Nickname

She looked up at the shiny new flier, with its gently rendered woodcut from one of their early snaps. She frowned just a moment, wishing the artist had picked one of the snaps that hadn't shown her “levers over cogwheel” due to a failed levitation spell. The etching in the background did add a bit of whimsy to the event. Even Grommet had to admit that the artist had masterfully captured the expression on her face, caught just as she realized she was going into the lake, again.

“No rust no foul,” she chuckled, until a guard knelt next to her and a heavy gauntlet clad hand fell on her shoulder. “Greasy widget!” She swore in Gnomish.

“Miss Cogswaddle, I think you should come with me, please. You know you're not to be hanging around the bulletin boards.”

Grommet sighed, “Yes, Constable.”

The Constable bent down and scooped up Grommet's pile of new fliers, all but hidden by the old one, neatly placed on top. They marched in silence towards the Stockades.

Grommet sat in the too large chair, scooted to the edge so she could dangle her feet over, and as the watch Sargent grunted over the pile of papers dropped on his desk, she began to swing her legs to and fro, keeping time to a traditional Gnomish Reel with the all too appropriate line “Nicked by the patrol and dropped in the hole.”

“Look, I wasn't really taking anything down...”

The Sargent held up his hand, signaling for silence. Grommet shut up. He looked up from the paperwork in front of him, then over to the old, faded fishing excursion announcement. He picked up the aged sheet, looked at it, looked at her, shook his head and put it back on top of the pile of pristine new fliers without even looking at them. He then turned his grizzled attention back to the paper work on his desk.

Grommet fidgeted, trying to swing her right foot two for every three of her left.

He grunted. “Please stop that.”

“What? I'm being quiet.”

Her stomach did a flip. Dealing with Stormwind justice had always been frightening; everything was built to make the giant humans even more imposing. She'd gotten off with a fine, and some volunteer time healing at one of the many orphanage hospitals, neither had been particularly bad, but she'd also been banned from “loitering at bulletin boards or places for the posting of public bills.”

The last restriction had seemed particularly harsh as the delightful things were everywhere in the city. The patrol seemed, lately, to delight in bringing her in, too. Adding to her collection of bills, posters and fliers had become very difficult in Stormwind, until she discovered that most of the children posting the items would happily sell a copy to her for just a few pennies. Some of the children had even taken to bringing her samples first, showing up in the curio shop first thing in the morning, to the annoyance of her landlords.

Grommet began to fidget, again. This time trying to make her feet circle in opposite directions, out of phase.

The sargent squeezed his eyes shut and had just cleared his throat to speak when one of Stormwind's finest stepped into the alcove and handed him a note. In response, the Sargent stood, handed Grommet's stack of papers to the woman and gestured after her. “Follow officer Versham, we're going to let yours deal with you this time.”

Grommet stopped swinging her legs and hopped down off the chair. She really didn't like the sound of that.

The fact that the Sargent broke out laughing as soon as they were out of sight didn't settle her stomach any.

Grommet followed the silent Officer Versham, wishing she could put the old flier on the bottom of the stack. They made their way lower into the labyrinth, then headed down a low ceilinged corridor Grommet had never seen before. She contemplated a quick mind control effort on the guard but just as rapidly discarded the notion, no one had ever stayed friendly after she'd tried that trick on them. The silent treatment was beginning to wear on her.

“Where are we going?” She asked in her cheeriest voice.

“You'll see.” Officer Versham looked back at her. The woman obviously had children of her own, and Grommet's efforts to seem cheery broke upon severe mom-unit face.

“I'm not going to like this, am I?”

“We're really not in the business of getting people to like us here.” Odd, Grommet noticed the severe mom face also include severe “I hope you learn from this,” face.

“Yes, I suppose not.” In Gnomish, Grommet sang, under her breath, “Nicked by the patrol and dumped in the hole.”

They arrived at a branch of the Stockades Grommet had never seen before. The guard had to stoop to go through the door. Soon they were at a small office. A Gnome sat behind a Gnome sized workbench, absorbed in a small stack of folios, field reports, Grommet recognized the color and size of the after action reports. She had filled them in often enough.

Her guard set the stack of fliers on the edge of the workbench, and indicated that Grommet should sit in the chair in the middle of the room, alone in a bright circle of light which illuminated the dust making it appear as though it was a solid pilaster surrounding the chair. Grommet imagined the dust was thick enough to make it difficult to breath as she sat in the Gnome sized chair.

The guard stood near the door, waiting for the Gnome at the workbench to look up from his reports. He glanced over at the pile of fliers, flipped through them. Then waved the guard away. He leaned back in his chair and swiveled it to face Grommet over the workbench. He steepled his thumbs and interlaced the three fingers on each hand. Grommet couldn't help notice that the middle finger on his left hand was a knuckle shorter than the others. For some reason, this detail bothered her more than the closed leather medical case on the end of the workbench, or the brown stains on the floor and chair, or the fact that the chair had build in restraints, and an odd crackling ozone smell about it. The Hooded Gnome looked at her in silence for a time.

