Bar Fights and White Knights

There are places you just don't go.

In Ironforge, you just don't go to Old Ironforge. We adventurers don't, anyway. Only dwarves go there, and not your run-of-the mill, or even your elite adventurers. No, only the "pure," old-school dwarves who know the old ways and the secret words go there. Only those who aren't "tainted" by the influence of other races and ideologies. The Holy Light and the quest for true knowledge of the Titans are not subjects discussed in the old tunnels. The Bronzebeards aren't popular among those who inhabit this place, but to their credit their adherence to tradition brings with it the maxim, "the King is the King." They don't take arms against a king whose right is proven lawfully.

They do take arms against nosy humans who ask quesitons about them, though. I have the bruises to prove it, though you should see the other guy. He's a dwarf. And... he has a beard. Yeah... I got surprised and the shit beat out of me.

The dwarf I'm looking for is one of the priests of the old ways, of storm and stone and fire and river. They call him Stormwarden for his mastery, and my information puts him most times in a place common to any part of Ironforge: a bar. Down a few levels, but still serving Barleybrew and Thunderbrew. Lager, stout, or ale, the drink is a common language more than any babble of the lips for dwarves; that's why I have several of their delivery staff on a reasonable retainer for information. They wouldn't sell me the locations of the old ways or the words to be let in - not that a human saying them would mean anything - but there are other options.

"Fifty meters straight down it is," says Findle Whistlesteam. "Er, or straight up, or maybe sideways... do be careful. You know how inexact space-folding science is these days, correct? I wouldn't recommend using this anywhere dangerous. Or jostling it much. Or holding it anything other than perfectly level when in use."

"Don't sweat it," and I hand him the money, taking the circular metal transporter from him. "Actually, can't you make a receiver plate for it?"

"Oh, well, you never said... yes, that makes it much easier! In fact, I have those on hand, just let me calibrate the two together!" The gnome grabs the plate back from me, as well as the money, and more money I held out as I suggested it. I spend five minutes resisting the urge to touch any of the spinning, sparking, or glowing things in his workshop until he comes back and hands me the original metal plate (with a strange dongle on a spring now) and another one which looks like a cog without a machine to live in. "There you go, should be workable well beyond fifty meters!"

"Will solid stone interfere?"

"Heavens no! But magical fields or thick metals would bounce you right back."

"Good to know," I say with an offhanded salute. "I'll tell you how it works out."

"Splendid! It's always good when a customer comes back! Otherwise, well, I have to assume the worst..."

I try to pretend I didn't hear that last part as I leave. My Barleybrew contact is willing to take the receiver into the bar's storage room for a hefty extra fee, and then because I told him it was a recording device to let me hear a conversation. I can't pretend that's even halfway true, but I'm not on a mission of mercy here. They say all's fair in love and war, and I intend to kill the Stormwarden, Galen Styx.

There are hours of the day even dwarves sleep. I make sure to be up during some of them to prepare my way. Then I hide out. I wait. I nap. I thank the Light for the reverberating hour-tolling audible even down here from the great horn of Ironforge. He should be inside now.

Levering myself up out of my shadowed hiding spot, I mutter a Word and activate the tokens which call my armor, sword, and shield. Dwarves in the street see me get up, and stop, aghast that a human would be here, in this tunnel. They stay frozen when they see my arms, and realize my intent. Most scatter, except a few hard ones with weapons and armor of their own, who band together in front of the bar I'm aiming for.

"Get out of my way," I tell them, pointing my sword at the door. "Galen Styx is the only one I want. The rest of you don't have to die today."

One spits at my feet. "You think we'll let you waltz in and kill our priest?"

"The Stormwarden is holy," a second agrees. "And you're about to be full of holes."

"Suit yourselves," I shrug. I take the teleporter off my belt and set it down, then take out a match, and strike it. "You might want to duck."

They charge me. I toe the activation button, and drop the match. One dwarf tackles me to the ground, then the bar explodes. The other three dwarves are sent flying, the shockwave not losing much compression in the tunnel, so they slam into the far wall and are pelted with debris. The one atop me takes a chunk of rock to the cranium for me, and I push him off so I can stand up once the moment of carnage is over. These four, armored, outside the bar, are alive - barely. Most inside are not so fortunate. I pick my way through the rubble I've created, grimacing. I'm no engineer, and I couldn't bring one with me. My choices on explosives were "lots" or "not enough." I just hope the roof doesn't collapse on me.

"You're crazy," comes a voice, and a cough, cough! That tells me the Stormwarden isn't dead. He pushes a slab of stone off himself, sitting up. "I'd heard you were some kind of white knight, Niall. Defending the weak. What are you doing here, blowing up my bar, killing civillians?"

"All's fair in love and war," I say, and step on Galen's chest, stomping him to the ground so his breath whuffs out of him. "You nearly killed the woman I love, so I took that as an act of war."

"Don't worry," he moans, and tries to push my foot off him. "I won't be trying a second time! I'll have a hard enough time just cleaning up after this disaster..."

"Ah, but I must now consider you a mortal enemy, because you took it upon yourself to attack me and mine. This ends now, no matter what you say."

"Don’t be ridiculous, that was a paid job...!"

"No matter what you say!" I stomp his chest again, growling. "There is only one way to make sure I, and my fiance, can sleep sound at night now and it’s your fault I have to do it!"

"Wait, wait, wait! There is no - NO!"

His head rolls down the pile of rubble.

I turn and walk back to the street. I check the thugs who stopped me outside, and find one twitching. I pick him up, and shake him until he groans at me to stop, then push him up against the tunnel wall and growl, "You listen to me. Anyone who messes with Minna Moonsong will bring the same on themselves. I've got no qualms about killing crooks and thugs, and you've got no court to take me to. You spread the word: my vengeance may not be swift, but it has a long memory."

"Don't kill me," He croaks. I let him down.

"No sweat, Charley," I smirk. "I don't shoot my own messenger."

But I do kick him in the balls.

I gather my (wrecked) destination pad, and hearth home. Message delivered. That loose end should be tied enough... for now.