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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Slicket meets a new friend at a bar in Gadgetzan -- Winslet Rolfe. Stories are shared, and a new path begins. ~3200 words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
It's a peaceful day in Gadgetzan, or as peaceful as it ever gets in this part of the world. The sounds of the surf, the arguments of merchants, and the distant cheers of spectators at the caged fighting ring in the center of town are muted inside the stucco walls of the shady inn.
Inside, Slicket Throttleblast sits at the bar on a stool sized for someone in-between goblin and human. It's a one-size-fits-all stool, which means it's a little bit uncomfortable for everyone. Slick seems fine, though, his feet propped on a metal footrest sized for gnome or goblin height, and a cool blue drink with a little umbrella in his hand. He might be a guy who would stand out in Stormwind, with his general grime and his spiky red mohawk and piercings, but here he fits right in.
A woman and her dog stride into the tavern, briefly silhouetted by the bright sun outside before they slip into the darker interior. The dog is a jowly gray mastiff. The woman is young and fit, sleeves rolled up to show well-toned light brown arms. Her clothes are rugged and practical, but an ostentatious wealth of straight, heavy black hair falls unbound in a few directions over both shoulders and halfway down her back. Her eyes are large, long-lashed, and so black one can't distinguish pupil from iris.
She approaches the bar and deposits a hefty sack of coins onto it with a jingling thud.
"There," she says to the bartender. "Tab's paid. Now will you serve me?" Her accent, for those who recognize such things, is Gilnean.
The goblin opens the bag and via some preternatural goblin power seems able to divine the exact amount contained therein at a glance.
"Sure," he rasps. "That'll pay your tab and get you one ale. ONE, Rolfe. Any more and you better pay up front."
"Fine," says 'Rolfe,' and mounts a barstool two over from Slicket without even glancing at him. The dog sits at the barstool's feet, then after a moment, slides down into a reclining position.
Slicket glances over and raises his blue-umbrella glass to the long-lashed lady.
"Evenin'," Slicket says. "One of the more expensive ales I've seen around here. Having goblin troubles?"
The lady turns and blinks down at Slicket. "Kind of you to assume them's the trouble," she says, even as the bartender opens his mouth to interrupt. Once she at least implies fault, he closes it. "It's settled now, anyway," she goes on to reassure Slicket, "in case you was thinkin' of playin' white knight." She eyes him up and down, mostly down. "Somefing tells me you could probably beat up a man twice your size, to say nuffing of this pipsqueak 'ere."
The pipsqueak in question seems to take no offense, now that he has been paid his sweet, sweet coins. He resumes organizing the bottles behind the bar.
"Yeah, not that I aim to, nice night like this," Slicket says, looking up at her with a level of confidence that might imply they're the same height. "I also spent a lot of years around goblins, and I know their culture can catch people off guard sometimes. I have this pandaren friend, sweet lady, excellent cook, but we had to steer her away from all the 'amazing deals'. Flagged you as maybe new to the scene. Or well, new-er."
"I wish I 'ad that excuse," she says. "Been livin' 'ere about a year an'alf now. Goblins 'ave their tricks, yeah, but even back in Gilneas, you don't pay your tab long enough, they stop servin' you drinks. Just 'ow it goes." She drags her ale mug closer and gives Slicket a lopsided smile.
Slicket grins back. "Guess you're right… that's like, about as long as your people have been in the Alliance, yeah? Settled here direct?"
The woman stares into her drink for a moment. Then she takes a long pull from it before setting it back down. She drags the back of her hand across her mouth, then turns back to Slicket.
"More or less," she says. Her black eyes are steady on his as she says evenly, "By way of Northwatch."
Slicket winces sympathetically. "Yeah, I heard about what happened up there. Bad business there, with the Horde and the elemental stuff. We've taken it back, but… sorry for your loss, if any of your folk stuck around." He pauses for a solemn sip of his umbrella drink. "I didn't realize any of the Gilnean ships came to this side of the continent, but I guess it is closer."
"Long, ugly story is what it is," the woman says soberly, and then proceeds to get slightly less sober before continuing. "You're a gnome, yeah? Engineer, I'm guessing? I'm Winslet by the way. Winslet Rolfe."
