't like SOMETHING I do! It's such a silly notion! Anyway, I'm currently fleeing an Alarm-O-Bot. I was lucky to have stepped on one by accident, granted I had to trek into two houses to foll...fall upon it! Anyway, Kitty is alright, but I suppose you wouldn't really care. The ichor repair vats I keep in Stormwind and Near the Plaguelands work very well! Anyway, Kitty should probably explain it best, so I'll let him continue writing.
*the next paragraph looks scrawled, like someone without fingers wrote this.*
Cal say you bad. Squirrels bad. Groo. Groo. Cal blow up squirrel. They taste funny. Groo. Groo. Groo. Groo. Grooooooooo. We see you soon. Kitty make stew. Cal man take stick and thing back.
Ignore Kitty, he's just an eyeball. Anyway! I'll be in Stormwind for the first week, then probably visit you! A simple gesture of good faith and all. ANd to probably threaten to eviscerate you if you don't stop this damned insanity of trying to kill me. But like you said, I'm sure we can make a very reasonable agreement of this. All we have to do is simply find a common ground!
With Love and Care, and Pretty Pink Ponies
Calithos Alec Blyde, Scarlet Priest, Ordo Inquisitor, and as everyone says, Goddamn Nutjob
P.S. Do you think it's possible to find a good paedus vendor in Lakeshire, or should I just bring my own supply. I could probably bring a few for you if you want. And trust me, I don't stoop as low as to sully a Paedus with anything. Except Mayo or ketchup.
P.P.S. What's your favorite topping on a Paedus? I personally enjoy a good slather of ketchup, or sour cream. Surprisingly, it enchances the flavor.
P.P.P.S. Kitty wants to know what the Squirrels go good with. He wants to carry a bottle of it when he eats one.
P.P.P.P.S I just stopped from putting this in the mailbox to tell you to keep sending them to Stormwind! I consider this place to be nothing but a big daily obstacle course anyway, and keepign them here twenty four seven non stop would be perfect! Trust me, you don't want to check Stranglethorn, Ferelas, and Darnassus. At all. Best wishes!
Calithos Alec Blyde, Captain of the Seven Sins.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I just made that up, doesn't that sound neat?
Glimmerflint From FizzlepocketEdit
((A large manilla envelope containing a postcard with some doodles on it, a letter, a photograph, and a necklace arrive in the mail for Glimmerflint)
I know I told you that if you hadn't written me by Sunday, I'd go off into Stormwind and start tracking you down but.. I couldn't restrain myself. Just thinking about what could've happened, and just the fact that I've missed you so much KIIIIIIINDA clouded my judgement JUST a bit. As it is, I suppose I could reason that I needed to see what Stormwind was up to and make sure the Hounds hadn't set up any checkpoints in order to discourage people such as myself from getting back into the City.
Donning an outfit I made out of a rather large burlap sack (Making a hood and robe respectively), I began sneaking into the City both in search of yourself, and hopefully some Paeduses. Thankfully, even though the Hounds are certainly far more in numbers than before the Scourge Invasion (They must have done a HELL of a lot of recruiting over my absense) none felt obligued to pursue this... rather intimidating looking gnome any further than a casual glance in passing. Although I was able to procure enough Paeduses to last me a week until the time comes for my return trip, I'm still a bit upset that I wasn't able to find you for the two hours I had toured the city. I thought I saw you in the crowds along the trade district; I called out your name and everything but... I guess not. Suppose I'll have to make a return trip to the City after all.
Oh, and one more thing. I ain't in Lakeshire any more. As you could probably guess from the included postcard, I was forcefully relocated to Booty Bay after Sirithil came down on me for the entire "Pest Control" bit a while back. She's apparently still very gracious for what I've done for her, but she doesn't think she can harbor a gnome with such... destructive tendencies in her town. So, for the time being, I'm currently, get this, BANISHED FROM LAKESHIRE FOR THE FULL DURATION OF MY BANISHMENT FROM STORMWIND!
