Gadgetzan Times
From the Desk of the Editor
“’GONE’? What do you mean ‘GONE’?”
It was impossible for the perfect complexion of the Editor-in-Chief to get any greener, and the fury suffusing her face was instead causing an almost purplish hue. The offices of the Gadgetzan Times, arguably Azeroth’s finest newspaper (even if only for the supreme quality of its printing presses) remained quiet and still around her, the absence of goblin journalists painfully obvious.
“Errr, gone, yes...” the quivering apprentice mumbled, looking at the pathetically small card in his hands. “Err, they said they’d be back when the research is umm... on the khorium... and the practical uses of arcane vortexes ...um... viewing the spectrum of nether irradiated adamantium...maybe next year...?” “So they’re ... gone?” This time her voice had dropped to a whisper, a sound which was even more chilling to the young goblin’s ears than her earlier outburst.
“Umm, yes. To Outland. They sent a nice letter...” proffering the postcard like a rose to an angry druid, the apprentice managed to lean forward and take a step backward at the same time.
“Gone!” Leaning back in her chair, Typoe Crunchmode contemplated the single word as though it posed a range of options not hitherto discovered in a single syllabled word. After a moment of incredulous incomprehension, she stared up at the hapless apprentice. “But we have a newspaper to write! There is news taking place all over Azeroth and Outland, and no one is reporting it! How can things be happening if we are not there to report it? If the bold, brave, adventurous journalists of the Gadgetzan Times are not there to record and verify these events? History will cease to happen, I tell you, CEASE!”
Like a large firework being tested in a small room, the apprentice’s body twitched with irrepressible excitement as pure inspiration struck from above. “That’s it! Adventurers! What if the adventurers write the stories when they happen, and send them to us?”
A wrinkle twitched across the Editor-in-Chief’s delicate viridian nose. “Adventurers? But they could write anything at all! That’s not real journalism.”
“Yes, but we would say that it was by the adventurers, and not by goblins. People could choose to believe them or not,” the apprentice was hopping from one foot to another, nearly shredding the postcard of Netherstorm in his agitation.
“But that’s....” Typoe’s nose wrinkled again, as she stared at the young goblin’s attempts not to explode. “That’s brilliant! We’ll publish it as stories, and then no one can complain if they are true or not. And everyone loves stories written by real adventurers. We’ll triple our circulation overnight!”
A fierce grin replaced the black scowl which had darkened her face and she leaned forward fixing the apprentice in place with her trade mark thorium-plated glare. “Send dispatches! Get the presses oiled and ready! Find those adventurers and find them now!”
Throwing Practice
by Nicholas GallopThe curved throwing blade sank into the wooden post three inches left of the red X painted at the center. Gouges from previous attempts marred the post, none closer than a few inches away from the target. Daldain sighed and pulled the blade from the wood before retreating back a few steps and narrowing his eyes, preparing for another throw. He had only used thrown weapons once, long ago when he first began training. Even as the blade flew from his fingertips, his mind wandered back to those days, breathing new life into the faded memories...
“Daldain!” Nallyna called just as the rogue tossed another lightweight throwing dagger at a nearby tree. He turned his head toward the druid, causing the dagger to fly wildly into the woods. Nallyna’s gaze followed the projectile and she frowned angrily, turning back to Daldain.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. For a moment Daldain just stared at her, truly ignorant to his crime.
“Uh...practicing?” the novice rogue replied, his confusion evident in his voice. Still scowling, Nallyna approached the punctured tree Daldain had already sunk several daggers into, though none had come anywhere close to his proposed mark, some even missing the tree entirely. She brushed her index and middle finger across the pierced areas, coating them in thick, gooey sap before stalking over to Daldain and showing him her findings.
“The tree is bleeding, you idiot!” the druid growled. Daldain studied the sap for a moment and then turned his eyes back to Nallyna.
“So? More will grow.”
A heavy thump on the head came before his next thought did, sending a shock of pain to the back of his skull. Nallyna’s staff was in her hands, coming down into a resting position after a high-struck blow. She could have done much worse if she truly wanted to, though she had no desire to really harm her friend, just knock some sense into him.
“You’re killing a living thing! How can you do such a thing, Dal?” she scolded, sounding half angered and half saddened by his actions. She brought the staff down again, but Daldain knew what was coming this time and caught the swing in one hand as it fell.
“It’s just a tree, Nallyna. It doesn’t have feelings or emotions or family.” He paused, glancing at the tree and then back to the girl. “And it’s kinda ugly anyway.”
Nallyna looked as if she were going to smack him again, but instead took his hand tightly and pulled him roughly toward the forest. She didn’t say anything and her staff was on her back again, but Daldain feared her a tiny bit in the back of his mind. He had seen what powerful druids could do, and was far too inexperienced to fight magic. But she did not cause a tree to fall on him or impale him on a thorn. Instead, she brought him to a clearing with a single stem of Mageroyal blooming in the center. The druid released his hand and knelt by the flower, brushing the dew-dotted leaves with her fingertips and whispering a few words. Instantly the entire clearing exploded into a color of red and green as Mageroyal sprouted from every inch of empty space available. Startled by the display, Daldain backed away a bit and instinctively reached for the lone dagger at his belt. Soon he would be training with two at a time but for now he only carried a single blade.
“Would you butcher these, Dal? They have no feelings, no emotions, no family,” Nallyna said, looking back at him. Ashamed, the rogue looked down at the flowers and sheathed his dagger. He’d seen Peacebloom and Silverleaf before, but never Mageroyal. The red, rose-like petals and vibrant green leaves framing them caught his eye and he knelt down, even daring to touch the herb. To his surprise, it wasn’t like the grass or the trees. He could feel the life flowing through it and for once he didn’t see it as just an object, but felt it as another living thing. Whether the energy was natural or if Nallyna was playing games with him he couldn’t tell and quite frankly didn’t care. This Mageroyal was absolutely beautiful, almost as beautiful as...
He looked up at Nallyna, who had suddenly grown quiet. She slowly looked back up at him, her silver orbs meeting his own amber eyes and he could see the sorrow they reflected.
“Daldain,” she whispered. “The... the Circle has requested I depart for Ashenvale first thing tomorrow morning to continue my training. I meant to tell you sooner but...” she trailed off.
Daldain simply nodded, his eyes breaking away from hers and returning to the herb now in his hands. He had known the day would come when he and his longtime friend would split paths, but he hadn’t realized it would be so soon. Maybe now was the right time to tell her how he felt...
“And... I’ve met someone, Dal...”
Daldain shook the cobwebs from his mind and came back to the present. The once-lost memories were turning into something he knew too well already. He found himself staring at the backside of a shining blade buried up to the hilt in the post, only slightly off center from the red X. For the first time since he recovered the blades from Auchindoun, Daldain had hit his target dead on. He gave a little smile and collected the blades, sliding them into the holders at his belt. The post still bore the dents and cuts from his throws, but the life had left that chunk of wood long ago, when the humans had cut it from a tree, most likely in Elwynn, to serve as a practice dummy for their guards and infantry.
The head and arms were missing now, so it didn’t serve much of a use for melee combat, though it was a decent target for ranged practice, as Daldain had discovered. After sheathing the throwing blades, Daldain glanced at the post and recalled the tree in Darkshore he had practiced on when he was so very young.
He whispered an apology to Cenarius, tossed his pack over one shoulder, and began walking back to the inn.
