You've Got Mail!

=Chapter 1= It was a busy day in the Trade District of Stormwind. Like every other day, the townspeople were selling things ranging from anything to everything. The smell of bread flowed through the air and the taste of wine lingered in peoples’ mouths.

The Trade District was a rather large and spacious place. Shops and trade carts were strewn about on the sides so there was maneuverability for the populace on the streets. Anything was basically sold in the district: weapons, armor, food (especially cheese sold by the illustrious queen of cheese and king of cheese), water, and other items that were of major or minor interest. The auction house resided in the northwest tower right near the “trade tree,” as people called it, which was the focal point of the whole Trade District itself.

There was a small band playing at the front porch of the weapons shop just to the right side of the tree. Beyond the large pathway riddled with shops and houses in front of the tree was the Valley of Kings. In memory of the Alliance’s heroes, the band was playing for them with violins, wind instruments, and a bit of an assortment with other instruments that the band had with them.

The afternoon is always a busy time. People began shopping, looking around, selling things, and most importantly getting mail from the messengers. It was difficult traversing throughout the city itself due to the population in Stormwind, but the noble and honorable messengers still completed their duties with haste and acuteness.

In the Trade District, throughout all the hustle and bustle of the people moving about, yelling, laughing, etc., there was a young man in front of a winery shop just staring at the tree and all its splendor and beauty. The man was clearly tired because of the dark rings under his narrowed eyes and looked as if he was going to collapse any minute. His short height, around five foot, combined with his slightly skinny and lanky stature almost made him invisible to the flood of townsfolk circulating throughout the Trade District.

The man was covered in ornamented brown leather with a brown jacket that had the collar somewhat popped up. Under the jacket, almost behind his right shoulder, was a wooden handle sticking out that looked to be a throwing weapon of some sort. However, upon closer inspection, the wooden handle was actually cut into thin strips and clanked along metallically and woodenly when the man shuffled in his attire.

There was also a backpack on him with numerous items sticking out. From time to time he looked back, shuffled, and patted the backpack to ensure no one was tampering with it. His attire was misleading, but he was very well known around the world as being a reliable and speedy messenger and carrier.

The man blinked, coming out of his dreamy state. He took a last gaze at the square before entering the winery to his left. Inside, there was a rather tall and dark man tending the counter with his head on it. The messenger furrowed his brows at him, but thought nothing of it and slowly walked up towards the counter.

There was no one in the shop, possibly because either the wine was horrid or the proprietors of the shop ran out. In this case, the situation was evident. Where bottles of glorious wine should have been there were only empty sockets on the racks. The person behind the counter was probably mourning over his loss of business, but perhaps the messenger can remedy that.

He looked over the man’s head. There was a bit of whimpering, then the shuffle of hands to pat his face and other assortments of attempts at comfort. All failed, of course. His only cure for his ailment would be wine.

The messenger sighed silently to himself. Rather than bothering the man, he slipped his hand in one of the pouches of his backpack and produced a rather official envelope of some sort. He fanned the envelope, debating on whether he should say something or drop the note on his head, but made a decision and chose the latter.

The rather thick envelope smacked the disoriented man on the head. He gave out a cry of shock, but did not move from his comforting position. After a second, he lifted up his head and examined his visitor.

“Oh,” the man said, melancholy dribbling in his voice. He plopped his head back down onto the counter and began to whimper again. The messenger rolled his eyes and tapped the man’s head with his right index finger.

“Uh,” the messenger began, questioning the proprietor’s actions. “Where’s the real owner?” The whiny man tried to shoo him away, but the messenger persisted.

The messenger nibbled on his cheek a bit. With a quick hand he grabbed the “owner’s” collar, hoisted him up to his head level and threw a glare so fierce it could have seared the flesh off of his face. The man whimpered even louder and had his eyes closed, ready for a beating if it occurred.

The owner was pleading for his life as he whimpered. The messenger, irritated enough, placed his index finger and thumb over the man’s lips to quickly shut him up. Slowly, the owner’s whimpering and pleading stopped and he realized what the messenger wanted him to do.

Despite the on-goings outside, the silence was painfully evident in the winery shop. The messenger still had his fingers pressed on the owner’s lips, and he was frightened to the point of fainting. Before he could decide on passing out or some other cowardly action, the messenger began to speak.