“Nicked by the patrol and shoved in a hole.” She sang to herself, none to happily. It was only beginning to occur to her that she was in the hot seat of a GCO interrogation room. She pouted, that seemed a bit unfair for a loitering charge.

“Miss, er, Fulcrum Initiate Grommet Cogswaddle, is it.”

“Yes, uh sir.” Strange Hooded Gnomes addressing one by one's full title was never a good sign. At least he wasn't twirling the ends of his mustache, that would have been a Very Bad Sign. “Who are you?” She blurted out, trying to make the conversation go in a friendlier direction. All she managed to do was sound desperate.

“Gnomish Covert Ops, Internal External Affairs. I go by Agent Seven and a Half.” He used his mangled hand to twirl the end of his mustache.

Grommet's heart sank. She'd heard that name, in whispers. It was said he'd bitten his own fingertip off on a dare. That he could made veteran agents cry. She believed it, Grommet could all ready feel tears welling up in her eyes. “I was just replacing an old flier with a new one, for the Provisioners, for my Uncle Axelpyre.”

Seven and a Half looked over at the pile of fliers, the barest glimpse. “I know that.” He leaned forward to his workbench and opened a rather thick folio, its cover was a color that indicated Grommet wasn't cleared to know what it contained. “Would this be the Uncle who vanished for nearly two decades? The one whose known associates include,” he traced his fingers down a rather long multi-columned list, “an undead Arch Magus and several Tauren Druids and Shamen?”

“Uh,” Grommet's heart hammered in her chest, “He was human once, the Magus, the undead one, a friend of the family. And Mt. Hyjal.... Everyone knows Tauren Druids and Shamen, I hear the place is crawling with them.” She winced, worried that last bit had been a little too flippant.

Seven and a Half opened another folio, much thinner, but bearing the same color coded cover.

“Do you know what nickname the Dwarves of the 76th Rifles have given you.?”

The question caught Grommet completely by surprise. She lifted her toes off the floor and her legs began to swing in short agitated strokes. (Grommet is short, even for a Gnome.) She thought back to her time outside of Skorn.

There'd been whispers. Whispers that stopped the moment she entered a room. That and the fact that they had never called her anything but “Fulcrum Grommet” where she could hear. The behavior had actually bothered her. Everyone else had a nickname, Cookie Harboz, Stinky of Stormwind, Bait-boy Lassiter, Slydog Wolfrider, Fishmonger.... But not Grommet. “Hey there, Fulcrum Grommet!” was as close to what they called her when relaxed, usually it was “Fulcrum Initiate Cogswaddle,” or “Midwife Cogswaddle.” The Dwarves of the 76th had been formal with her from the very start. She'd just assumed that they treated all their medics similarly. It would appear that was an erroneous assumption.

The light was too bright for her to make out what was written in the folio.

“I, uh, I don't really know.” She forced herself to stop fidgeting. “I don't think I had one.”

Seven and a Half cocked one eyebrow at her. “Really?”

“Not that they called me.”

Seven and a Half peered at her, until he was sure she wasn't going to say more. He turned a page in the folio, without glancing down at it.

“What was your assignment there?”

“Field Medic, Prevent and Patch.”

“And when you got to the field.”

“It was all mopping up. Preventing the Scourge from getting the Vrykul .”

“Yes? How?”

“Uh, by dismembering the ones that were killed, before the Scourge necromancers could get them.”

“Were there a lot of deaths.”

Grommet paused, putting the mission in order in her mind. “Not, no, not at first.”

Seven and a Half leaned back in his chair, his face falling into shadow. “Go on.”

Grommet noticed the scratching of a quill on parchment from a dark corner for the first time. It bothered her that she couldn't tell if it was a person or a machine. “The mopping up was going slow.”

She paused, a moment later the scratching stopped, whatever it, or whoever it was, her words were being recorded. She was glad she hadn't succumbed to her Uncle's habit of exaggerating everything. She realized that she desperately wanted to see what was in his file on the edge of the workbench, to own it, to be able to handle the what appeared to be the scores of hand lettered pages.

With a start she brought herself back to her questioner, “Our squad leader, Sargent Basstein, felt we needed to do more, to, to reduce the threat. These Dwarfs are tough, and they really didn't need much protection from me, or patching, for that matter.”

The quill scratched, then came to a halt, Grommet felt like she could hear it poised to continue. Seven and a Half said nothing, he reached out and turned a page of his folio. His mangled hand slipped back into darkness. Grommet still could not make out what was written in the folio through the glare.

“The Vrykul , they really didn't seem to like Gnomes. Or at least not me. So we came up with a plan.”

“We?” Seven and a Half's mangled hand emerged from the darkness, tracing words on a page that Grommet couldn't read.

“Well, me, more so, I suppose.”

They sat in silence as the quill stopped recording Grommet's words. She wondered if this was what all the trouble was about. But it seemed odd, there was nothing she could find in her activities during the mission that was out of place.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. I ran up to them, and they followed me back to the squad.”

