[IC Storyline] The Stormwrecked Shipment

Moon Guard
1

Rain thundered from overhead as Flywheel hurried along a worn stone road, decorated in shallow puddles. Her hair, robes, and soft-soled shoes were soaked through to her green skin, clinging like bedraggled bedsheets as she stoicly persevered through the poor conditions.
“Someone is going to pay for this stuff up, I swear!” Flywheel muttered grumpily, as a spray of water flicked up and shot her right into her eye. “Arrrrgh! Stupid…trike. Getting stuck in the stupid…mud!”

Blinking and trying to see through the sheets of rain, Flywheel suddenly pulled up short. A shadowy hooded figure loomed in the distance, next to a crop of trees marking the edge of Silverpine Forest. The person was carrying a large wooden crate, and they appeared to be loading it onto a wagon that was drawn by two large horses.

Flywheel gasped in disbelief.

Alliance…here, in Forsaken territory? It couldn’t be! Then again, in these desperate times, she should have known there would be looters. The Horde was without a warchief. What consequence would there be for stealing supplies? The Horde army was in tatters, and even the Bilgewater Battalion couldn’t rally a formidable force if the Alliance chose to attack.

Was this mysterious figure acting under official orders, or was it simply a opportunistic thief?

Flywheel pulled out some Xtra-High Power Zoom 34B binoculars from the soggy satchel at her hip, and peered through them. Yes, that was the Alpha-Bravo azerite shipment alright. She could see the black grinning goblin stamp on the sides of the crates through the binoculars (although, admittedly, everything was pretty fuzzy in the pelting rain). Nevertheless, Flywheel was confident the location was correct from her calculations.

The priestess was about to approach the hooded figure and give him or her a solid piece of her mind, when a voice of reason suddenly hit her like a hammer in the chest. What if this person was armed, or dangerous? How would they react to being caught stealing? Flywheel paused, feeling conflicted. She was a negotiator and an executive, not a mercenary! Yet, she grit her teeth in determination. She had not come all this way only to write off valuable stock!

Stealing her nerves, she began to close the gap. Stopping about 15ft from the wagon, Flywheel called out in broken common tongue, “You there! What do ya think ya doin’ with those crates?”

(OOC: This is the beginning of an open cross-faction IC storyline. If you would like to participate, simply post a reaction on the appropriate character. This may develop in to actual in-game RP, depending on the responses.)

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2

It had taken some months, a touch of enchanting, and some of the toughest material available on Azeroth in order to make the hazard suits capable of penetrating the blight of Undercity. It would take either a miracle by the most powerful casters in the realm or the collective whole of Gnomish science in order to cleanse the deadly green fog that clung to Undercity, for now, any activities inside would be restricted to small penetration teams. The prizes were worth it however to the Gnome, Staniwick Felmeter, who stood in his robes and wearing a Stormpike R&D breather as a crowbar worked at the second crate.

The first crate was Azerite, some of the original stock that had been pulled from Site #1 in Silithus. While officially Orgrimmar and Teldrassil were the official repositories of collected Azerite, most every major city at least had some of the crystallized miracle in their laboratories and academies. The titan’s blood was the equivalent to the ‘Ever Sticky Sticker’ by Allied Enterprises - have a hole in your water tank? Use this piece of black adhesive… have a hole in your belly? Pour some Azerite in your stomach and it seals right up.

The other crate that was opened in front of the Gnome were some beloved relics of the Draenor campaign. M1 Snub-nose Iron Rifles. They were even painted green, a relief to the Gnome, it was a pain to retouch paint on the rifles.

The Gnome stood amongst a crew of Humans on that rainy night. His eyes, purple with flecks of green fel, looked at the youngest of those who followed the Gnome into the region.

“Caulski, is it? You’re new, but I heard you say after the money from this run you’ll be able to marry your girlfriend or boyfriend… you have someone waiting for you at home, right?” The Gnome thought he heard the growl of an engine in the distance, the thunder had muddled everything.

“Yeah, Delilah… she’s not only the prettiest bar maid in Old Town, she’s… well… she’s pregnant with our first child,” Caulski said, he was young and fresh faced. Probably one of the last of the fresh faces to make it through the Blood War.

