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Category: World of Warcraft

The Search for Squire, Part 5 – South Seas

The goblin I hired..  Some jack-fool named after a fine range of saltwater cuisine did me no good.  I let him roam for two weeks before I found him drunk and passed out at the controls to a very expensive looking flying contraption I’d seen Gnomes piloting during my time with the Alliance.  I was less than thrilled that my money had gotten him booze, a vehicle and not the common sense to solve a query granted by a Mage as powerful as I.

I should warn people about the smell of charred goblin and wrecked machinery near Camp Winterhoof.  Should, but I won’t.

My ire spurned, I masked my form with a powerful illusion and traveled among the goblins of the South Seas in search of my diminutive green companion.  This took a year, goblins are all short and green and from the air it’s hard to spot the difference.  And then there’s the money.

Broke and tired of seeing things from the 3ft perspective of a greedy big-nosed flop-eared jack-fool I returned to Orgrimmar to coordinate a new search.  At least I had tried to return.

A dangerously thick misty-fog crept up from the seas and I found myself utterly bewildered as I lost control of my carpet and spiraled towards what I’d hoped was the ground.

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The Search for Squire, Part 4 – A goblin interlude

I hired help. I had grown weary of my search, the far corners of Creation held no clue as to his whereabouts. Only through a tenuous link to his being was I certain he remained living.

In Orgrimmar I crossed paths with a goblin keen to offer me any number of questionable services. I declined all of them save one. I parted ways with fifty gold and magically imparted a description of Squire to my hireling.

While the goblin, Soosh or Sush I cannot recall, left on my imparted Quest, I retired to one of the newer drinking establishments.

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The Search for Squire, Part 3

Feralas, while pretty, was a bust. I moved onward. North into Desolace. I didn’t stop there, a cursory glance from the air told me everything I needed to know. Squire wouldn’t have come here, the grey sandy plain hid no secrets and certainly offered no adventure to a small orc boy such as Squire.

North of Desolace lay Night Elf territory. Alliance dogs prowled the forests and mountains ever vigilant. A territory I didn’t care to visit. I invoked the magicks necessary and removed myself to the Swamp of Sorrows. Days passed as I drank myself into a stupor while I considered the options.

A passing goblin merchant mentioned seeing an orc boy wandering north, beyond the Badlands. So I took to carpet and rode north. Over the swamp’s thick miasma and creeping foliage. On the coastline, at the edge of the swamp I passed Bogpaddle. A goblin ‘village’ teeming with business and activity. On the shoreline just outside town I spied a party. Mental note was made to visit this venue once i’d found Squire. He always was one for a good party.

North into Badlands, along the mountainous cliffs that faced the sea, I rode. Wind whipped my face and lashed my body, chastising me for my search. My thoughts darkened with the weather and I fought to remain focused before the oncoming melancholy I was feeling.

I rode north along the coastline. I didn’t need to venture inland to the Badlands. If I thought Squire wasn’t in Desolance for it’s barrenness, then I could be assured he wasn’t in the Badlands. A dry bowl-shaped valley teeming with hostile wildlife and ogres. Kargath was the only refuge to one such as myself and Squire was smart enough to know better than venturing someplace so dangerous.

So I rode North, into the Hinterlands..

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The Search for Squire, Part 2

I wandered amongst Feralas for some time. I was quite drunk on Cherry Grog so it’s difficult to say just how long. Days.. hours. Time itself blurred in front of me as though I were moving abnormally quickly through a painfully slowed world.

In that time I searched high and low. I’d given up my search, but not until after visiting the Ogre’s who call Dire Maul their home. Their leader, an understanding gentleman, suggested that he had seen no mention of a ‘small orc boy named Squire’. I made sure to describe his delicate hands and his immaculate appearance, the manner in which he bravely takes down my dictation.

“Nope. No see orc boy. Plenty orc. Kill few.”

I thanked the Ogre King, shared some of my Cherry Grog. We commented on it’s rich flavor for some time before I succumbed to the booze.

Hours or days.. I cannot tell. I awoke and resumed my search. It was apparent Squire wasn’t in Feralas. I know for a fact that Squire is terrified of Ogres and most things bigger than him and he has hay-fever. Feralas was teeming with plants and animals far bigger than even myself and not one of them being hypo-allergenic.

No, Feralas was a bust. I moved on.