“I went to Undermine,” he said with an angry tone. “I went to Undermine, and I didn’t like it.” He said it again, this time emphasizing how much he vilified the travel. “I, DID, NOT, LIKE, IT.”

The man started to whimper and almost sounded like he was crying. The painful silence swept through again as the messenger’s glare mutilated the owner’s face. Even though the messenger was clearly angry, there was a smile on his face. The smile was surely one of insanity or “I’ve had enough of this bullshit.”

The messenger pressed his thumb on the owner’s eyelid and forced it up. The glare could have slain him, but it did not. Instead, it continued to rip his face apart and his whimpering elevated even higher.

The messenger must be pleasuring in his pain. He smiled again, reasons unknown.

“Where is the real owner?” the messenger asked, this time nicely. The owner attempted to form words, but failed miserably and let out cries of fear instead. He was going limp, and when the messenger let his grip go the owner missed his chair and fell to the ground with a cry.

“I…,” the owner tried to say, still failing miserably at forming sentences. “I don’t know! I swear! Don’t hurt meeeee!”

The messenger sighed under the man’s cowering. “Well, do you know where he is, then? I’d like to get paid for this wasted trip.”

The owner threw a bag of gold coins onto the counter. “T-take it!” he cried, cowering still. “Twenty gold pieces! Take it all! Just go away!”

The messenger did not want to intrude on the owner’s pissing of the floor, so he promptly took the bag of gold coins and left. Perhaps it was best to let his curiosity go than to supplement it with answers.

He poured the contents of the bag into another side pouch on his backpack. Rather than discarding the bag, he shoved it into the side pouch along with the coins. Looking around with a somewhat content face he walked off the porch of the winery shop and began making his way through the crowds of people.

A messenger is a messenger. While he had full access to the information of his clients, it was not his job to question their motives or writing. He was to quickly deliver mail, and that was all it was.

Packages and gifts were of the same importance as well. No matter how serious or nonchalant the job was, it was his mission to get the package delivered on time and without too many disruptions. Handling and shipping taxes applied regardless as well, but those who wanted their contents to be more “special” than others paid more for it, which suited the messenger just fine.

He felt a bit of pity for the so-called owner of the winery shop. The thick envelope he threw onto the man’s head was something from a goblin prince in Undermine. Being from Undermine itself, the contents of the envelope was assumingly morbid. As far as the messenger believed, the envelope was perhaps a threat note of some sort followed by evidence of actions done in the past by others who could not pay their debts; or, maybe it was simply a notice. Whatever it was, it was enough for the owner to start bawling on the floor.

Although, when he was asked to deliver the envelope, several happenings occurred. First, he was blindfolded and taken to an unknown location. Second, he was placed in an office with a goblin in front of him who smelled like crap. Lastly, he was thrown in a boat bound for Booty Bay, free of charge, still blindfolded, and hands bound.

People hire him, not blindfold him and FORCE him to deliver messages to another. The irritation he had gone through because a stupid goblin prince could not ask him nicely sent him over the edge. That was as far as anyone could go just to deliver a shitty bundle of papers.

Now, one should not mistake this messenger as a person who does not like his job. In fact, he actually enjoyed it. However, he was a freelance deliverer, meaning anyone who wished could hire him. There were exceptions, such as military messages or items, that were declined off-hand. Dealing with everyone, Goblins, Orcs, Humans, Night Elves, etc., was enough trouble. If he accepted military work, it was a sure-fire way of getting killed by the opposing faction or a group of interest.

He also had a code to follow, which was his own. No matter who wanted something delivered, the only thing he or she had to do was simply, and politely, ask him to do such a thing. Bounding him, blindfolding him, and throwing him into ships, while free of charge, was not acceptable by all means. So, during his adventure, he decided to read whatever contents was in the thick envelope.

The owner he had encountered was the son of the winery shop. It turns out his mother and father were kidnapped for ransom and he was told to accumulate enough money for their release. Twenty gold was enough. The messenger was supposed to deliver the money back to the goblin prince, but unfortunately he chose the wrong messenger to disrespect. That was the day a vendetta was created.

The thick envelope contained some very gruesome pictures. The father and mother were being tortured under the goblin prince’s command. The whole envelope itself was a warning to the son. If he did not send the money soon, his parents would meet a painfully and watery death. Personally, the messenger not only shunned torturing and threats, but also had a grudge against those who would part families.