Geez! What's the world record for "Most active banishments at once?" Between Gnomeregan's life time banishment, Stormwind's temporary one and then this slap on the wrist from Sirithil, I gotta be getting SOMEWHERE close to the record! For a while I considered just touring the territory of the Eastern Kingdoms from Moonbrook to Sentinel Hill to Darkshire, just getting my ass thrown out from each town before settling down in Booty Bay... but I suppose that it'd probably be better for both your letters and myself to just stay in one place.
I got a very nice room over at the Salty Sailor Tavern here and I'd really think you'd like this place. The slightly polluted air, the beautiful flora and amazingly stupid though exotic wildlife, no children, located right on the coast with dozens of like-minded gentlemen such as myself who understand just what it means to be Goblin Engineers, tons of shops, a couple of bars and restaurants here and there, and some of the best fishing in the world! Maybe we could do it for our Honeymoon. We could rent a timeshare down here and everything...
Anyway, it's supposed to be raining all day tomorrow from what I've heard. Some sort of gigantic storm rolling over or something like that so I'll probably be confined to the Salty Sailor all day. I'll think of something to do.
Oh! And before I forget! While I was at the Booty Bay Auction House this morning, I saw this necklace here that I'd know you'll love. Supposedly it's cursed, bringing heartbreak and tradgedy to all who wear it, yadda yadda yadda, crap crap crap. I managed to talk the price down and everything since... well, with such bull like that it wasn't going to get sold any time soon! I hope you like it! My new address is on the bottom of the letter, though I'm sure if you mailed something to me before I left Lakeshire, Sirithil would be so kind to forward it to my new address since she knows how concerned I've been about you. And as in "Sirithil would be so kind" I mean "She better damn well do it!"
With all my love,
P.S. Keep an eye out for me!
((And yes. Fizzle looks EXACTLY like a Jawa right now the way I have it set up in FlagRSP although the beard isn't tucked away, seeing as how he'd probably asphyxiate himself otherwise. Work with me here! And for that matter, congratulations Calithos. You're gonna have a Jawa taking potshots at you from the rooftops soon enough.))
Glimmer from FEdit
A large, bulky manilla envelope arrives in the mail, once again address to Glimmer containing a simple postcard with only the following written on it.)
Food for thought.
(The rest of the envelope is stuffed with pictures of Fizzlepocket, some decent... most indecent. The following are simply the highlights of the "Decent" category. I don't think anyone else here REALLY needs to see Gnomish ass.)
Fizzlepocket From GlimmerflintEdit
Torvald Spackleflat took his hat off and pulling a once-white hankerchief from his jacket pocket, wiped his face before putting his hat back on and shouldering the two bulging carrier bags that had been resting at his feet.
He had joined the Everlook Courier Service (ECS, Eastern Kingdom Branch,Western Central division covering all of Ironforge, Loch Modan and Menethil Harbor) because after the hullaballoo surrounding Gnomeregan he'd really had enough of faulty machinery and dire political motivations and tragic consequences, thank you very much. And thought that the idea of spending the last few years before his retirement delivering messages would be a nice, safe, boring way to go. And it had been, and he had liked it that way. He'd never missed a delivery, there was talk of a gold pin and a special congratulatory dinner to celebrate his perfect record when he retired.
Then the Turnspigots had taken up residence in his delivery zone in Loch Modan in a little farmstead near the Dam and all his plans of a peaceful existence had crumbled like the disturbingly colored cookies Mrs. Turnspigot insisted on bringing him everytime he brought a package. (They somehow tasted of mint and shoe polish and made his teeth glow in the dark for days afterwards)
First there had been the Uncle...what was his name? Right, Wolfie (totally un-gnomish name, which just goes to show what sort of family they are) Always sending off for mail-order contraptions. Man that age, wasting his money on bits of nonsense like that, always insists on unpacking everything as soon as it arrives and before you know it Torvald himself is being recruited to hold struts in place while the daft man squints at incomprehensible instructions (they're always in goblin) and runs around the workshop looking for missing screws.
Then the mother, Mrs.Turnspigot. Always making him stay while she reads the letter he has just delivered in case she has a reply and she always did. In one particular incident involving a letter from her sister he'd had to stay the night while she finished the 28 page reply she'd drafted (with illustrations and an index, she was nothing if not thorough).
