With the release of Kul Tirans tomorrow, I wrote up what is basically a prelude to my Thornspeaker’s IC “start”. That is to say, the canon point at which I’ll begin playing him. Thanks for reading!
Quinn sat in silence on the rotting wooden crate that served as his cell’s only real furnishing. He flicked pebbles into a pool of water that had accumulated on the floor near the cell gate. The constant dripping heard inside of Tol Dagor was nearly maddening. It was broken up only by the occasional scream. Someone being killed by a cellmate, or a guard… or someone finally indeed going mad from that damned dripping. Alright, probably not that last one.
It had been nearly a month and a half now, since he’d been thrown in there to rot. He wished Ashvane simply would’ve killed him and been done with it. But he knew why she hadn’t. The same reason she hadn’t killed anyone she locked up in this rotting, leaking, mold-filled box: she wanted those who raised hands against her to suffer, not just die. That was the worst thing about that woman. Not for moral reasons, as some may have. No, to Quinn, her cruelty wasn’t just morally reprehensible, but illogical and idiotic. A predator kills to survive. It kills prey to consume. It kills other predators to eliminate competition. Ashvane wasn’t a predator, she was something else. Something sick. Something wrong. She didn’t have a place in the natural order, and served no purpose. She was-
Someone sprinted past his cell. Or did they? They moved so quickly, he wasn’t sure he’d seen anything at all. He heard a voice.
“Just what kind of powder is this?” he didn’t recognize it… not one of the guards. But who? “Hey, help me grab some of this stuff.” Quinn stood and pressed his face against the dirty bars of his cell, straining to see something out of his peripherals. The man speaking was just around the corner, and out of sight, but the person he was speaking to… Quinn couldn’t quite make them out either. Dressed in blue and gold… it looked like armor. Nice armor. Suddenly three more jogged past his cell. This time he got a better look, and this time he was certain who they were. Alliance, here? Interesting. Quinn said nothing, simply watching in curiosity. There were four total. Looked to be two humans, a man and woman, one of those draenei he’d heard of(or so he assumed, they were fairly distinctive looking from the sound of them, and he doubted he could mistake anything for one). Finally, there stood a small person… a woman he thought, she was heavily armored though. A gnome? Most likely. Oddly, just at that moment, she turned, looking at him. Their eyes met, and Quinn tilted his head. The others continued speaking, seeming to finish discussing whatever it was they were discussing, and finally the humans and the draenei took off down the hall. The gnome waved a hand at them, gesturing for them to go on. She turned, and slowly approached Quinn’s cell. She stared at him for a long while, and he simply stared back. Finally he spoke.
“Don’t suppose you have a key?” he said, grinning. She frowned at him.
“Don’t suppose I’d need one. The locks here are more rust than metal,” she retorted, her voice squeaky but confident. Quinn chuckled.
“You’ll let me out then?” he asked leaning on the bars and smiling as kindly and non-threateningly as he could. To his frustration, the gnome laughed.
“Why would I do that?” she asked, genuinely amused. Quinn frowned.
“Because I didn’t do anything wrong!” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down. He wasn’t sure exactly what was going on out there, or how many guards were still stomping about. The gnome rolled her eyes.
“I’m sure every single one of your friends here would tell me the same thing,” she said, turning to leave.
“Wait wait wait!” Quinn sounded more desperate than he wanted. The gnome stopped though.”I know why you’re here!” Again she rolled her eyes. “I’m willing to bet Priscilla Ashvane had something to do with it.” The gnome’s expression changed. He was getting somewhere. “Or everything to do with it.”
“What do you know about Ashvane?”
“Enough to get me thrown in here.”
“Give me specifics, or I won’t even consider letting you out.” Quinn grunted in annoyance, but didn’t see another way out of this. He sighed.
“You’re familiar with a material called Azerite?” The gnome snorted.
“I haven’t been living under a rock,” she retorted. Quinn shook his head.
“Ay, well Ashvane’s familiar with it too. Very familiar. You let me out of here, and I’ll help you. Hell, I’ll bet with enough help, Kul Tiras will throw you a feast,” the gnome was listening. She was thinking. This was working. “First though, you’ll need to get through to the Grand Admiral. And word is, it’s Priscilla Ashvane that’s been spitting poison in her ear.”
The fighting was intensifying down the hall. The gnome looked toward the noise, then back to Quinn.
“Ashvane is working with Azerite?” Quinn nodded slowly. “And you can show us where?” Quinn winced a bit in uncertainty.
“I can show you where she’s processing it. And one place she’s mining it. In Drustvar.” He was getting anxious. The gnome was ready to leave at any moment, he could feel it. This was his only chance. “You let me out of here, and I’ll fight tooth and claw to make sure your people get out of here.” The gnome considered again for a moment, and finally, pulled an object almost resembling a corkscrew out of her belt, jamming it into the keyhole and twisting. The lock snapped, and the door swung open. The gnome looked into his cell, and then around her.
“You need a weapon,” she said quickly. Quinn grinned, and this time, the malice inside was visible. As he stepped out of his cell, the gnome couldn’t help but notice runes around his cell, glowing with some peculiar power. She also couldn’t help noticing that Quinn almost seemed to be breathing easier once he was out of the cell.
“Don’t you worry, ma’am. I’ll handle myself just fine. Now come along, we have work to do, eh?”
The gnome was clearly still distrustful, but nodded, running down the hall towards the fighting. Quinn breathed in deeply, feeling his power returning to him. What little he could still muster. Those Drust runes the Ashvanes used on his cell were a clever trick, and being under their influence for so long had left him weakened. Still, he had enough strength to fight his way out. He flexed, inhaled, and summoned his strength. His limbs twisted, his bones snapped, his flesh shifted. Running down the hall of the prison, now in the form of a bramblebear, he chuckled to himself in a guttural, unnerving voice.
“For the Alliance,” he said sarcastically.