The messenger smiled. It was a very bad smile, but in truth, he was good. Not only would he be doing something so charitable for a family, but also fulfill his wish of revenge against the person who offended him so dearly.

He went by many names. His loose and dull black hair coined him as “Shadow.” His speedy nature and quick deliveries coined him as “Shortcut” or “Bypass,” as stupid as those names sound to him. However, known to his friends and dead family, he was known as Kralius, Zell, or Cham Baergs.

=Chapter 2= While he wanted to immediately being on his scheme, it was not to be. He had obligations to uphold and knew that his job was top priority. People had messages that wanted to be delivered; slacking off would not only desecrate his reputation for being such a stalwart carrier, but also cause people that needed information to be uninformed and ignorant of the day’s knowledge of whatever occupation they held.

It was unfortunate, but even though he was in Stormwind his next location was in Ratchet. Top priority mail meant more money for him even though it did not compensate for the journey and supplies… sometimes. It did not matter much, though, seeing as that was why he became a carrier in the first place. The thrill of passing through harsh lands and danger made him feel alive.

He was born in a middle-class family, a mechanically savvy father devoted to family and work with a wife who assisted the injured in Stormwind as a nurse. He also had an older brother that worked as many occupations, but was mostly lazy and went to any party he could find. He usually found his home at Ironforge instead of Stormwind, seeing as Dwarves like to chug it up with ale and whatnot. Despite his obvious flaw, he was a nice and caring brother.

In truth, Kralius became known through his brother, who was famous as a martial arts teacher and, reiterated before, was experienced in many other occupations. Kralius was content in being a shadow of his older brother; he probably would not be able to handle the publicity, anyways. His reputation grew dramatically when he began his delivering career. Since then, he became as famous as his brother, but without the social mess of it all.

He began his career when he was eighteen years old. Unfortunately, as he reached new heights, his past began to fall. His father died in a gruesome engineering accident, which is too much to speak about other than that. Just as unfortunate as his father, Kralius’ mother died by the hands of a crazed human who was secretly dabbling in dark magic. The only good thing was that she died quickly and without notice. The details will be kept secret for the young man’s sake.

As for his brother, there is not much known. People simply said he grew tired of his lifestyle and began to journey around the world, possibly for a reason to live other than partying. However, Kralius doubted that, seeing as his brother was not that philosophical to have some sort of enlightenment.

Kralius had nothing to remember his family other than his name. Cham, Kralius, or Zell do not really mean anything, which is why they are so memorable to him. Since they are indefinable, the names are vacant for being defined. He has made many definitions for himself, but the most prominent one to describe him as a whole would be “weird,” which he takes as a compliment. His name also serves as a constant reminder to his parents’ wisdom. You don’t have to be the world’s greatest person; just be our greatest son.

It was wisdom that stuck to the carrier. Living in a caring family, forgetting his past meant forgetting who he was. Were it not for his family, he would not be able to uphold his parents’ wish. If such knowledge were spread about, people who have heard of Cham would be baffled, considering that his personality does not reflect on his past, and would seem that there are so many discrepancies afoot. It is true that he made many names for himself, but a bit too many to define him specifically.

It took him from the afternoon to the evening to reach Ratchet. The gryphon ride from Stormwind to Booty Bay was a bit rickety, but when he traveled on ship to Ratchet it felt as if only a few minutes passed by before he realized he reached his destination.

Kralius groggily walked off the ship onto Ratchet’s docks, attempting to wipe the sleep dust from the corner of his eyes as he moved. It felt like nighttime, and there was silence around him save for the inn up on the hillside to his left, which was loud with laughter and cheer.

He squinted to his right. There was a goblin muttering to himself as he tinkered with some sort of mechanical object. Kralius tried to suppress a grin as he walked towards the goblin.

The green-skinned goblin appeared different compared to many other ones in the town. He wore a red cap that concealed his eyes, yet had sockets to let his looming pointy ears through. He wore a metallic gray breastplate along with a gray belt and silk slacks; he also wore large, maroon-colored boots that were made of metal and leather and gray gloves that only covered the palm of his hands. Kralius looked over the goblin, discerning at what he was tinkering with.