“Yeah, my advice is keep a lot of that under the collar. You saying that, you might as well be poke a Stranglethorn tiger in the eye with a stick. Speaking of Stranglethorn,” Staniwick gestured at the two crates - Azerite and Rifles, “We need these shipments delivered by next week to Booty Bay. That’s where the Pandaren of Red Bamboo will pick them up. As far the world is concerned, the Bamboo is an independent criminal gang made of both Horde and Alliance aligned Islanders- they will be paying us Venture Company diamonds and in turn sell these guns to the Defias Onslaught who are attempting to start a new republic in Stranglethorn. Consequently, their attacks will be directed at Grom’gol and the Venture Company and it keeps our collective Alliance hands clean…”

One of the other Humans, Magillicuddy was what Staniwick thought his name was, old grizzled beard noted dryly: “What an odd place to discuss our multi-stage operation.”

“Hey! I’m trying to impress on the lad how serious this is, you understand, right Caulski?” Staniwick said.

“What are we doing with the diamonds?” Caulski asked, lightning flashed, illuminating the world in a brief period. He could see the eyes of the four men working under him. The job had only a vague sanction by official heads of state and contributed a new phase of conflict with the Horde. One done in a vaguely hand’s off manner. A proxy war.

“I’ll take care of the diamonds. We need to wash them anyway, so those will go into the Bank of Alterac. As usual, we wash the money there-”

“You there! What do ya think ya doin’ with those crates?”

Staniwick heard a style and cadence of voice that he had dealt with since leaving Gadgetzan. He turned on his heel to see a Goblin in the near distance, slightly obscured by the veil of constant rain. How much did she hear? Staniwick’s eyes went wide and he said: “Oh… flux…”

3

Flywheel spat a few water droplets out of her mouth and wiped her eyes, squinting at the gnome she could now make out through the torrential rain. She stuffed the binoculars back in her soggy satchel and pushed her shoulders back, assuming her most authoritative pose. Perhaps without the thunder and the pattering of rain against the hard ground, she would’ve overhead their conversation. Unfortunately her High Power Zoom 34B binoculars were not equipped with the sound amplification optional feature.

“Yes, you. The short one with a guilty look on your face!” Wind ripped her voice to shreds, and Flywheel had to yell if she had any hope of being heard. “I need to see your papers IMMEDIATELY! That’s Bilgewater Cartel property, and uh…Lady Sylvanas Windrunner has decreed that all resources in this region belong to the HORDE!”

The goblin made a quick prayer. So the part about the ex-warchief was a bit of a white lie, but these clowns didn’t look like they had a brain to share between them. As long as she sounded important, Flywheel hoped the Alliance would simply scatter like scared rats. “You’ve got FIVE seconds,” the goblin added for emphasis, “before my goblin Boom Squad remotely detonates all the azerite in those crates, and we’ll be picking up your dismembered limbs to feed to the plaguehounds!”

Flywheel turned her body side-on to conceal her movements as she waited for the response, then yanked her goblin radio out of her belt. Thankfully, it had a waterproof case protecting the electrical components, unlike her slightly malfunctioning binoculars. Pushing down a square blue button, she hissed into the receiver, “Goblins! I need immediate back-up! We got humans, a bunch of em…two, maybe three, or maybe just a half-sized one…anyhow, too many! They’re tryin’ to steal our stuff. I’m gonna need bazookas and some rocket fuel. We gotta show 'em we mean business!”

Three seconds ticked by. Tension was thick in the air. Flywheel’s toes were so cold, she was sure her socks were frozen solid.

“Hello?! Can anyone hear me-”

4

Concealed in a nearby tree, the ruddy-coated worgen chuckled to herself as the drama unfolded. Looks like it pays off to re-visit old haunts after all, she thought.

The worgen’s old cache was rarely used anymore, but she liked to stop in every once in a while just to check on the area. It pays to know what’s going on, and Silverpine had been a popular place these last few weeks.

“That’s Bilgewater Cartel property…!”

Her ears perked up. Now that’s interesting. Maybe even a bit of coin in it for her? She laughed softly at the obvious bluff that came next. The gnome won’t fall for it. Surely everyone knows Windrunner up 'n flew off like an angry little cloud by now.

Getting comfortable as she could, the worgen adjusted her bycoket hat, the rain running in a stream off the pointed beak. She was content to watch. For now.