The boys seemed nice enough, but there were so many of them he could never keep them straight.
Then the girl, Glimmerflint came back home to visit. He'd never minded her before, always seemed to be sort of in the background, quiet like. She'd come to him with the first two postcards shortly after arriving home. He'd taken them with a smile and inquired after her mother, laughed nervously at the reply and hurried back to headquarters before any other members of the family spotted him.
It wasn't until he'd started making his delivery log for the day that he noticed the problem. It wasn't that there had been missing postage (the most common problem, so many folks failed to keep up on the proper postage rates these days) on the contrary, it looked like the girl had stuck half a stampbook on the back of the postcard, there were even little arrows instructing the postmaster to check the reverse side where she'd pasted several extra stamps for good measure.
No, it was the address. It consisted of a single line that read:
Please Deliver to Fizzlepocket Tweek. Thankyou.This had put Torvald in something of a difficult position.
There were no exact guidelines for acceptable addresses in the ECS Manual of Procedure (Third Edition), so he was still bound to deliver the postcard, but he didn't know a Fizzlepocket Tweek, he wasn't on Torvald's usual route. But if he -didn't- deliver it... Sudden visions of a future with no gold pin or congratulatory dinner flashed through Torvald's mind.
Perhaps it had just been an oversight. Torvald had picked up his hat and made his way back to the Turnspigots. He'd found Glimmerflint and before he'd gotten a word out she'd beamed at him and gone on about what a miracle worker he was delivering her postcards already and coming back to see if she had more deliveries and how he must be the best courier in the ECS. He'd stood there
twisting his hat, hesistantly trying to explain the problem.
"Oh wasn' tha' the way ta address em? I'll fix tha' on these new packages ta make it clear!"
He'd been relieved of course, she probably had just gotten overexcited and made a mistake, young girl like that.
He'd been so relieved he hadn't bothered to check the address on the three packages she had piled into his arms for delivery.
Please Deliver to Mr. Fizzlepocket James Rodriguez Fernando Martinez Ricardo Tweek the Second, Last seen in Stormwind but sometimes he works other places, if you know Bonnyjune she might know where to find him. He looks sorta like this next to a small arrow is a highly detailed sketch of Fizzlepocket with various arrows pointing to key identifying features: goggles,beard, various old scars from bomb injuriesAnd so it had gone for days. Torvald going back to try and explain the problem, Glimmerflint giving him more letters and packages all addressed to this Fizzlepocket fellow with increasingly detailed but completely useless addresses.
And it had all lead him here. Torvald mopped his face once more with the handkerchief and looked up at the inn in Booty Bay. It had taken weeks of tracking, stomping through jungles, bribing all sorts of unsavory characters and on one occasion, outrunning a pack of hysterical women (This Fizzlepocket fellow left quite a trail) but Torvald had been determined that his perfect record WOULD be preserved and he would deliver Glimmerflint's messages if it was the last thing he did (and it nearly had been, several times)
Torvald wheezed a bit as he got to the top of the stairs and found the room the goblin had directed him to, he straightened his jacket and pulled a small brush from his pocket and whisked the dirt from his boots before knocking on the door.
The door was hauled open by a shirtless gnome, cigar clenched between his teeth as he glared out at Torvald "Yeah? Whaddya want?"
Torvald straightened up and shoved the two courier bags overflowing with letters and packages forward into the arms of the gnome and took a small much-thumbed pad of receipts out of his pocket.
"Mr. Fizzlepocket James Rodriguez Fernando Martinez Ricardo Tweek the Second? Delivery for you. Sign here."
Fizzlepocket James Rodriguez Fernando Martinez Ricardo Tweek the II, however, was no longer in Booty Bay.
True to his word Fizzlepocket left the evening prior with his cloak, robes, various engineering marvels, adult reading material, etc. determined to linger in Stormwind for days if he must to confirm Glimmer's well being. By the time this other exceedingly handsome though probably not as handsome a gnome as Fizzle himself despite having a similar fascination with his own pecs and fine goblin cigars opened the door to a heavily perspiring Torvald Spackleflat, Fizzlepocket was miles away waiting in line at the Pig 'n Whistle to get himself a Paedus with onion rings and double extra ranch, just the way he likes it.