The object was similarly odd. Four large gears were welded together and had wires sticking out of the sockets of the gears that appeared to be a fastener of some sort. Kralius squinted at the object and noticed the bumps of the gears looked as if they could be pressed. Before he could produce a thought, the goblin hoisted the object around him and fastened the wires over his body.

“Kinda dangerous wanderin’ around,” the goblin said, knowing full-well there was someone watching him. Kralius nodded, then let out his grin in full force. He rummaged a hand through his backpack and took out a book, then tapped the goblin on the head with it.

“It’s a life I’ve come to like,” he responded in return as the goblin twirled around and snatched the book. The two looked eye to eye, not exactly face to face, considering that Kralius was twice the goblin’s size. But the two gazed at each other, and smiles appeared.

“Done good kid,” the goblin complimented. He took out a bag of coins from his pocket and held it out to Kralius. “Put some extra coin in there fer ya. Get some dinner, you look like you need it.”

Kralius chuckled and took the bag in earnest. He wondered how the goblin could see him in such a time, in such a dark evening. During his travel he had no food to eat and was starving the whole way. Were it not for Witzer’s generosity Kralius would have gone the whole day without eating.

Witzer, among goblins, was one of such oddity. He cared little for money and cared more for his inventions instead. Such a personality was expected of a tinker, for having more care than anything other than personal inventions was surely an insult to other tinkers.

However, while Witzer cared for his inventions, he truthfully cared more about wisdom and knowledge. Creativity was of importance as well, for a tinker could not produce magnificent inventions without being innovative. He also cared especially for his companions, but had little due to his crass behavior and personality. Even so, Kralius was one friend whom Witzer respected, for odd people seem to group together just fine; there was much more Kralius had in him than he showed or granted himself, and that was also another thing the goblin respected: humbleness.

The cold began to set in over Kralius. The two decided to join the festivities happening in the inn and chow down while they were at it. Inside, there seemed to be a private party going on as there was barely any people save for a few dozen at the deeper end of the inn. The two decided to be isolated from the party and sit at a table near the entrance.

The cook left, which was surprising to the two. After cooking enough (and much more) for the private party, the cook simply left. An annoying coincidence, but this impediment would not stop Kralius. It was fortunate that he was raised right, for were he not then he would not be able to feed himself if there was no one around. In layman’s terms, he was a good cook.

The goblin innkeeper allowed the carrier to work on the stove and use whatever ingredients he needed, for the innkeeper himself did not like the prior cook’s behavior. It took Kralius around an hour to make a feast fit for a king. Vegetables, fruits, cooked meats; they all not only looked delectable, but also surrounded the inn with such an intense and pleasurable aroma that the private party could not help but to eye the food Kralius made.

Witzer fed himself before Kralius’ arrival, but it was all… sour, to put it lightly. He did not want the feast that his companion made to go to waste, so he stuffed himself with much comfort and vigor, for the food was extremely delicious. Kralius did the same, and his ravenous appetite only fueled him to duel with Witzer for the foods on the table.

The private party murmured to themselves. The innkeeper managed to catch a plate of food from Kralius’ creations and was so content with it that he decided to pay the carrier for his hard work. A brief and humble “no thank you” occurred, then an insistent undertaking on the innkeeper’s part, and then a “thank you” concluded. Witzer grinned at Kralius’ humbleness, but still persisted on battling with him for the foods.

The private party’s mumblings began to turn audible, and their sayings were not welcoming to the two feasting “kings.” Harsh words traveled through Kralius’ ears from time to time, but he dismissed them. It only took a few minutes for a person to become aggravated at the two’s loud munching and loud battling.

An ogre of all beings, stomped his way to the two’s table and looked down at them. The two did not bother concerning themselves with the ogre and continued to eat. The ogre grumbled, then grunted loudly.

“Give food to me puny people!” he yelled, demanding, not requesting, obviously, for the food. “Give food or me crush you!”

Kralius had his mouth preoccupied with a chicken drum when he looked to Witzer. He nodded back, casting an invisible acknowledgement towards Kralius. Witzer looked up to the ogre and smiled.

“Hey bub,” the goblin said sincerely. “Why do ya need food?”

