The Murlocs

I'm sure there are a good amount of World of Warcraft players out there besides me who hate the Murlocs. It got me thinking about the premise behind this story.



Gramm the warrior rode hard into the Lakeshire on his magnificently caparisoned mount, scattering humble citizens and young adventurers alike along the boardwalk facing the scenic lake. Clad head to toe in dark iron plate, all angular projections and rippling waves of crafted metal across his chest, he pulled his helm off of his head and squinted up at the afternoon sun while his charger reared high upon hind legs.

He was a magnificent sight, attracting admiring stares from many in the lakeside town. But he seemed not to notice.

"Boy," he called out to a lad next to the inn. As the lad hurried up to him (though not too near that horse pawing the air with its front hooves), the warrior tossed him a gold coin. The lad's eyes widened at the object in his palm.

"A tankard of the tavern's best ale for me, and keep the change," the warrior's deep voice commanded. The lad stood staring slack-jawed at him for a second, and then took off running as fast as his legs could carry him through the door of the inn, nearly bowling over a startled fisherman who was just leaving.

The lad returned a minute later, a brimming tankard clutched in both of his hands. The Warrior, who had been surveying the vista across the lake, took it and quaffed the ale down in one long, gulping draught. Wiping his mouth upon the back of his glove, he hurled the tankard into the lake, and then spoke, to both everyone and no one in particular:

"Today is the beginning of the end of the Murloc race."

~~~

After the warrior had rode off to the east of town along the lake's shore, a small group of townfolk gathered to gossip.

"Seem's he's taken a vow I reckon," said a blacksmith.

"I seen him some years back when we wasn't so high an' mighty," a fisherman said. "He passed through here lookin' worse for the wear."

"Do tell!" exclaimed a clerk. "Perhaps he will rid us of the aforementioned amphibian actors."

"The what?" said an old man.

"The Murlocs," said the clerk, somewhat crossly.

"Oh, the Murlocs, of course," the old man muttered. "That reminds me. I better get going. Work to do, you know."

The clerk scowled at him.

~~~

Gramm rode along the shore of the red sandy landscape. 'Blasted grit,' he growled, rubbing his eyes.

Redridge was a geographic outcrop of reddish sandstone near the Elwynn Forest. It was not known for its tourist appeal. Tribes of orcs and gnolls plagued its upper reaches, and of course, there was the Murlocs.

Murlocs, Gramm said in a silent snarl.

Gramm was a jaunty lad years ago when he came on foot, adventuring in Redridge. He left with a scar along the ribs that ached in rainy weather, and the taunts of other warriors ringing in his ears.

It was that damned tribe of creatures in their lakeside huts,Gramm thought. I was merely in search of plunder and renown-

They are a plague upon civilization!

He scanned the east after topping a rise.

There. The huts.

I'll start here, Gramm thought grimly.

He rode ahead, loosening his sword in his sheath over his shoulder.

He dismounted and tied his horse to a bush behind a rocky outcrop, then strode forward, unsheathing his sword.

The sword was a long, dual-edged hand-an-a-half blade that glowed with a silvery glint, even in broad dayllight. Wrested from the loot found in a mage's tower, it had served him well for a year now, always keeping its edge.

A honking bellow went up from the huts. Small colorful finned figures scuttled to and fro, clutching sticks and nets.

Gramm laughed at them. He was a renowned warrior now, very skilled and well-equipped. He advanced into the small tumbledown hamlet.

An eerie high-pitched horn sounded behind him. He turned, seeing a Murloc blowing through a large shell.

A stick glanced off his shoulder.

It was actually a javelin, but it was harmless. Gramm walked forward among the huts with their piles of fishbones, wrinkling his nose in disgust-

Nets flew from several huts, entwining about his legs.

As Gramm slashed free of the nets, a swarm of the multicolored beasts jumped upon him, stabbing with knives. He kicked one, crushing the life out of it, and hacked another in half. But the others were gripping his body now, their knives seeking chinks in his strong armor-

He felt the sting of drawn blood.

He roared and tossed Murlocs left and right with his free hand, stomping them into the dust with his boots. He sliced them to quivering bits with his blade.

More high, thin horn calls were sounding nearby. He looked around and saw several groups of Murlocs running towards him with their peculiar loping gate.

Gramm straightened into a warrior's fighting stance and hefted his blade, awaiting them. The stings where the daggers had found him were burning a bit; his muscles felt leaden, arms tiring of holding his weapon.