Poor, poor Spackleflat...
Glimmerflint From FizzlepocketEdit
I've made it into the city safetly (For the.. third time this week, but this wasn't simply a Paedus run!) though it didn't take too long before the Hounds took notice. From what I could gather from passerbys, drunks, and those brats Donna and William (Though what the hell they're doing out and about at this hour is nothing short of baffling, don't they have parents or ANYONE to beat them straight?) some punk in what seems to be similar garb to that of my sneaking outfit's been going around bragging about killing someone, next thing you know somebody (I won't name names... ELARAN I imagine) brings my name up upon being inquired about any sort of gentlemen who could have fit that description and now the streets are just crawlin' with Hounds ready to arrest and drag in any gnome they can find who looks even the slightest bit of a rugged, homicidal, egotistic jackass with a devil may care attitude.
I never imagined they'd find out about me so quickly (Let alone anything at all given their track record), which makes things so much more difficult for myself. I hate to say this, but I'll be ending my search for you early tonight and just perhaps be forced to postpone them indefinitely until I can make up another disguise to lurk around town in, or whenever my banishment runs out, whatever comes first. Such a shame too since I love this time of year. The fireworks, the alcohol, the wild, sexy parties running until all hours of the night, the energy in the air, the food, the alcohol...
I sure did pick the wrong time to get banished in-between this and the Scourge attacks, haven't I?
Only 12 more days before I can roam the city streets freely again at least. Though I can't imagine staying where I am for much longer than half that. In case you're wondering I've locked myself up inside Knockers and.. well, I haven't been here an hour and already I'm getting stir-crazy!
But I'm sure you're tired of me just #@%$!ing and moaning about my problems in... just about every letter so far. How've you been doing Glimmerflint, where have you been and what are you up to? I thought I saw Miss Devi a while ago and.. she seemed unusually relaxed and well-rested, so I assume you haven't been at work for a while. The Langstons at the Pig had trouble just remembering who you were, and none of the usuals in town've seen you in months...
Well, I need to get going. R-66Y's back with my drinks and I'll be sending him out to fetch the mail next anyway, so he might as well take this along with him. While we're on the subject about mail, I still haven't heard a single thing from you. I understand that given the fact I've relocated so many times in such a small time period that its simply been so hard to get ahold of me, but I won't be going anywhere for a few days or... weeks. So if you're going to write me, now would be a pretty good time to, I imagine. I really hope you're safe, Glim.
(An address for Fizzle's mail follows)
With love and booze,
A good gnome wouldn't get caught dead in this part of Stormwind.
It was rather unfortunate for one Mister Torvald Spackleflat, who considered himself a very good gnome indeed, and yet here he was anyway. The Slaughtered Lamb. Who names an inn The Slaughtered Anything? He had half a mind to ask the man tending bar, if that man wasn't in the middle of drawing arcane symbols on the mirrored bar behind him in some rather suspicious looking fluid.
"Er... excuse me?"
The man gave him a quick once over, the badge, the carrier bags, the little hat. "Myes?"
"I'm looking for a Mister Fizzlepocket Tweek."
"Doesn't sound like one of ours. Although we've gotten a great deal of tourists for the Fire Festival. Unwanted tourists, I assure you. And if this is about our bonfire, it is completely within the regulations of the festival and I'm insulted that you'd imply otherwise."
The man gave an exasperated look, and with a flourish, turned back to the altogether unwholesome looking drawing.
"Uh, well, I was told I might find him by way of a Miss Bonnyjune."
"Oh!" The man turned about again and gave Torvald the eye, "Well, that's a felhunter of an entirely different scaly backside."
"She's down the hall. You're lucky you caught her."
Suddenly, a shriek ripped through the hallway, one of pure frustration and hatred and looking for that person, that one easy person, to let loose the tides of hell upon.
"Oh my goodness!" Mister Spackleflat exclaimed, patting his forehead with his hankie (embroidered TVS of the ECS).