The ogre looked at him, his face now in confusion at a simple question. “’Cause,” he said with hesitation, “’Cause, me hungry…”

Witzer nodded. He turned and lifted his arm over the chair’s back as his other one fed him a piece of toasted wheat bread. “Uh huh,” he responded, nodding at the ogre’s stupidity. “You already have food on your table, so why get ours?” Witzer motioned his head towards the side, indicating the amount of food on the private party’s table. As Kralius chewed on some steamed broccoli he attempted to see how the private party was reacting to the ogre’s blunder. They were not pleased.

The innkeeper felt an uneasiness course through him. In both minds, Witzer and Kralius felt there was going to be a fight regardless of whether the ogre was defeated. The feeling seemed to have transferred to the innkeeper, for there were many of the opposition and only two to defend. If the innkeeper’s assumptions were correct, which they were not, the chance of the whole inn being ruined was a high 200 percent.

The two continued to chow down as the ogre reflected on Witzer’s question. The private party began to migrate towards the two’s table, glares upright and harsh language already flinging. Most of them looked like pirates, others mercenaries drabbed in mail or leather. Regardless, they were all asking for an ass-kicking for interrupting such a great feast.

The innkeeper decided to scurry off behind a table. The ogre finally stopped thinking and joined in with his crew, flinging glares and curses at the two. They did not stop to do anything and continued to eat.

One of the pirates felt courageous enough to move in front of the table and SPIT on the food. The moment the spit landed on the food, Kralius instantly dropped everything he had and landed a powerful fist to the man’s nose. In slow motion, everyone saw the man fly past them and hit his head on a column, leaving a slight crack on it. The man was already out cold on the strike Kralius dealt. When they saw the unconscious man’s body, they stepped back a few.

Witzer continued eating. He knew all the actions Kralius would do, considering that the goblin had spent much time with the carrier throughout these years. If any of the party had taken anything, Kralius would not object, for there was much food to give out. If a direct offensive action occurred, Kralius would show no mercy to those involved. The spitting, Witzer believed, was a personal offense to Kralius, considering that he was also a fine cook.

In the cooking world, as far as Witzer knew, spitting on a chef’s food meant extreme disrespect and insult. For a gentleman, a cooking duel with the insulter would settle things. For Kralius, flying fists would only suffice. He was only a gentleman when the other person was as well, and the people the two were dealing with deserved no respect from the beginning.

He had enough distractions. The fuse finally reached the base of the bomb and Kralius was about to explode. He gave a fair and simple warning to those around him, all seeming a bit hesitative to engage with him or the goblin.

“Ten seconds,” he said with a grim, morbid, and gruesome tone. His face, no longer one of merriness or happiness, turned sour; a glare which pierced the thickest of armor and left the manipulator helpless and without spirit or courage. None of the party understood the warning, so Kralius attempted to assist them.

“NINE,” he shouted. All but Witzer, who continued to eat, hopped up a bit. Perhaps they were getting closer to understanding what the carrier was about to do? It would be prudent to contemplate on the situation, for even though Kralius was a small-framed, skinny and short man, he was not to be underestimated. Looks are incredibly deceiving on his part.

Weapons were drawn. The expression on the people’s faces were mixed with anxiety, hesitation, or anger. Some wanted to fight, others to simply run away and never come back. Unfortunately, those who wished to do so did not receive the warning clearly, and would ultimately deal with physical suffering instead of mental.

Kralius’ eyes twitched. They moved considerably fast, all around the gang. His glare turned into such a twisted face of anger that his whole body seemed to have lapsed into a mild neurological disorder. His whole body was twitching somewhat, and it showed.

One brave buccaneer made his move towards the carrier. With a scimitar raised high, he attempted to end the confrontation with one simple swing of the blade. Kralius ensured that it would not end with only two unconscious or dead people lying on the floor.

Kralius looked up at the man. His anger turned into a massive amount of adrenaline. Everything went very slow… very easy to see. Movements all around him were ridiculously decipherable and each motion or twitch of the face was caught. Silence wrapped itself around him and seemed as if the moment would last for an eternity.

A moment passed and Kralius finally felt the side effects. Converting emotions into adrenaline was no easy task, for such a thing is regulated passively. The anger he converted was immense, and converting some of that anger into pure adrenaline was not possible for him at the moment; Kralius had not perfected the skill and could only convert either all or none of it.

But, the side effects could be life-threatening if not regulated carefully. Kralius’ heart began to give out sharp pains with each beat, and his muscles began to tighten. His brain felt as if it was going to rip in half, and his eye sockets burned like felfire. It was time to escape from his slow and painful world.