5

Not all who wander are lost, not all that is gold glitters.

Not all heroes wear capes, and not all those who engage in grey-level espionage against a foreign power that is currently in ceasefire… are Rogues. The last was rather on the nose, but Gnomes very rarely engaged in subtlety.

Staniwick’s fel laden eyes flashed bright green and he smirked at the distant figure speaking to him. A small grin formed on his lips as he looked to the trees. Bilgewater property? He laughed.

“Your property, lady? Not nearly enough gaudy metal molded on the side to be your property,” Staniwick said. He tilted his head back and called out, “Leeshank!”

A third party stepped from out of the woods in a acidic green haze that lit up the night sky. The creature was taller than a man and adorn with blood red metal against dark blue pectorals of iron sinew. The eyes glowed bright green as they narrowed into the distance. The fel guard tightened his grip on the two-handed broad axe that looked as if it fell trees merely as a hobby.

“Be a buddy, Lesshank,” Staniwick said before whipping his hand dramatically in the direction of Flywheel, “Core that broad like an apple!” He let the Fel Guard huff and puff in her direction, getting a few practice swings for good measure before he chopped her down and counted the rings.

Staniwick turned away, he hoped the Goblin would either be in pieces or at least busy fighting his Fel Guard to trouble him no further as he looked at the two Humans in his company.

“You two! Get to loading those crates in the wagon. We’ve got a schedule to keep. Magillicuddy, you take the controls. Caulski,” Staniwick looked over his shoulder to see if Leeshank made any progress, “Get the wolf rifle out, just in case.”

“What about the snub rfles?” Caulski asked. The group had an amassed a small arsenal, fresh in the case. The suggestion snapped Staniwick’s attention towards them, his eyes narrowed and angry, “You haven’t paid for them, you don’t get to use them. Now get them on the cart and get ready to move.”

6

The Fel Guard’s charge was swift, and Flywheel was caught off-guard as she screeched desperately into her radio. The demon’s axe bit deeply into her upper arm and chest, spraying blood across both her own face and her assailant’s abdomen. The goblin shrieked with pain and staggered backwards, clutching her wound as the shredded soft cloth began to absorb the inky red liquid. As the Fel Guard raised his axe again to finish her off, Flywheel summoned all her focus to blast him with a powerful fear that sent the creature running (temporarily) back towards its master.

With the precious few moments that Flywheel had to escape, she took off running as fast as her short legs would carry her, murmuring a minor prayer that would take the edge off her pain. She was grateful for the heavy rain, that would watch away her blood trail as she weaved into a crop of nearby bushes. There was a burrow here, made by some kind of wild animal. She dove inside, hoping its occupant had long since abandoned its den. With a hurried strike, she used her holy magic to tear a branch from the bush and plugged the hole tightly.

The hole was dark, cramped, and sticky with mud…but she was alive. The Alliance had attacked without hesistation, despite her threats, and disregarding the supposed truce between the two factions. The goblin was furious. Not only had her shipment been stolen, she’d literally dug herself into a hole that would be difficult to get out of. Still clutching the goblin radio in her hand, Flywheel pressed the blue button again.

A dull static noise could be heard through the speaker. “Damn, batteries have gone flat!” Flywheel hissed, smacking the gadget against the wall in frustration. Was there help on the way? Had anyone heard her earlier pleas for back up? She couldn’t tell. If those humans found her, they’d finish her off for sure.

The deep wound in the goblin’s arm throbbed and ached to the point that she felt sick to in her stomach. Despite a desperate need to stay quiet, a soft whimper of hopelessness escaped her lips. She might have heard voices approaching, she wasn’t sure. The thumping in her ears soon blocked out all other sounds, and a moment later, Flywheel passed out.

7

“Well well, looks like he did something effective for once,” Staniwick mused. He could hear the Gobin’s shriek before his eyes were assailed by the radiance of an energy discharge. Leeshank’s cry broke over the torrent and thunder. His heavy footsteps shook the ground as the Fel Guard raced towards Staniwick. The Goblin’s blast both feared and placed a very neat hole through the demon’s chest.