“A classic ambush strategy, I'm surprised it worked so well.”

“I really think they didn't like Gnomes.”

“And you had another job, in addition to being bait?”

“Yes, they gave me a big machete to dismember the bodies so the necromancers couldn't raise them in one piece.”

“Did you use it?”

“Uh, no, it was unwieldy, too big really. So I used my field surgery. They were very large, it was a great opportunity to study their anatomy.”

“So you vivisected them in the field?”

“No! I would nev... they were all ready dead, or mostly...they would have been, soon. How could you see the movement of the heart or....” Grommet paused. What was practical for a Gnome, she had learned, wasn't always seen that way by other races. “None of them were conscious. I sure, or fairly sure, about that.”

“So you surgically reduced them to useless bits?”

Grommet nodded.

“Please answer out loud for the scribe-o-matic.”

So, it was a machine. At least there was only one person judging her. “Yes.” Grommet replied timidly.

“Slow, but effective. Was there anything else while you were in the field.”

“Wolves, they have huge guard wolves. I thought it would possible to turn them against the Winterskorn, make them think of the Vykrul as food, you understand.” She paused, remembering the suddenness of the insight. Her perceived lack of time. Was that enough to trigger this inquest? “It was an impromptu experiment, and I didn't have everything to do proper controls. But I thought it might help the war effort.”

“Did it work?”

“The Vykrul chops and hocks slowed them down, but they always came after us later. So, no, not really; we kept having to kill the test subjects.” Grommet paused, it had been nothing short of a failure of an experiment. “If we could have started them when they were puppies, maybe?”

“Interesting. I will have to send that suggestion on, there's a kernel of something useful there.”

There was a long pause while Seven and a Half and Grommet waited for the Scribe-o-matic to catch up.

“Did you ever stop to think what the soldiers would think of your activities?”

“No, I mean, it was certainly more civilized than hacking them to bits, and we learned lots of useful information!”

“Yes, yes, we can't argue that, it was a rather inelegant solution. Your after action report was fascinating, with many useful tidbits.” Seven and a Half rolled into the light and opened up a folio turning it to the edge of the workbench nearest Grommet. Grommet recognized her own precise but slightly ornate handwriting. (Her Uncle's influence, she was certain.) There were several other notes in the margins, written in a few different hands. It appeared that she wasn't going to be punished, after all.

“Given what we've seen here, and what your commanders reported, we want to make a recommendation before you go out on your next assignment.”

“Somewhere without Scourge, perhaps?” Grommet didn't know where she got the courage to come out and ask.

“Agent Cogswaddle, this is in addition to your normal field duties, I'm afraid. You need to learn more about how our allies interact... socially.”

Grommet frowned. That didn't really sound like an assignment. Perhaps she was being punished after all.

“I've spoken with Provisioner Axelpyre, and your handler in the GCO Medical Corps. Your manner as a Midwife is exemplary, it needs to inform all of your interactions, even in the field, to some extent, at least when in allied operations. We have convinced your Uncle and the previous leadership to allow you to lead this year's Fishing Excursions, with a eye towards learning how to interact more effectively with our allies. Think of this as a personal growth opportunity.”

“What?” She was being punished!

“Come now, it's only once a week, and you can expense your travel costs to the GCO.”

“Bu- but, I fish to relax, to visit with friends...” She thought to herself, “To forget the undead, the injuries, the death, the sobriety.”

“Exactly, and you have learned what they expect from friends and how to behave with them, yes?”

Grommet thought a moment. That was true, she had learned to modify some behaviors when dealing with human and elf companions. “But to be in charge, that changes the whole thing.”

“Yes, it does. Fulcrum Cogswaddle, you have a great many people expecting a great deal of you. Not just because of what you are, but because of who you are.”

“I'm still Fulcrum Initiate. I can't tell you how many times I had to tell the Dwarfs of the 76th to get that straight.”

Seven and a Half stood up and unrolled one of the black medical cases. Only, the tools were not of the sort any doctor would use in normal practice. Grommet shuddered. From the end of the case, he withdrew a bright silver chain. Dangling from it was a silver wheel on a gold axle. The symbol of the Order of the Infinite Lever, her own order, the jewelry that indicated that one was a full Fulcrum of the order.

“You're Fulcrum Seven and a Half?” Grommet forgot to close her mouth right away, sliding out of the chair and standing unsteadily, she moved closer.

“No, no, not at all, this is yours, Fulcrum Cogswaddle.” In Gnomish he added their short formal blessing, “May your effort balance your load.” Seven and a Half made his way around the workbench and offered a better view of the amulet to Grommet. “Be happy in your work, and for this year, organizing fishing expeditions is part of your work.” It was then that she caught a glimpse of the Gold on Gold emblem dangling at Seven and a Half's neck.

“Y... You're Axle Seven and a Half?” Grommet stuttered, confused. “Bu, But, this place, this...” she looked at the threateningly medical like tools, and frowned, “work.”