Everything began to slowly move quicker. The man, who was in mid air with his blade nearing Kralius, was only a few inches away. The pain in Kralius began to subside, but his time was wasted… it seemed.

Before everything returned to normal speed, Kralius had removed his throwing axe from its leather casing and flung it at the airborne man. The weapon caught the assailant in the arm and he cried out in pain, then grunted as he fell to the floor, arm bleeding profusely. His scimitar clanged several times a feet away from him.

Another attacker tried his luck. Before his weapon even fully rose up, the throwing axe was already in bound towards his forehead. It connected, and the man thudded onto the floor without a cry.

Kralius pulled on air, and the throwing axe magically began to fly back to him. The remnants of the party were baffled and shocked, clueless as to how he was manipulating the weapon. Kralius could only grin a wicked grin and keep the secret for himself.

The man who had lost a chunk of his arm stopped squirming, now still and unmoving. The other two pirates were still out cold, one being permanently with the reddened gash on his head. At this point, the members of the party finally understood Kralius’ message and ran off with their tails between their legs.

Witzer managed to satiate his appetite when Kralius finished beating down the buccaneers. Kralius buckled the throwing axe back into its leather case and patted himself down, ensuring that nothing was amiss. Witzer burped, then wipes his mouth with a napkin.

“You know,” Witzer said, piling up plates on the side of the table. “You could’ve done better if ya used yer arms. They’d have a tougher time tryin’ ta decipher what makes you hit hard like that.”

Kralius turned his head and smiled at the goblin. “First time was baffling enough.” He began to help clean off the scraps of the plates and assist Witzer in piling them up. The innkeeper offered rest for the night, which the two accepted. However, he took back his gift of gold that he gave Kralius to compensate for damages, but that was fine; Kralius had enough from Witzer to continue his work and buy any materials he needed for traveling. It would especially be helpful, for tomorrow was the day when his plan would be executed.

The busy day was hushed, and the inn was silent save for the crickets outside chirping happily. Kralius smiled to himself, to the darkness, as he laid there on his bed. The clock began the new day, but it was not time to rise; it was time to slumber. Even so, Kralius felt the need to begin his plan with a little phrase:

“Today is the day some pain goes away…”

=Chapter 3= A good night’s sleep was the kind of rest Kralius needed. After traveling and going through many events through the way, a body could welcome a stone bench as a magnificent bed to sleep on.

Morning dawned with blue skies and white clouds. Kralius squinted as he groggily walked out of the inn in Ratchet. He looked up to the sky and smiled helplessly. Today was the day some pain goes away…

Witzer stood by the man, scratching his ear and patting his gear-like backpack to ensure its security. He pressed one of the bumps of a gear, subsequently moving the other gears around when he turned it. The gears emanated click and clacking sounds as they spun around, then lost their momentum and stopped.

Kralius looked at the goblin with a fist rubbing an eye. Kralius wondered about Witzer, but he knew they each had their own secrets. Even though the two knew each other for years they had not discussed their abilities in combat; and even so, the thought never occurred to Kralius at all. It was possible that there was some sort of silent negotiation? That when the time came, one would display his abilities and it would be the other’s duty to pay the utmost attention to him. Nothing was said, but all was assumed, so both simply followed suit.

Witzer looked up at Kralius, noticing his glance. “You got a smile in yer mind,” he assumed, knowing full-well he was actually right. “What’s on today’s agenda?”

Kralius’ smile formed into a wicked grin. “Gonna go save some guy’s parents,” he disclosed. “Care to join me? I’m goin’ to Undermine.”

Witzer could not help but to chuckle aloud. Undermine was a secure place, full of thieves, merchant princes, mafia bands, and other assortments of villainy. Knowing much of Undermine, considering the fact that he had live there for years, Witzer decided it would be best to assist Kralius in whatever plot he was mustering up in his weird little mind.

Kralius exclaimed, sounding as if he remembered something important to mention. He shuffled his hand through his backpack and took out some sort of book, which had mangled coverings but was spotless otherwise. There was a lock on the book, so the secrets inside would not be exploited to the outside world.

“I can’t find this guy.” He fanned the book, then looked at it intriguingly. “I can’t find the guy who wanted me to find this other guy too! I call it the ‘bad luck book.’”

