Prison[edit | edit source]
Chapter 1[edit | edit source]
Night pulled its final strings upon the walls of Stormwind, creeping and edging across the grounds like a stalking cat. Pouring through the Command Center, it could slowly be seen fading as the pale moon cut through it.
The large building stood deftly in the Old Town District, harboring Crimson Hound soldiers, and scoundrels alike. Below the wooden floorboards of the common room, wearily held a jail cell of small proportions. Four 'sub-cells' were located inside, each having supplies and crates aplenty in them. The cells were dank, cramped, and usually stuffed with criminals.
One cell was apart from the others, though. In the darkest corner of the little room was hunched a tiny man, not but three feet tall. His slim chest moved up and back as he slept soundly against the beams of light. Noticeably, all the other cells were full but this one.
Yarlo Tollywobbits was in disarray. Not a month before he had attempted a break-out of a Hound, who had at the time been his lover and sentenced thief. Knowing he himself had done the crime, he tried to spring her out. This resulted in a gunfight, a stabbing, and mortal wounding of the Gnome. He now lay hunched across his little bed, his hand hanging in his water bowl lazily.
The gate to the cell swung free, entering a tall, dark haired man. Corporal Corsica glared down at Tollywobbits, his hand wrapped around the arm of a stooped old beggar. The Corporal threw the man into the room, shut and locked the gate, and sauntered off and out of the cells.
The man gasped with age, letting out a hacking cough which awakened the Gnome. Yarlo rubbed his eyes and peered at the fellow searchingly. Tollywobbits must seem an odd sight, bandages lacing his torso, his shirt ripped nearly to shreds, pants unpatched and torn, and a pair of hairy feet sticking from dirty old slippers. He tried to push further into the shadows. The old man finished coughing, watched what Yarlo was doing, and let out a laugh.
This laugh was unlike anything Yarlo had ever heard. More a gutteral lung pounding roar than a laugh, saliva shooting out in an arc from the man's mouth. The beggar stopped laughing at once, and pulled up the hood of his ragged poncho.