If someone had told Wolfgaar that he would be spending his evening watching dog fights, throwing dice, and consorting with thieves, gamblers, and murderers in the Underbelly of Dalaran, he would have advised them to consult with their physician to have their head examined. But there he was, sipping watered-down rum and sidling up to the ne’er-do-wells who called this dank, smoke-filled place their own.
“George Stanton? Never heard of him. I don’t know the guy. And I haven’t seen him in a week.” If one lie is good then three should be even better, or at least that seemed to be the line of thinking of the squat-faced patron that Wolfgaar approached by the craps table.
Wolfgaar was never very good at being unobserved. With his red hair, 6’3" height, and unplaceable accent, he always stuck out in crowd. So, instead of trying to pass himself off as just another one of the ruffians, he decided to just play it straight. He had put on his mageweave vest, a clean shirt, and he had polished his boots to a shine. And yet, when he descended into the Underbelly, he was no more obvious to the regulars than if he had put on a filthy tunic and stank of ale.
“Listen, my friend. Mr. Stanton owes me a considerable sum of money. I’d be very grateful to the person who helped me track him down.” The Aetheling pressed a couple high denomination chips into the man’s palm to underscore his point. This seemed to solidify the man’s memory and soften his resistance.
"Oooh! George Staaaanton. I misheard you. Yes, of course, ol’ George. Of course I know him. He’s in here almost every weekend. He’s buddies with that guy over there. Name’s Tuttle. " With a furtive gesture of his finger, Mr. Squat-Face indicated a pale, thin human priest seated at a card table nervously fiddling with his chips and displaying one tell after another to greedy players around him.
With a sardonic smile and an aggressive slap on his back, Wolfgaar both thanked his informant and made it clear this better not be a lie. He strode across the sticky sewer floor past a make-shift ring where two shirtless, burly men grappled with one another to the cheers and hoots of the cash-waving crowd.
The over-dressed paladin approached the card table, stepped around behind the priest and firmly pressed a large hand into his shoulder. “Come, Tuttle, we’ve got matters to attend to.” The scrawny priest jumped in his seat or would have had the strong hand not held him in place. He fumbled with his cards and knocked over his dwindling pile of chips as he stuttered out a confused string of words.
“Oh no. He’s staying right there. He’s got a game to finish.” The men around the table weren’t ready to release their rube until his purse was quite completely depleted.
“I’m afraid Mr. Tuttle has a pressing engagement he has to attend to, gentlemen. I’m sure you understand,” replied the paladin calmly, as he lifted Tuttle to this feet with one hand.
“I said he’s not leaving,” spat a powerful looking man from gritted teeth, as he rose from his seat. A second misanthrope, lithe and quick, popped to his feet, a dagger appearing in his hand.
Wolfgaar casually adjusted the cuff links on his shirt with a thin smile and took a step toward the larger man. One gambler, still seated, remained between them. “Please accept our apologies, but Mr. Tuttle – wait, what’s this?”
With a quick and sudden motion Wolfgaar reached under the table in front of the seated card player and produced an ace of clubs which he flipped onto the table with a jaunty grin.
The ire of the two brutes immediately shifted from the paladin to the confused gambler who was left looking up at them from the disadvantageous position of his chair. As Wolfgaar turned and escorted Tuttle from the room, a cry of pain arose behind them followed by the sound of a chair, a table, and not a few teeth cracking.
As they ascended the ramps leading up from the sewers, Wolfgaar ignored the Tuttle’s whimpered questions and protests. Between his sniveled, “I-didn’t-do-it’s,” and the “what-do-you-want-from-me’s,” Wolfgaar, prodded him up and out into the streets of Dalaran and toward Wolfgaar’s steed. As Wolfgaar hoisted the man onto the horse, Tuttle asked, “Wait, how did you know that man was cheating?”
“I don’t know that he was. That card came from my sleeve.”