“Is vital, I'm afraid. Push or pull, lift or press, we all add momentum to the Great Gear.” He walked behind Grommet and placed the symbol around her neck, then whispered, “Our kind of work needs to be done with balance in mind, or it leads to very dark unbalanced places.”

He walked around to face Grommet. “I'm sorry for the unusual Ordination exam. But since the loss of your parents, and the Servant of the Wheel himself gone missing, we've had to make do.”

Grommet had pictured her Ordination being in front of the Gnomes of Tram Maintenance Hatch 104, her makeshift congregation. Imagined her Uncle Axelpyre placing a ring of flowers atop her head, and then there would be a celebration that lasted late into the evening.

Seven and a Half could see the disappointment on Grommet's face. “Time enough for celebration when the work is done. Come, let's get you out of this place.”

“But my arrest, the charges?”

“Your Uncle has generously agreed to pay your bail, and your fines. It's done, think nothing of it.” He led her through the short hallways, even deeper into the tunnels before heading up a narrow flight of steps. “I'd like to interview him sometime, there is much we'd like to know.” Grommet shuddered, she didn't believe her Uncle would submit willingly to an interview with the GCO, not after the way he was treated at the Hearthglen inquest.

When they stepped out into the night, they were several blocks away from the Stockades. Guards paced, mail jingling, through their rounds in the damp and slightly fish smelling air of night, they gave the pair of Gnomes not a second glance.

She turned to Axle Seven and a Half, “Wait, my nickname, you implied I had a nickname?”

Seven and a Half smiled a crooked knowing smile at Grommet. “You should think about this work, truly. You understand more than you know.”

She nodded, apparently agreeing, but she knew that she could never interrogate another Gnome in a place like that. “Please, what was it?”

Seven and Half held up his finger, showing the angry scar that demarcated its missing length. “Shorn off in a milling accident when I was a journeyman in a team of nine; total losses: eight dead, and one short length of a single digit. I never let them regenerate it because the lesson was too valuable. I had the least of injuries, but of the nine of us, my pain lasted the longest.”

Grommets eyes grew wide.

“Not what you heard, is it.”

Grommet mouthed, “no.”

“Keep that in mind, Butcher of Skorn.”

Picnic at Sentinel Hill

Picnic at Sentinel Hill

Meteorus urged his mount up the hill overlooking the settlement of Sentinel Hill, her tack and harness rattled and creaked as though it were about to give way. No matter how much he oiled, nor how much he sewed, hard travel unraveled his work in a matter of days. “You deserve better, Bluebell.”

He touched the most recent patch stitched into his decayed cheek. Instead of some wretched animal's hide, he had applied a patch of mageweave torn from a witch doctor's robe. Oddly, it transmitted, by some necromantic mechanism that he could not explain, the touch of his fingers to his worm-riddled brain. Meteorus wondered idly how long it would last compared to the light leather he normally used. He envisioned himself stitched together entirely of mageweave or runecloth, and smiled.

"Brocade, perhaps," he uttered aloud to the dry dusty air of Westfall, then he chuckled, a deep rolling barking laugh that most could not have described as 'mirthful.'

Bluebell shook as they stopped just below the ridge line. Meteorus dismounted and Bluebell immediately collapsed into a pile of bone and rotted tack that looked like it had lain in the dust of Westfall for a decade or more. "Neat trick, that. Sadly, it seems to be your only one." While it might just have been the wind whipping over the ridge, Meteorus thought he'd heard a faint ghostly nicker.

The bottle of elixir swished in his unsteady hand, only a few doses left. "Let's hope I get something useful right off," Meteorus half prayed, to who or what, he was not certain, then took a drink. The glamor rippled out from his insides, transforming him into a flesh and blood looking human, complete with pirate hat. Meteorus sighed, "This will have to do." He gave a tattered bit of cloth a few shakes and there was a blanket on the top of the ridge. He debated only a moment, and pressed the runes that deployed the umbrella and conjured the picnic basket; making his subterfuge as complete as possible. Perhaps any patrols would think this merely a romantic assignation and would pass him and his eventual guest by. He absently touched the oilskin wrapped book hidden under his robe, even now unsure he wanted to part with it.

He peered over the top of the ridge, looking expectantly at the flight point.

Meteorus's vigil was soon rewarded. A small green-haired gnome hopped off of a griffin and clumsily started up a folded mechanostrider that had been dropped at the edge of the landing area. She rode south out of town, headed for the slope of the hill overlooking the inn.

Meteorus turned to follow her progress, risking what he hoped was a friendly wave. The small figure waved from the back of her mechanostrider, which veered slightly and stumbled over a pile of stones. The town guards turned to look at her and she waved them off, "I'm okay, fences and rocks, you know," she righted herself. The guards chuckled and went back to their rounds, and never once looked up the hill.

"Clumsy or clever?" Meteorus muttered to himself. "I wonder."