"Slicket Throttleblast, gnome," Slicket nods, finishing off the last of his drink with a flourish. "Definitely gnome. And I do tinker now and again, but not quite an engineer like my parents. Used to be a rocket car pilot up on the flats, before…" he pauses. "I guess you never saw the flats. Anyway, these days my tinkering is mostly limited to mechanostriders — I'm a mercenary."
"I'm gonna 'ave to ask what a mechanostrider is," says Winslet. "I'm gettin' a picture, but why guess?"
"You don't know mechanostriders?" Slicket says, his eyes widening as he leans up onto the bar, his mohawk waving dangerously. "I almost envy you, getting to learn about 'em for the first time. You know those birds they have up in the Barrens? I take it you came through there. Plainstriders? Imagine those, but…" he spreads his hands like he's displaying a marvel, "…made of metal."
Winslet laughs. "Well that ain't what I was imaginin,' but it's 'alf again as barmy, so I ain't sorry I asked. Sounds like a blast. Maybe lit'rally, if you don't tinker it right. So what are you mercenaryin' around 'ere now?" She runs a finger across her throat to illustrate what she means by mercenaryin'. "Orcs?" Her eyes light up a little at the thought.
Slicket lowers his voice and leans towards her to say, "Goblins, most recent. Not these lot, but the Bilgewaters. Ran into a whole shipwreck of 'em down south, gone all violent." He straightens a little to say with clear pride, "I'm with Cobalt Company."
Winslet leans back, eyes wide, and lets out a low whistle.
"Well, well," she says. "Lucky you. Little Mr. Big Shot!" She grins. "Nice gig if you can get it. They scooped up some of ours right off. Grave'owls, you know, big damn 'eroes. Plus some random courier used to work for my pal Robin. Not sure what 'e did to catch their notice, but good on 'im I guess."
"Oh, yeah?" Slicket says with a wide answering grin. "Guess it helped that I joined up with the Captain's stepdaughter, though we didn't know that at the time. She's good with words, better than I am anyway. I think I worked with one of those Gravehowls — harvest witch who was helping out over in Westfall." He pauses, considering her curiously. "You joined up with a mercenary company around here? I'm gonna be here at least another week or so, we might cross paths."
Winslet shakes her head. "Nah, I'm on my own. Was a fur trapper an' leather trader back in Gilneas, an' it's the kind of business you can get goin' most anywhere. I been gettin' by all right mostly, payin' rent month to month with what I can skin off the local beasties. Got a damn fine lion pelt just last week, mane an' all. Not sure why that goblin was so keen to get one, but he paid through 'is ring-jinglin' nose."
"Ah, I feel a little bad for all those hyenas we killed," Slicket says with a laugh. "Didn't realize we'd be depleting the local resources. You must be a damn good tracker to find something like a lion, though. And who can say, with goblins? Maybe he wanted a fancy coat. Anyway, I wasn't a big damn hero when I joined up. I was mostly a pilot without a car after the flats flooded, just a bruiser looking for the next thing."
Winslet tilts her head quizzically. "So 'ow'd you get em to - OH, right, you said the cap'n's stepdaughter got you in. Must be nice." Winslet smiles wryly, but lifts her mug toward him, indicating that she respects the game.
"Well… we didn't know she was the stepdaughter at the time. It was a big whole drama, actually, long-lost and all that," Slicket explains. "But coming in with a priestess probably didn't hurt. They're also a bit more open than you'd think, to be honest. Strict about some things, but pretty willing to give a person a chance to prove themselves."
"Some people maybe," Winslet says with a resigned half-smile. "I've already proven meself plenty. Proven I'm a bit of a disaster, is what." Her dark eyes are a bit wistful, though.
"Hear hear," grumbles the bartender.
Slicket looks at her curiously, raising one hand idly to straighten the tip of his mustache.
"I'll offer you a trade," he says, and then a little hastily — because maybe he's realized half a dozen ways that could be taken the wrong way — continues, "I'll buy the next round, if you'll tell me your story. Or you know, not all of it, but a round's worth. I'm wondering how a girl like you from a place like Gilneas ended up so far in the hole to a goblin bar."