“You’re kind of hopeless, you know that?” Staniwick said. He advanced to meet the demon away from the cart. Leeshank was a good bodyguard for the little Warlock, but sometimes even Fel Guards overstay their welcome. Staniwick’s mind had begun to focus his mana while his lips moved to silently invoke a dismissal. The Fel Guard was two steps from crashing into the Gnome when Staniwick snapped his finger. Leeshank came to a sudden stop, falling forward as if he had tripped on a root. As he toppled, his body deteriorated and pieces of him broke off into the storm, turning from flesh and bone to fel tiny pieces of bright green and grey ash. The demon had been returned to the nether, healing in pools of fel and waiting for his master’s call.

“Alright, that’s done. Good work on getting those crates in,” Staniwick said, “Let’s get going before this attracts more trouble than the value of guns and Azerite are worth.” Staniwick walked up a set of dark iron steps leading to the back of the cart. Within nothing waylaying them, grizzled Magillicuddy cracked the reins that urged the horses forward.

The party needed to cross the old Gilnean Wall into the northlands. From there they had a private dock servicing a sloop that they had procured for the job. Something fast and light that could cross the deep blue with little chance of discovery.

The party had to make it to Gilneas first, of course.

8

Flywheel awoke to the sound of night crickets and the distant howl of a hungry wolf. As she peeled back her eyelids and felt around, she realised she was still wedged in the tiny muddy hole. She spat of a clump of dirt from her mouth, and kicked at the clump of bushes that had been plugging the entrance until it worked its way free. Dragging herself out on all fours, Flywheel sensed the agonizing pain of the wound across her left arm and chest, and her bloodstained clothes felt like pieces of cardboard against her soft, pampered skin.

Picking herself up, Flywheel wondered how long she’d been down in that animal burrow. Hours? Days? A pang of sadness gripped her chest as she realised no one had answered her distress call. No one had come looking for her, or thought to come to her aid. Like an inky black snake, wrapping itself around her mind, Flywheel murmured vindictively, “Fine then. If no mortal soul will assist a poor, helpless goblin, then maybe it’s time to pledge my soul to something immortal, and far more powerful…”

Whether or not she intended to follow through on this new agenda was unclear. The Steamwheedle princess busied herself casting mending spells on her arm, and being a skilled medic, managed to close the wound completely except for a fresh, angry-looking red scar. Weak from a lack of food, water, and the toll of the wound and her own healing spells, Flywheel leaned against the trunk of a tree to steady herself, closing her eyes and listening to the night.

“All who serve, will be rewarded.” A deep voice, unbidden, stirred within her clouded mind.

Flywheel shook her blue pigtails, deciding she must have imagined the invisible intruder. “It sounds…no, it feels like I am alone. The thieves are long gone.” In the dim moonlight, she walked over to where she thought she’d seen the men packing the crates on the wagon. It had stopped raining, thankfully, and she thought she could see vague outlines of footprints. Perhaps even leading her to where they had gone! But it was too dark to make them out clearly, and she was no hunter. For all she knew, the priestess could have been tracking a one of the walking undead of Sepulcher.

“I’ll come back at first light,” she decided. Then, turning around, the goblin headed back towards the worn cobblestone road. The town of Brill wasn’t too far from here. It was a long walk on her weary legs, but perhaps she could find food, shelter, and maybe someone to help her find these Alliance scoundrels that had stolen her precious shipment. After an hour of slow trudging up the worn road, Flywheel stepped into the warm gloom of the Gallow’s End Tavern.

What a sight she must have been. Her white robes torn at the sleeve and stained with mud and blood, loose twigs sticking out of her blue hair. Yet, Flywheel had a fiery spark of determination in her eyes as she calmly approached the bar and hopped onto a high stool. The goblin’s voice could be heard easily over the cackle of the fire in the hearth. Her words were strangely reminiscent of the unseen shadowy presence now slowly taking shape within her.

Surveying the room’s patron’s, she called out, “I ran into some trouble with Alliance scum over near Sepulcher. I barely made it out alive! They took something that belongs to me. If anyone here wishes to help me reclaim my property, they will be richly rewarded.”