Meteorus' attention was drawn to the griffin landing area, another Gnome had hopped off a griffin, this one with a more familiar shape and way of moving. He watched the Gnome, his bright blue eyes visible even at this distance. The Gnome had neatly trimmed facial hair, green. The Gnome was quick, so quick Meteorus lost sight of the Gnome as soon as the Gnome ducked into the sedges along the sides of the road. Meteorus' heart, usually still, fluttered oddly in his chest cavity. He now wondered which Gnome he was supposed to be meeting with. The first was female, which the letters had insisted on being her gender, but the other had looked and moved like his few remaining memories of his old friend, Cogswaddle. He began, for the first time, to think that meeting with the Cogswaddle was a bad idea.

Meteorus tapped the book as he watched the female Gnome pick her way carefully over the rocks, and grinned to himself when she chose a lumpy pile of broken bones and tack to park her mechanostrider next to. She looked up to the ridge at him a moment before dismounting.

“Uncle Fenton?” her voice squeaked.

Meteorus recognized the name, but it pulled at nothing inside, that disturbed him, made him wonder, not for the first time, if the memories that flowed into his rotted brain were really his own. He tapped the book under his robe, a rhythm from an old song in the weavers used while spinning. He nodded at the young Gnome, barely keeping focused on the present.”Meteorus, now, please.”

“Ah, certainly, I'm Grommet, Grommet Cogswaddle.” The young Gnome blushed, muttering, “But you know that, of course what other green haired Gnome would ride out here to meet you?” She struggled through the grasses up to the blanket on the ridge.

Meteorus pondered her question, not realizing its rhetorical nature. “I saw another Cogswaddle come in on a griffin behind yours.”

“What?” The Gnome rushed past him to look over the ridge into the town below. She stared out at the town searching, and Meteorus noted, trembling.

'Tasty,' he thought, catching the scent of her fear. Then quickly shook his head to clear it.

“Just another militia member, I'm sure, many of us serve in human militias these days.”

“Just so,” Meteorus offered his vial of Nogginfogger to the young Gnome, “A glamor, just in case?” In case of what, he wasn't certain, but he would not be able to meet comfortably with the Gnome if she didn't settle down. The Gnome eyed the container uncertainly. Meteorus realized the container wasn't particularly clean, and remembered; sanitation was a concern for the living. He wiped the mouth of the vial with the white trim of his crimson robe. Unaware that all the gnome saw was a pirate wiping a vial on his dirty shirt sleeve.

“Uh, no thank you, Meteorus, Uncle Meteorus, Uncle Met....”

Meteorus stoppered the vial. While the Gnome rambled on trying to find a comfortable way to say his name he checked his pockets and found a wand with a charge or two left from All Hallows. Before the Gnome could squeak out her protest she stood before him in the form of a black clad ninja, long auburn hair pulled in a pony tail, face hidden behind a black mask. “That will have to do.” Meteorus pocketed the wand as the Ninja sputtered a half formed argument against it. “Even your mother wouldn't recognize you.”

The glamor did nothing to hide the Gnome's squeaky voice, or the enticing smell of her fear. Meteorus moved to the other side of the picnic basket and sat down, placing the breeze at his back.
***
Grommet held her hands out in front of her. She looked at her hands, spread them wide and wiggled her fingers. She seemed fascinated by her pinkie. “I can't make it move on its own.”

“It's just a glamor of sorts, half polymorph, half illusion,” Meteorus reached into his robe to remove the book.

Grommet looked down at her body, studying herself, “There's so much of you! It seems highly impractical, clothing wise, food wise, you know?” As if to punctuate the thought her stomach growled.

Meteorus smiled at the Gnome, “The Cogswaddle never seemed to lack for an appetite, either for food, drink, clothing or women.”

The Ninja flushed crimson over her mask and sat down on the other side of the picnic basket.

“Eat, Cogswaddle, the food in the basket is conjured, so I am sure it is safe.” Grommet opened up the picnic basket and set out plates of food for the both of them. She dashed down to her mechanostrider and returned with a bottle of wine. As she did so she cast a worried look down slope.

“I thought I saw someone down there,” Grommet pointed to a rocky pile halfway down the slope.

Meteorus wondered if it was the other Gnome, the one that actually looked like the Cogswaddle. He stood up to look.

“Sit down, they'll know we know they're there,” Grommet hissed under her breath.

Meteorus shrugged, fairly certain her high pitched voice could be heard halfway down the valley, “I'm pretty sure they know that you know, so what if they know that I know, too?” Meteorus' attention shifted to the base of the hill, where a Guard in Stormwind Uniform patrolled. For the second time that day his dead heart performed painful gymnastics inside his chest. Just what was a Stormwind guard doing way out here? Meteorus began to wonder if he'd been set up.

“If we both know then they know that we know...” Grommet stopped, watching the Stormwind Guard step cautiously through the brush, stooping to look at tracks. “Maybe they aren't interested in us at all. That guard is tracking someone.”

“Indeed.” Meteorus hadn't been concerned when he'd cut across the prairie, Bluebell's tracks were certain to lead right to the collapsed pile of bone and tack with the weeds growing through it.