"Yep, that's her. Down the hall. And be mindful of the er... festival fires, alright? Can't have anymore people falling in unwittingly. Otherwise, you know who's cleaning it up? Well, it certainly isn't Them down there is it? Nope, it'll be Jarel, of course, and then they'll probably want tea..."
Spackleflat started down the hall, letting the man continue his speech by himself. And before you could say, "Pardon me, but I do think that's my bi-flexing socket deflector," he was standing in the doorway of what appeared to be an inn room.
Torvald wasn't the type of man to jump to any quick conclusions, so he was hesitant to say whether or not it was actually an inn room. It would be one, he decided reluctantly, if said room had first been tossed on its side, then fed to a dragon, before, very unpleasantly, going through one of those goblin transporters which left parts in not the precise order you'd come to expect them. (And one tended to expect hands and feet and other body parts to exist in the PRECISE order you'd expect them, once through a transporter to Winterspring was quite enough for Torvald Spackleflat, thank you very much.)
In other words, the room was wrecked. The bed was ripped open, stuffing coming out, books were pulled out of cases and strewn across the floor, glass jars that lined shelves were smashed upon the ground and Torvald didn't even want to guess exactly what that green glob, squishily attempting escape, was. And amidst the wreckage stood a gnome. An exceedingly attractive and very cute gnome, I have no problem telling you. And she was cursing up such a storm in gnomish that Torvald blushed at even hearing what she planned to do with the goat and can of purple paint whenever she found who did all of this.
He coughed politely, "Excuse me?"
She whirled about on him and held up what looked like a clawed skeleton hand. "You see this? Do you see THIS?! First award I'd ever won. Best in class it said! I mean, you have no idea the subtle nuances of making sure when you raise them out of the grave that they can talk! You think they give awards like these out to just anybody? And now look at it. Just ruined! I mean, what sort of monster would break a girl's trophies, huh?"
She waited, as though she expected Torvald to reply. And startled as he was, he attempted to be comforting, "Uh... I mean... well... are you Miss Bonnyjune?"
"Oh!" She looked nigh on tears as she picked up the remainder of a broken bottle, entirely oblivious to his question, "This was the best hooch in all of Silverpine. I'd saved it for years for a special occasion. You have no idea the embargoes on Lordaeron, nowadays. Cripes, what a travesty."
Valiantly, he stumbled on, "I was told I might find a Bonnyjune down here."
"And my bookkeeping! Do you have any idea how hard it was to forge all those accounts? I haven't the head for numbers and my last accountant died tragically from a freak demon devouring accident. My warehouses are on the entire other continent and the reports were due last week!"
Then she did something that poor Torvald probably expected least. She sat on the floor, amongst all the detritus, and began to cry.
He shifted uncomfortably, and came very close to bolting for the door, but the idea of that golden pin and that congratulatory dinner--steak, he hoped it was steak--were lodged so firmly in his mind that he couldn't bare to part with them.
"It's just," he began, hopelessly, "It's just, I have this package, you see. For a Mister Fizzlepocket Tweek."
"Fizzlepocket?" she asked, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. "Who's it from? Is it a bomb? I bet its a bomb. You've check, haven't you?" And as suddenly as they had started, the tears were gone and in their place curiosity blossomed.
"No, no, it's nothing like that. But it is quite important and I was told you might know where--"
"Where Fizzlepocket is? Sure, I can point you in the right direction. Poor guy, you know those mortars in Lakeshire? It's a shame, just a shame, what a gnome gets blamed for these days."
"You know where he is!" Torvald crumpled in relief, "Oh bless you, young lady. You have no idea how long I've been looking. And that man in Booty Bay? With the knives? Oh! Well, I'm just glad its over."
"Well, sure you are! Of course you are! So yep, I'd be happy to point you towards Fizzlepocket. Just so long as you're willing to deliver him a package from me as well as whatever parcel your carrying for him already!"
She smiled then, a bright and shining smile, and also one that was completely and ridiculously false.
"Oh dear," he murmured, "It's not a bomb, is it?"