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The Search for Squire, Part 1

I searched for days. Well, just over 12 hours. I couldn’t find the little bastard anywhere. Squire was missing.

My journey took me to Gadgetzan, recently an oceanfront property thanks to Deathwings’ manifestation and general unpleasantness. While I couldn’t locate my faithful companion, I did happen upon some friendly goblins who traded coin for information. One suggested I check the local ruins, Zul’Farrak, and the other suggested they’d seen him heading south towards Uldum.

Taking their suggestion, I headed West. Near the edge of Tanaris, nestled into the mountains along the bowl-shaped hole we call Un’Goro crater lay Zul’Farrak. It’s dry, it’s unpleasant and most importantly, it’s full of insane troll cultists all paying continuued homage to ancient deities.

They were no help.

I happened upon a fellow elf. A warlock calling herself Simonna. She graciously accompanied me through the ruins as I turned over various stones and unearthed several graves. She was most helpful in keeping me company and spent much of the time checking each corpse for clues.

In the end, her bag was full of ‘not clues’ and practically bulging with uselessness. It didn’t matter, I was there for one thing only and he wasn’t present.

Having sated my curiosity, we rode South on a rocket of goblin design. Our keen eyes scanned the horizon and sandy dunes for sign of my loyal assistant, Squire, to no avail.

At her request, I dropped her off near an encampment of pirates she suggested might know more.

They weren’t any help either.

And once again she checked the bodies for clues as I sated my frustration. And again, her bag seemed bulging at the seams with ‘not clues’.

I bid her good day and departed on my finely woven carpet, heading West. A nearby encampment of goblins failed to provide direction yet escaped my annoyance with finely crafted Cherry Grog. I thanked them, bought some grog and headed North.

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What doesn’t kill us..

..Isn’t trying hard enough.

Days. It’s been days wandering around this blasted glacier. In the distance I can see spires of darkest metal. Constructs of a war machine that is ready to rear it’s ugly head.

Meanwhile, I have to keep my eyes peeled to the horizon. Behind me wolves dog my every step. Ahead of me, Scourge threaten to ambush if i’m not careful enough.

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I dislike Sand. It has its’ uses, sure. For those times, I find Sand quite agreeable. In it’s native form however, I find it rather annoying. Aggravating, like a droning sound you can’t actively hear yet is perceptible to the sleeping mind.

I recently spent days in Uldum, helping the Ramakhen and some intrepid adventurer solving Mysteries of the Ancients.

I spared Squire the agony of the journey and left him in.. uh..
..oh damn. I’ll have to go find Squire again. Now that I think about it.. I might have left him in Caer Darrow.

I’m still pouring sand out of my boots on occasion, the stuff got into everything no matter how hard I tried. And if the sand wasn’t bad enough, the shifting wind did it’s best to blow me off course more than once.

I’m saving choice words for the Bastion of Four Winds when I find my way there. Choice words indeed.

Now i’m off to find Squire.

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Of journeys finished and beginnings

To those that know and those that do not. I am Telinthos. This is a journal of sorts, a recollection of past and present.

You might ask yourself questions. Who am I? What am I? What makes this important?

The matter is simple. I am a Mage.

In the beginning it was simple. I was under an illusion so powerful that in time even I could not remember who I was originally. I was a Gnome at a time when trust was a rare commodity and the world a very different place.

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Return to Caer Darrow

Telinthos slid the barely tarnished key into the aged, yet serviceable, lock. It turned easily and opened with the faintest creak. His nose was assaulted by the scents of death and decay, of incense and perfume. A faint shuffling sound and muttered chanting carried by a chorus of individuals greeted his ears.

They’ve been busy. I always appreciated that about Cultists, determined.. like rats.

Telinthos closed the door and relocked it, leaving as quietly as he’d arrived. His intent was simple, report his findings to his colleagues, they’d be interested to know the Cult of the Damned was still active.

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Telinthos, a mage of great skill, stood on the precipice and examined the valley beneath him.

“So these orcs have enslaved your people?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder to the elf standing next to him.

“Yes. For many years they have taken our youngest and raised them into mounts of war and destruction. I would slay my consort myself, but their forces are too strong.”

“Illusion is something I am familiar with. Allow me to assist you. I abhor nothing as much as Slavery.” Telinthos said, flexing his hands instinctively. I’ll have that fortress flattened within the hour.

“You must be wary, many of our eggs are hidden around the fortress, and I would ask of you to bring them back.” Make that two hours.

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