Either the Gnome was a consummate actress, or she really had no connection to the guard. Meteorus decided the hillside was becoming a bit too crowded, and sat down. He pushed the oil skin wrapped package over to the Gnome. ”I found a copy,” he just wanted to get this business over with.

Grommet set the wine down and pulled the book to her, excited. While she unwrapped the book Meteorus opened the wine and poured a couple of glasses, in case the guard should be watching.

She eagerly but gently pulled back the dried and partly decayed protective cover. She gently opened the book itself, and her shoulders hunched, her smile faded. “Oh, rust,” she muttered in Gnomish. “It's a mess, isn't it?”

Meteorus had thought the book, oversized and well bound, was in remarkably good condition, particularly considering how long it might have been in the pile outside the town hall of Tarren Mills. It's external leather cover had been well oiled at one point. Not surprising, as it had been meant, despite its size, to be a field guide. The banshee guardian of the town had tossed him a quizzical look when he pulled the volume triumphantly from the pile.

"I know the author," Meteorus had said lamely.

The banshee had taken the book, looked at it, barely curious, hesitated, assessing him, and then pressed it back into his hands.

"Kor'kran have been through the pile, and the Apothecaries before them, take it." She looked at him, knowing that he wasn't the first, nor the last Forsaken who would take some moldy reminder of a past he would never recapture.

Meteorus shook off the memory and looked at the book, upside down to him, now. Indeed, the pages were water damaged and he couldn't make out what she was looking at from the various colored mold stains. It hadn't looked like that, he was sure. He reached out and turned the book to face him. There, the page looked clean, the sketch crisp. Meteorus turned the book back to the Gnome, preparing to tell her it was fine, but as the book turned away, he could suddenly see the damage. Meteorus' shoulders slumped. Whatever mechanism allowed him to see without physical eyes, had betrayed him. He saw the book from memory, not as it was in the present. “I wonder what else I'm not seeing... accurately.” He looked at the Ninja glamor, trying to pierce its secrets to really see the Gnome inside.

Meteorus sat, looking into the eyes of Grommet's ninja illusion, seeing them grow sadder at each turn of the page. He shifted, preparing to stand and leave.

The Gnome reached out and placed her hand on his boney arm. “Stay a bit, it's okay, the paper is sound, mostly, it can be restored, I bet.” She closed the book gently.

That sat that way for a time, looking at one another's illusions trying to figure out what else to say.

“Eh-Hem!”

The pair jumped and turned to find the Stormwind Guard standing at the edge of their picnic blanket.

“Sorry to interrupt, lovebirds, but I was wondering if either of you have seen a short green-haired gnome, neatly trimmed beard, bright blue eyes, all in dark leathers? Or if one of you is, perhaps, said person?”

The Guard looked at Meteorus, who resisted the urge to throw off Grommet's restraining hand, her grip tightened to a surprising level of strength. He shook his head. “No,” he said, doing his best to control the decayed rattle that normally attended most Forsaken voices.

“Oh, certainly not,” squeaked Grommet, and in turning to face the guard squarely, tipped over the half full bottle of port, splashing its contents on the guard's shiny metal boots. “Sorry, sorry, it's this costume, I'm not used to being big...” She grabbed a napkin and leaned over towards the guard, who took a couple of steps back.

“Clever,” Meteorus thought, which meant Grommet *was* a good actress.

“Show yourself, child,” the guard unsheathed his sword slightly, indicating that Meteorus should stay seated.

“No, it's not what you think,” Grommet started. She stood up, making a production of dispelling the glamor.

Meteorus would have rolled his eyes, if he had any, he really needed to learn to trust his feelings. In his mind he sought out the flow of nether energies that would define the bolt of arcane material for a spell to stitch around the guard.

Grommet's disguise dropped, surprising the guard.

“Ah, oh, I see,” he cleared his throat and stepped back. Grommet's scowl made him want to laugh, but he'd all ready had to sit through the Captain's lecture on the proper treatment of their smallest allies. “I suppose you are of the age of majority?”

“Quite.”

The guard was now four paces away from Meteorus, and the tiny Gnome had managed to place herself directly between them, delicately stepping out of the puddle of wine. It was obvious that the guard felt he needed to reestablish his control of the situation.

“So is your friend also a Gnome?”

Grommet blushed. Meteorus held his hands out, standing and gesturing at the same time. His disguise dropped.

“Ah, I see not, well...” The guard's eyes grew wide, he drew his blade, sunlight flashing off its high polish.

Whatever the guard had planned to say, he never got to finish it. A sheep bleated softly where the guard had been standing.

Grommet spun to face Meteorus, cursing in Gnomish, quite likely the only Gnomish he understood, “Rusty sprockets! Have you gone out of alignment!” Then in Common, “What were you thinking!”

“We have been here long enough.”

“Hey, Lieutenant, we found some hoof prints over by this mechanostrider.”

“What now?” Meteorus glanced down the hill to where Bluebell and the mechanostrider waited. Two of Sentinel Hill's Militia guards were walking up the hill.