Witzer quirked his brows. “Can’t be,” he said, somewhat astonished. “You? Losin’ yer touch kid!”

Kralius flicked one of the tinker’s ears and they both chuckled in earnest. The carrier looked at the book again, baffled, then tossed it into his backpack. “Guess I’ll check back on it later…”

When Kralius motioned his head to the docks, he saw a commotion going on. There was a large crowd gathering at the pier, looking at a very large and sunken ship right in front of the pier. The event must have happened sometime soon because it was still on fire. Smoke was pouring out of the ship, up into the bright morning sky.

“Oh God damn it,” Kralius muttered to himself, extremely agitated at today. It was supposed to be a nice day and that destructive scene ruined the niceness.

Witzer tilted his head at the scene. “That’s odd… when did that happen?”

The innkeeper traversed up the hill and waved to them. They engaged in a small conversation and was informed about the event. Apparently, someone had sabotaged the ship’s landing with explosives late last night. Somebody, or some bodies, did not want to have their prey get away.

Kralius groaned, then rubbed his face in irritation. “I really don’t want to wait,” he admitted, still rubbing his face. “But I don’t want to go to my next assignment, either.”

“Got Horde business?” Witzer inquired. “Ain’t gonna be that bad! C’mon.”

“The Crossroads,” Kralius said with a bit of resentment. Of all places to go, going there was especially difficult, for it was a Horde outpost for observations.

Witzer led the way down the hill and Kralius followed with a hand over his face. Carrying for the Alliance was not as bad because he was among companions… most of the time. However, with Horde, not only did he not know anyone, but they were extremely suspicious of him. He hoped for the best with Witzer and followed him towards the road, towards the Crossroads.

“Don’t worry kid,” Witzer ensured. “They won’t lay a finger on ya as long as I’m here.”

Kralius took his words to heart and nodded. A breath of anxiety escaped him, and he looked at the little outpost from a mile away. Time to get this over with, he thought as they moved along the road. He felt a bit more at ease with a friend leading him through.

When they approached the leather tanned walls of the settlement, the guards were not too friendly. In fact, they had their weapons raised as the two approached, but Witzer let out a yell and waved them off like nothing.

“Touch’em ‘n yer fried, y’hear me!?” With that said, the guards backed off and the two are given admission into the settlement. Although, wary eyes were not deflected and Kralius still felt uneasy. Glares and stares stabbed Kralius, but he persevered as Witzer led the way.

It was a simple package of meat for the butcher, nothing too much for Kralius to handle. The three finally met and Kralius exchanged the package of meat for a sack of silver. The butcher, despite the glares still being cast, thanked the carrier for his work. Kralius smiled and nodded, but when he turned around he found the tip of a sword being pointed at his throat. It also caught the butcher off-guard and showed this was no ploy of some sort.

Some how, some way, before any word was delivered, the assailant had found himself flying through the air, screaming, and then silence as he hit the ground extremely hard, with a loud thud that permeated through the settlement. Kralius stared in astonishment as he found the Orcish attacker’s lower body sticking up from the ground. Two large and grey silvery claws slowly moved away from the body.

Kralius did not notice, but as he followed the wires and circuits and thing arms of the claws, Witzer was occupied in moving them back to him. Kralius finally took notice, and the claws folded into moving poles and returned to their home, back into Witzer’s “gearpack.”

Witzer smiled at him, then looked around for any other intrusions. “Let’s get movin’,” he said, leading the way before anyone else tried their hand at attacking the carrier. The glares and stares did not come by anymore and the two left without any further problems.

“Thanks for helping me,” Kralius said, rubbing his neck at his uneasiness. Witzer waved his thank away.

“No trouble at all. Just promise me you won’t freeze up like that.” Witzer grinned, and Kralius gave him a friendly tap to the head.

Ratchet was already in full view, and the smoke from the ship was gone. Kralius sighed. With the ship gone, the trip to Undermine would be delayed.

“I’m going back to bed. Where’re you gonna go?”

Witzer shrugged, then went off in a random direction. “I’ll be around, don’t worry. A tinker doesn’t do much other than toy with his inventions, y’know? Haha!”

Kralius snickered, then the two waved each other off. Witzer agreed to assist Kralius, but with the ship ruined it may take a few days before it would be replace or be functional once more. Kralius decided to go by this agenda and went back to bed in the inn.