9

Staniwick looked down upon the shallow grave with a neutral look on his face. Another patrol of Forsaken had been taken by the roving packs of Worgen that, unlike Ivar and Crowley, refused to surrender the Silverpine front. The packs that continued to resist were often named by ancient clans of Gilneans. The Fraisers, the Umberlands, The MacTurns - Worgen with their breach-loading rifles, crossbows, axes, and claws. No quarter was given to any deader taken… it was reciprocated in kind by the soldiers of the Sepulcher.

Staniwick recognized the first standard that was buried along with the corpses. The pendant’s color was purple, what was being called ‘Tirisfal Purple’ after the colors adopted by the Dark Lady. The Lady’s purple, near the broad end where cloth met pole was the symbol of a bear’s skull, open wide with great jaws. The Silverpine comprised of the 3rd Regiment. They were called Dread Bears.

The second flag, Staniwick did not recognize, gone was the symbol of the Lady’s face. Instead against a beige background was the iron ‘L’. The symbol of the Kingdom of Lordaeron in a dark blue color. Staniwick looked up to his Worgen contact, Horace Fraiser, the grey wolf puffing on a corncob as he admired his handiwork of putting bullets into the back of Forsaken heads. The Gnome asked: “What’s with the flag?”

“These fellows follow the command of Orgrimmar now. Them, the Bloodwings of Tarren Mill… only the High Command of Andorhal flies the Lady’s Standard. Everyone else is using this symbol,” The Gilnean snorted and spat upon the flag, “New Lordaeron blue… Scarlet Crusade red… that symbol don’t mean anything but failure and destruction in my eyes,” The Worgen said.

Staniwick partially agreed with the sentiment, though he lacked either the passion or crassness to release bodily fluids on a dead man’s flag. The Gnome looked up as Horace gave the signal and the shovels of nearby Worgen began lobbing dirt into the hole. Staniwick followed Gilnean back towards the camp.

The stormwracked shipment had made progress, but had yet to cross the Gilnean border. The camp was situated as the crow flies to old Pyrewood Village. A small encampment of both afflicted and unafflicted Gilneans who slowly began to filter into the highlands of Gilneas. Caulski and Magillicuddy remained near the wagon, Staniwick saw the looks of thinly veiled concerned on their faces as they looked over the openly transformed Gilnean. Although somewhat allied, these Worgen wore no colors and viewed themselves as fighting for Gilneas… or just as an excuse to cause violence over serving the Alliance. The only thing that lightened either the Gnome or Human’s hearts was the unaffected that wandered through the camp unfazed by the state of their neighbors and lovers.

“Storms been mucking up the roads,” Staniwick noted. He frowned as another cold show had begun to pelt the clearing, “I was hoping to be Gilneas by now.”

“Aye, I was hoping to be to be burning corpses in Sepulcher, looks like we don’t ever get what we want,” Horace noted.

“The goal was to capture Undercity,” Staniwick said, “It was not a long-term offensive to cleanse all of Lordaeron.”

“It should have been,” Horace said, “All we have to show for our blood spent in tying down the Dread Bears was the High Command slipping to Andorhal… a few inches of forest and a few lesser deaders lurking in. You Alliance do a fantastic job of mucking things up,” Horace reloaded his pipe bowl with sweet leaf and took a hard puff that caused him a single cough as streams of smoke escaped from his black nostrils.

“Then why help us?” Staniwick asked.

Fraiser noted at the stacks of crates that had been delivered earlier and stored under a simple tent, “I did it because your side offers food and medicine that I need to keep up the fighting. I’ll gladly take that if it means offering you lot safe conduct.”

“We appreciate it,” Staniwick said, “Is what I asked for over at Blackfriars?” He was, of course, referring to Blackfriar, Gilneas. A small port town in the Highlands that appeared on very few maps and lived in by very few people. It was one of the few ports that continued to operate for the growing Gilnean insurgency.

“Aye, one Steamwheedle trawler with a Goblin mad enough to hang around and take you lot,” Fraiser said, “No idea why you wanted a Steamwheedle.”

“I need to get to Booty Bay with few questions asked,” Staniwick replied. He turned to Horace and said, “Alright, give us another hour or so for the horses to rest and we will be on our way, sir.”

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(OOC: Looking for more characters to join in on this storyline! If you would like to participate, simply post in response to Flywheel or Staniwick (depending on which side you choose). It doesn’t have to be long. A few sentences would be awesome!)

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