“He's seen me! He's seen us! Together!”

“I can fix that.”

Grommet raised her hands, “No!” Meteorus stepped out from the umbrella, and then she saw him, the patches, the puckered lines of stitching holding them together, a partial tattoo on a forearm patch, still recognizable as the Anchor of Kul'Tirus but at an angle no human would have chosen. She swallowed hard. He really was undead. The familiar fear swept over her, more effective than if he'd frost novaed her in place.

The two Militia members were not so frozen, however, they had seen plenty of Forsaken amongst the frequent Horde raiding parties. They were excited at the opportunity to face one alone. So excited that they advanced several steps up the hill before remembering that they had rifles.

Meteorus advanced on the cowering Gnome, hearing his old friend's voice admonishing him.

“You never, ever pick up a Gnome!” The Cogswaddle had quite thoroughly smacked him around for picking him up. The Gnome had the element of surprise, granted, but the Gnome had been far stronger, and far faster than the young man who was now Meteorus had anticipated. “No one picks up this Gnome, unless she's buxom, wide-hipped and auburn-haired,” The Cogswaddle had delivered the last while bouncing on the prone tailor's back at each point. They had gotten drunker together after.

“Sorry, Cogswaddle,” Meteorus Grabbed Grommet under the arms, fully expecting to be kicked and possibly fire blasted or frozen at any moment. The Gnome just yipped and made a sad whimpering noise.

“Hold your fire, he's got a kid!”

“Bastard!”

Meteorus stepped up to the rocks at the edge of the ridge. He looked into Grommet's eyes, and he would have winked, if he had eyelids.

He whispered two words to her as she started to struggle. He lifted Grommet high over his head. “Cogswaddle, your days of meddling in the affairs of the Horde are over!” Meteorus shouted.

“Monster!” Shouted one militia man, a sudden onslaught of tears ruining his aim.

“Bastard!” Shouted the other, again. The report of his rifle punctuated the thought.

The bullet punctuated Meteorus' right forearm, he heard the ulna snap. “Rat turds, I just patched that.”

Grommet yelped, she'd come around too late. The monster had picked her up, and, to her complete shock, thrown her over the cliff!

Meteorus turned, fire on his fingertips. The wet eyed soldier took careful aim.

“Meteorus, noooo!” he heard Grommet shout from behind him, from the sound he judged she was all ready half way down the cliff.

The fire at Meteorus's fingertips went out. Instead he pulled the nether and stitched it into the shape of a less lethal frosty rain of ice and cold. The men slowed, learned the folly of charging uphill, in a blizzard.

The militiamen were pelted, they slipped, exposing their backs and necks, one dropped to his knees, “Mommy!” and collapsed, but still struggled to line up a shot.

“Bastard!” yelled the other, and ran.

Meteorus instantly stopped, Grommet's “No!” echoing back from the tower on the other side of town.

Grommet focused, and cast, “Slow fall,” Meteorus had whispered while picking her up, she'd almost remembered too late. She heard the report of a rifle just as air resistance slowed her magically altered mass nearly to a halt. Her legs were still like liquid and she collapsed and rolled, handle over spout, under the raised floor of the inn.

The bullet ripped through the robe, nicked his hip flask and tore a large divot out of his left thigh. Meteorus knew he was hurt, but real pain would only come later, with memory. At least nothing was broken this time. Meteorus raced towards Bluebell, almost passed the man who'd called for his mommy, but still hearing Grommet's concern stopped to check him. Still living, blood pumped strongly through his veins. He would be sore, but would live.

The sheep on the crest let out a loud bleat that changed halfway trough to an angry “Stop!”

'Shouldn't have...' Meteorus grabbed the nether and tried to fold it and himself down the hill the last few yards towards the pile of bones that was Bluebell. He found himself up hill, three yards closer to the ridge line, and further away from his loyal mount. He'd missed the roiling Ley line just below the surface of the hill, it had bounced him backwards. “Rat...”

The mass of the plate wearing Lieutenant slammed into Meteorus, rattled his soggy brain, tangled his limbs. Before Meteorus could turn to face his attacker, even before he could straighten out, the large shining sword split the recently repaired robe, sliced through rotted muscle and tendon, shattered both shoulder blades and chipped large chunks from his third thoracic vertebrae.

“Turds.” Meteorus finished as he slumped to the ground, a rag doll in ability as well as looks.

“Get up here, he's dead, I got him.” The Lieutenant kicked Meteorus over, leaned down and stuck his hand in front of his nose and mouth, felt the sunken chest above his dead heart. For good measure he thrust his dagger a few times through the chest cavity. “Help me drag him over to that pile of tack, that looks like it will burn.” The Lieutenant started to drag Meteorus over to the pile next to the mechanostrider. “Never mind, I got it. It doesn't weigh anything.”

“What about the kid?” The rifleman who'd called for his mommy muttered, still prone on the ground.

“Gnome, you mean, see the strider there,” the Lieutenant pointed in the direction he was dragging the desiccated corpse. “I figure she came up here and was snookered by this villain.”