Fizzlepocket Audio LogEdit
((Ho-hum, ho-hum. I'm sure you're bored with this material already, but as it is, Fizzle's gonna be doing a couple of audio logs again soon and this is just one of them that I didn't want to really post until I got the new thread started but it directly leads into a more relevant and quite frankly interesting segment. Basically, it's a more "Fizzle-ish" recap of the month without his recording device that wasn't prettied up or editted for Glimmer's letters along with going deeper into Fizzle's madness. The second part that I'm working on will very much be worth reading if you asked me, just because it's more material that hasn't already been covered anyway and it ties into the Tarvold Saga...))
Today is July 10th, and this is the ever dashing Fizzlepocket James Rodriguez Fernando Martinez Ricardo Tweek the II testing his new and IMPROVED, mind ya, Audio Voice Player Backer Deluxe 10,000 Portable, or the A.V.P.B.D.10,000 P for short. Featuring a more streamlined design and being significantly lighter than the 9,000 P model, along with better audio quality, and battery life, not to mention that it puts off significantly less radiation (Due to the fact that said battery's made from radioactive materials) and features not one, but TWO cupholders...
Well, you know what I'm gettin' at. The 10,000 P is quite frankly the superior model! If only I can figure out a way to integrate music playback via a visual display unit like those I remember them havin' in those Goblin Shredders. Back when I used to... well, that's neither here nor there.
It seems that my latest antics, what with killing Calithos with a single bullet right into the brain, my general reckless shennanigans, my cocky demeanor, and my incomprehensible need to constantly be the center of attention (Not to mention my love of all things Paedus which I'll touch up on later), I have caught the attention of the Crimson Hounds Brigade who would much rather have me elsewhere than where I am right now.
You see, a month and a half ago, I was assaulted by imps which lead to me becoming a woman through no choice of my own. After a series of arguements, conflicts, disputes and disagreements between me and a personality that was born from the incident (Simply dubbed "Riddle," how appropriate) I managed to get myself back to my former and much more rugged self just in time to learn that Calithos decided that, since his friend, boss, and number 1 source of income what with all the lawsuits I tend to attract (I still remember that entire "Stake/Grenade Gun" debacle, what a mistake to advertise such a device to children!) was assumingly DEAD that he would feel so inclined to help himself to a barrel of some very, very expensive... well, it's not EXACTLY legal, so I won't say.
Either which way, when a Goblin is stolen from in such a manner, it's generally accepted that the Goblin would arm himself with various instruments of death and head out to slaughter the offender in a fashion that scales to the value of the aforementioned stolen property (Either sentimental or otherwise). To give you a vague idea of what we're talkin' about here, the first five gold demands compensation in the form of a broken finger or toe, ten gold demands two, fifteen demands three, so on and so forth until you run out of toes and fingers. Upon reaching that limit, provided that the amount in question exceeds the number of digits to break, by Goblin customs you're then required to SEVER the digits for every five gold stolen and it scales up from there...
To cut to the chase, Calithos stole an item valued at over 300 gold. According to my charts, essentially I would have to repeatedly destroy his corpse beyond recognition by drowning, electrocution, burning, exploding, shooting, replacing his blood with acid (Preferably while he's still alive), maiming, hacking, strangling, slitting his throat, defiling and defecating on his corpse, after which comes the feeding it to murlocs part, KILLING said murlocs, setting THOSE ablaze, gathering the ashes, and from there spilling said ashes around the planet into the ant mounds of the most vicious, horrible, lethal, and irritating ant on record infamous for its part in the Picnic Massacre of years back, the Fel-Ants.
Now, if this was in Undermine, I'd probably get a bunch of support, you know? A few cheers here and there, maybe a few guys to hold him down while I sever a few toes off, but apparently such acts are ILLEGAL in Stormwind! Now, I don't try to understand how I, being the VICTIM in such a situation get charged with one count of attempted murder, three counts of assaults on an officer, one assault on a civillian, fourteen counts of vandalism and destruction of privately and city own property, a good two dozen counts of illegal use of explosives, dozens more of disturbing the peace, six counts of resisting arrest, one count of arson, it kind of goes on like that for a good while longer. Anyway, I don't understand how I get charged where as the man who wrongs me get off scotch free! I get banished from Stormwind (And eventually Lakeshire) while the true criminal is busy getting drunk off his ass and enjoyin' life as it is! To add insult to injury, I'm certain that one or two of the "Property Damage" counts against me weren't even DONE by me!