"I'll give you the short version," she says, "and you can decide if it's werf payin' for. Me an' me family ran a nice leather goods shop in Gilneas City. Worgen wreck the place, kill everyone, I survive but get cursed. Same story as most worgen up till evacuation. Most ships make it to magical elfyland; ours gets boarded by orcs. Big fight. Ship sinks. Maybe four of us survive, make it to Northwatch. The rest stay there but I ain't like the place so I come 'ere where they say pretty much anyone can do business if they got somefing to sell. It's warm, it's sunny, people buy hides, so I stay. The bar tab? No story there. Just kept spendin me coin an' forgettin' where I owed it."
She takes another big swig from her current glass, which is nearly empty. Then she sets down the glass.
"Barely werf a copper innit?" she says, then belches softly behind her hand.
"Eh, I don't know," Slicket says with a sympathetic smile. "I was about to get another Gilblin Delight, so I may as well keep my end of the bargain."
Slicket gestures to the barkeeper, who looks like he's re-evaluating the gnome's credibility. And possibly gullibility. And then, finally, the weight of his coin purse.
"Sorry for your loss, like I said before. I can give you mine with the next round, but my story's probably a little less dramatic. Just involves the usual stuff, like secret mountain labs and salt flat racing and cataclysms," Slicket shrugs. "I can see why you're keen on killing orcs, but there's not so many of 'em this far south. What're you having, another ale?"
"Well if you're buyin, Mr. Cobalt, get me somefing fancy," she says with a grin. "I dunno what's good 'ere. Wouldn't mind hearin' about that racin' bit. We never 'ad anyfing like that back 'ome. Racin' needs open spaces, yeah? Gilneas, Light love 'er, well - anyplace that isn't gray crags an' cliffs has trees crowdin' like kids in a candy shop."
"Yeah, not so much if you live in a mountain, either," Slicket says with a laugh. "So I know what closed in feels like. Hey, give us two Gilblins? I'm paying."
The barkeeper shrugs and heads to make the drinks.
"It's some kind of cactus fruit in it, great flavor. And not like that other cactus tea," Slicket explains, perhaps unhelpfully. "But racing… I always loved the salt flats of the Mirage Raceway. Felt like you could see clear across the region, and maybe ride it without even a bump. Had a good setup, too, the team I was on was gnomish, and the other outfit goblin. It was a good rivalry, one sharpening the other, always some maneuvering going on, on the track or off it." Slicket's voice goes a bit wistful as he talks, his memories already taking on a rosy quality. "Anyway, that's all underwater now. Literally, Deathwing's whole thing flooded the place permanently. And left me with a debt that I've only just got clear of. Poorly timed catastrophic flood, really."
Winslet listens while eagerly watching the bartender prepare their drinks. When he sets hers down, she takes a sip and nods approvingly, then listens to the rest of Slicket's summary.
"Oh, I feel that," she says. "Was like that wif Dusk'aven. Earf split open and water poured right in, floodin' the place. Damn dragon. But e's dead now right? Or so I 'ear."
"Ah… yeah, I guess a wall wouldn't stop the Cataclysm," Slicket says with a sympathetic wince, as he throws back a big gulp of his own Gilblin. "He's dead now though, for sure — I helped. Maybe not directly, like the folk exploding his plates off while they hung on midflight. But I did help defend Wyrmrest Temple. Mercenarying takes a person to the damnedest places. Good ones, too, sometimes. I like it here, and in Stranglethorn."
Winslet sighs wistfully, tapping a fingertip on the rim of her glass. "I don't suppose if you told Cobalt I was a keen tracker an' trapper wif a good eye for people-behavior, a top-notch dog-" here the mastiff lifts its head and whuffs softly - "an' good aim with a rifle, they'd consider takin' me on?"
Slicket looks at her, the rifle, and then the top-notch dog. "You know… they might. They're always looking for good people, and all of that sounds useful. Bit better than me, if I'd been doing my own promotion. Good in a fight, tough as nails, can trick up a vehicle like no one else, maybe. And there was — at least there used to be a detective team. The Eye or something like that. Cobalt does investigations sometimes, not just beating heads."
"Oh yeah? Well… maybe I'll…" She hesitates. "So what do I do, then? If I want to try out or… whatever it is they do? Do I just go to the - where would I go?" She shifts on her barstool.