When the flurry of nets wrapped around him, he reacted slowly this time to slash them, fumbling as the javelins arced through the air at him.

~~~

The old man walked along the shore, complaining to himself about his aches and pains, the uneven landscape, and the climate. He leaned upon a walking stick as he moved carefully.

"Heard them horns yesterday," he muttered. "Should be over."

Rounding an outcrop of rocks, he came within sight of a Murloc hamlet. A pile of Murloc corpses lay near one hut. He imagined the hamlet's treasure chest stuffed with coin, armor, a glowing blade-

He shook his head and walked away. He was no fool to get any closer.

"Here we are," he said, finding the trail of hoofprints. He walked around the rocks until he heard the whinny of the horse.

"Now now, stallion! Here's some nice apples for ye. You like apples, I'm sure!"

The horse stared at him, nostrils flaring. But it had not eaten nor drank in a day, and was eager for the apples the old man proffered.

The old man gradually came closer and won over the warhorse. Not much later, he led the animal back to Lakeshire, leading him around behind the blacksmith's shoppe.

"There's some good gear here," the blacksmith said, looking through the saddlebags. Horse, tack, gear, call it 2 gold pieces."

"Worth much more!" The old man groused.

"Of course it is. I can sell him to a shady character I know. We don't want questions being asked, or angry relatives showing up. Would hate to lose a going concern, you know."

"Going concern?" said the old man.

"The Murlocs," replied the blacksmith.

"Oh, the Murlocs, of course," the old man said.

A Dwarf and his Keg

Dunborne is a Dwarf Engineer in Warhammer Online. Yes, he is over the top.



The squat engineer, dressed in a greasy blue padded jerkin, bent over the grenade turret, spanner in hand. A tall, regal-looking but somewhat nervous Elf stood behind him.

"Now jest like I tole you when we were lookin' for that Gavin Sherer, 'anytime them camp officers send ya out ta find some human what's lost his way, might as well start lookin' fer the body in the grass, 'cause you'n me both know that Norsca be fulla the clueless'. And was I right? Was I right, laddie? Didn't we find him trussed up like a plump sausage in that spider den? HAH!" A raven lighted out of a nearby pine tree, flapping wildly for the horizon at the explosive punctuation of the Dwarf's story. "More'n half the people they send me out ta find have met their Maker." The Dwarf unscrewed a bolt with a grunt.

"Master Dwarf," the Archmage said, unconsciously straightening his fancy robes with nervous fingers, "we seem to be awfully close to the brigand camps..."

"Basket of food, crate of swords, now- the keg a whiskey," the Dwarf said with an alarmingly white grin that split his oil-streaked face. "That there camp seems ta have a keg next to the big tent. See how it has a guard sitting next to it. Now THAT is whiskey or I'm a Goblin!"

The Elf nodded his head in a convulsive birdlike spasm.

"Now ye might not have much experience with whiskey," the Dwarf turned to the Elf and laughed, a booming sound that rolled over the grass, startling a deer in the brambles. "'course ya don't, bein' whatcha are. Stick with me an' it'll all be well..."

The Archmage in his impeccable robes looked worriedly as He saw a brigand sentry staring at them in the distance, his mouth hanging open. The sentry turned and strode quickly towards the camp of tents, built around a central fire.

"This be a Mark IV Grenade Projector, mass-produced in Ekrund by Dwarven craftsmen," the Dwarf said in an over-loud voice. "I call her Henrietta. She be a sturdy piece a machinery, but they've always had issues with a smooth feed in fast-operation mode!"

The Elf cringed at the Engineer's deep rumbling voice as he belted out a series of technical improvements that were needed. As the sentry reached the central fire and tossed a thumb over his shoulder towards them, he saw heads turn in their direction by those gathered around the fire.

"Lord Dunborne! It appears that we have been noticed-"

The Dwarf snorted loudly and with such force that the Archmage readied a heal. "I be no lord, laddie," the Dwarf said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, rearranging the grime located there. "Talk to them fancy-pants merchants what sit in the mountain-fortresses and issue proclamations all day long without puttin' in an honest day's tinkering like your hands-on Engineers do..."

The Elf was alarmed now to see a group of brigands gather at the fire, preparing their weapons as the gazed incuriously at the two interlopers.

"Now, as I was sayin'-" Dunborne shot the Archmage a black look for the interruption- "that the Mark IV's biggest issue has been the longish fuse required a the ammo. What good is a grenade turret when your enemies are aswarmin' all over ya and it's projectin' rounds that lay there in the grass for precious seconds before explodin?" The Dwarf rapidly unscrewed grenades and tossed out short fuses as he bellowed out his mechanical version of The Way Things Should Be, a practical philosopher with black crud under the fingernails.

"You're- you're taking out the fuses?" the Elf said in an alarmed voice. He gaped at the approaching brigands, grins on their faces, weapons at the ready.

"OK laddie! Ready them heals now!" The Engineer slammed shut the launcher cover and flipped the main switch. The turret buzzed and spun, acquiring targets. The Dwarf hefted his black-powder rifle, squinted down the barrel fiercely and jerked the trigger, the huge roar of the buckshot round causing the brigands to cower back as they were showered with hot
bits of bolts and shot.

The Elf waved his arms in a frenzy, blue energy swirling around him, as the grenades clunked out of the short stubby barrel of the launcher, tumbling into the crowd-

There was an immediate huge series of explosions, brigands vanishing in the blasts as the grenades exploded nearly as soon as they left the barrel. The launcher fell over onto its side, turret spinning wildly. The clouds of choking gray fumes covered the suddenly-silent field.

"AHAHAHAHA!" the Dwarf emerged from the thinning smoke, covered in soot, tunic ragged from shrapnel hits. He hefted the whiskey keg on his shoulder, turned the stopper, and craned his neck so that the flow of brown liquor ran directly into his mouth.

"You're- you're INSANE!" the Elf sputtered. "Never have I seen such a crazed display of-"

The Mark IV Grenade Launcher buzzed loudly on the ground, its feed tray clicking as it attempted to feed more shells.

The Elf shouted in fear and ran as fast as his dignity and flowing robes would allow him across the field.

"Elves," Dunborne said, wiping his mouth with his filthy sleeve. "Well, it worked agin. Time to add another keg to the wagon, Henrietta!" The Dwarf sat down the keg with a grunt and started to lovingly disassemble his Mark IV.