I suppose though, that my banishment came at a good time, if there ever WAS a good time to be banished. Almost as if the the gods on high, if I believed in such things and I don't, were furious at the Hounds' complete inability to do their god damned jobs right, or at least do them in a passible manner, the Scourge were released upon Stormwind! While I was busy blowing up the graves and the children of Lakeshire, the City Guards were arming themselves for the coming battles themselves. As I fished on beautifully mediocre Lake Everstill, both civillians and officers were falling under the attacks laid by the scourge. All in all, they really got the $!@% end of the stick, don'tcha think?
But, with such distance between myself and the city, there were a few issues. For one, my bar Knockers would have to remain in ruins until I can officially roam the streets of Stormwind again and even then, I doubt I could muster the energy to begin the repairs, or the attitude one should have when undertaking such a project. My workshop was also located in Stormwind as well (Under Knockers, in fact) that made such efforts to repair and deploy my underlings more difficult than it had to be (Though I found a willing accomplice in Frelle). Probably the most prevalient issue, and the most obvious, was that of the woman that I love failing to reply to my countless letters, parcels and postcards sent over the weeks.
To have been seperated so long without word, well, if anyone hears this log I'll have to kill them anyway but I admit, I've grown quite attached to the bonny lass. So much, in fact, I've made my way back into Stormwind solely BECAUSE of her. It seems though that the risks I took were completely unnecessary. After days of combing the city, my conclusion is simply that... either she's dead and lodged in the sewers somewhere (A pleasant thought, I know) or she's taken refuge herself during the crisis... perhaps to her family.
Oh HELL. I PRAY that isn't the case which is an odd thought especially since I ain't a prayin' gnome. After all, she's not one to keep secrets from her mother, and from what little bits and pieces I've managed to extract from her concerning her family (A topic that if you even try to bring up makes her appear anxious and solicits such a response for her to desperately change the subject)... Especially concerning that the last time she was with her parents was right before she turned her brother into a rabbit and then ran off to get engaged to some stud like myself and... burned all of her mothe-... Oh $!@%. She'll be bound to come back with more of her barbarous, sadistic brutal, fiendish, ruthless mum's formulas for torture, agony, affliction, anguish, misery, suffering and twinge!
Best... not to think about that, though how can you forget her recipe for cold medicine that tasted like alcohol free volatile rum with a dash of dead carrion here and there or her biscuits that not only gave you the runs for a good week (And I MEAN the runs), it left you coughin' up feathers for a week longer than the aforementioned runs! We burned those recipes, we just went right to the cathedral district where they're ALWAYS burning books, and seeing as how this woman's recipes for CHICKEN FRIED CHICKEN and other blatant acts of heresy and blasphemy, it was more than appropriate.
All this talk though is making me hungry. Suppose it's just about time for me to put this A.V.P.B.D.10,000 P to a field test while I sneak out for a Paedus, don't y'think?
'!&$%ing sideways #@%$! $%&% ass fabba !@!#& wench mother !&$%er!'
DAMN IT FAWKER, SHADDAP! Oh, I forgot to mention. Oddly, with all the Scourge that made their way into Knockers and... didn't make their way back out before I arrived again (Long story, that), it seemed that despite the impossible odds Uncle Fawker, an obnoxious, vicious little pigeon of a parrot managed to survive three weeks of neglect without any real interaction with a living, breathing soul (Do Scourge breathe?). I can't begin to explain how or why, but I'm REALLY starting to wish it di-...
'!&$%@ ass white boy $&!% kabazzah paccu!'
.... I won't even begin to ASK what the hell a Kabazzah is. I'm out....
I won't kill the bird... I won't kill the bird... I won't kill the bird...
(Please turn audio cylinder to side B.)