Under her chair, the dog pushes itself up to a sitting position and whines.
"S'awright, Bailey," she says, reaching down to scritch the mastiff's wrinkly head. "Just a little nervous is all. Ain't nuffing wrong for real."
"Oh, uh… probably Ironforge?" Slicket says, scratching his beard. "That's where the headquarters are, anyway. That's pretty far, though. You could always write to Captain Sparkwire — she's the one whose stepdaughter's out here, Natlee. Or hang around a little and I bet Cerethan or Glyphe could make you a portal. They're mages, which… you probably guessed from the portal comment. Though Cerethan's a bit in and out these days, thanks to this ritual so… yeah, probably Glyphe's your best bet."
"Glyphe, what a name," Winslet says, delighted. "Born wif it? Or is it one of those, 'Oh, I'm a mage now, I should come up with somefing mysterious' sort of deals?"
"You know, I'm not sure?" Slicket says thoughtfully, with another little gulp of Gilblin. "She's a Tinkerspell, which is definitely her specialty. Heck of an engineer, too — much better than I am with bombs and such. Might be a family tradition, mage-ing and the names, too. Easy to spot, she's probably one of the prettiest gnomes here, with Natlee and Kelsey."
"Oh, a gnome! I guess that 'elps explain the name. At least your names ain't quite so bad as goblins'."
The bartender clears his throat loudly.
"I mean bad for a 'uman to remember," she backpedals, "since we got our own nonsense name rules that are all different."
The bartender seems somewhat mollified.
"Anyway, could you tell 'er for me? Tell 'er you met a charmin' lass in Gadgetzan could use an Ironforge portal? Uh… how will I get back when 'm done though?" She shifts on the bar stool again subtly.
"Sure, I'll tell her," Slicket nods, and then considers the next question. "To get back… hm, I don't know, you got a hearthstone? Or guess there's always the boat."
Winslet shifts again, and Bailey whines. "I'll… I'll figure it out, I guess," she says. "Worst case uh… maybe they need pelts in Ironforge?" She tries on a smile.
"Bet they would, yeah," Slicket says easily. "Its all mountains and snow up that way, outside Ironforge itself. Good place for wearing furs."
"Awright, I'll do it," Winslet says. "Bout time for a change of scenery. Okay if I tell em you sent me?"
"No problem," Slicket says. "I can mostly vouch you're a good pal for a drink so far, but having a reference is bound to make it easier to get an ear. That is, get their attention."
"I can get ears, too, if they need 'em," Winslet says with a wink.
Slicket laughs. "I don't doubt it. But probably words are gonna be more persuasive than ears, at least to start with. That'd be what Nat'd tell you, if she were here."
"And who's Nat?" Winslet tips her head.
"Oh, sorry, that's one of the things I call Natlee — the priestess, Captain's stepdaughter," Slicket explains. "Like a nickname."
"Ah, right, of course," Winslet says. "Shoulda tracked that one. I don't really do nicknames anymore meself. If Winslet's too long they can use Rolfe. So should I just 'ang around the bar until your mage friend shows? They ain't let me 'ave a mailbox 'ere."
"Yeah, she'll be around," Slicket says with confidence. "We were planning to check out some titan digs down to the south sometime this week, so I know she's still in the area. Just keep an eye out for a gnomish chick with rad silver hair. I'll point her towards you when I get a chance."
Slicket tosses back the rest of his drink. He has a surprising tolerance for alcohol, for such a little guy.
Winslet seems to be savoring hers a bit, now that she's chugged down her cheap ale.
"Fanks for the boot in the arse," she says to Slicket with a grin. "I've been gatherin' dust 'ere a bit too long for no other reason than it's where the wind dropped me. Probably about time I make a decision of some kind, yeah? For all I know I'm immortal now, and at the very least I didn't die wif all the rest, so I better start figurin' out what I wanna do with the rest of all this life I ended up wif."
"Always takes a while for a rock to start rolling again, when it's dropped off a cliff," Slicket says, saluting her with his glass. "I didn't find the next thing for a while either, after I lost my home and work. But there's something to be said for surviving the fall, right?" He grins. "It works out, next round's on you, next time we meet. Deal?"
"Deal," says Winslet, and raises her glass.