“Bastard,” said the other militiaman, having regained his composure.

“Yeah, he was, almost had us there, too.” He grunted as he tossed Meteorus onto the pile of debris. Take the strider with you. If that Gnome survived she's probably going to want it.” The Lieutenant strode back over to the fallen man, helped him up. “Let's go, no one bleeds to death on my watch.”

“What about that,” the injured man pointed to Meteorus, “we should burn it.”

“Let's get you squared away first, soldier. I'll bring some mill-men back to clear the brush and make a proper bonfire. No need to burn down the whole valley for it.”

The injured man nodded and drifted off into a troubled unconsciousness, only the first of many featuring a pallid, patched, monster. His children would grow up never understanding why he burned all their rag dolls upon his return from the infirmary.



Meteorus felt the banshee long before he faced her. He wasn't certain how she could be behind him, nor how he could turn around, since he was dead. He lay, or stood, or sat, never sure which, looking at the long tunnel. Something told him there was supposed to be someone there to meet him, but no faces peered down the long shaft to where he, existed.

“No!” came the answer to his yet unformed question.

“I am dead.”

“We're all dead,” laughed the banshee, and her voice was joined by others, “or not living, or not dead,” they filled in the tunnel walls with sound that was not sound, but a feminine pressure on his brain.

“It is time to go back,” the loudest voice stated.

Meteorus turned to face her, long elf ears and a small oval face floated above the stretched female form which shimmered and flowed as silk in water.

“As a Tauren Brave?” Meteorus asked hopefully.

“No.”

“As a clever Troll?”

“No.”

“Honorable Dwarf?”

There was laughter.

“No.”

“Gnome,” he didn't even dare hope.

“Soulless Maker's Toys,” one of the quieter voices hissed.

“No.”

“Human,” he offered in disappointment.

There was much more laughter at this one, but not of a reassuring kind.

“Maybe I can get it right this time.”

“It doesn't work that way, human.”
Meteorus groaned. “Is there ever...”

“No. It is a curse.” The banshee drifted momentarily out of his sight, the returned, a golden glow in her hands.

“Curse,” was repeated, filling the tunnel and dimming the light at the end.

“Curse.” Meteorus repeated.

“Or a gift,” some of the voices offered.

“I don't see how...”

“Go back, human.”

“Go back,” echoed hundreds of voices, as though every banshee was connected to every other.

“I know you,” said a small distant voice. “You tried to save me from a Night Elf attack on Tarren Mill.”

Meteorus remembered being torn into eight pieces and spread across the town and the dead orchard beyond. With the memories came the pain.

“You attempted to deceive the Apothecaries with a Silverpine wolf in place of a dog.”

There was a rippling of laughter that filled the tunnel with darkness. He remembered the burning acid in a pit in the Undercity, and with the memory came the pain.

“That saved you from the Kor'kron inquisition after Wrathgate,” a consoling voice whispered far away.

“You fought bravely to protect The Bloodhoof, yes, Elder Runetotem was impressed.”

Meteorus remembered the burning pillars of light from hands of tentacle faced paladins who ignored is plea for a truce. The most horrible burning of all, and with the memory came the pain, double, it appeared, as he had once been spared.

“We rarely see such intervention. Even with the power of an Elder's prayer this curse can only be delayed.”

He wailed. “Will it always be like this?”

“Yes,” the voice had little sympathy.

“Always,” echoed hundreds of female voices, only a few sympathetic.

“Until your true death.”

“When is that?” Meteorus now had no hope that this was it.

“We will call your name.”

“What name?”

There was laughter.

A voice far away amidst the laughter whispered, “Your true name. Hope you know by then.”

The banshee lifted her hands, thrusting the golden glow into is dull eye sockets. His vision returned, he saw where he was, he remembered, and with the memory came the pain.

Then, while the laughter of hundreds of banshees echoed in his skull, Meteorus sat up. His body quivered, wracked with all the agony of his previous deaths.

Bluebell stirred beneath him, standing in fits and starts. She started down the hill slowly then picked up speed until they raced away from Sentinel Hill, looking for a place to teleport to safety.


Epilog

A pair of bright blue eyes below a thatch of thick green hair watched the pile of rags and bones become horse and rider. He watched the rickety pair ride off, gaining speed as they headed for a ruined cabin in the distance. He'd stayed, because he'd known his sister was safe, he couldn't have explained how, but their cogs were linked, and he just knew.

Camfollower slipped into the shadows and crept to the top of the ridge. There was nothing left of the days events but some trampled grass, a port wine smell, and a book.

The book was familiar, it's size, its binding, its heft. He'd helped his uncle once, painting the little shadows on the thorns of the Swift Thistle. Drew beetle shadows on the underside of Steelbloom leaves, many other small details. He opened the book exactly to where the plate of the Thistle would be. Barely visible beneath the mold stains was an illustration, the iron based ink had faded from black to rust, but there were the very strokes Cam had applied to the plate as a little cog.

“Oh, Grommie, what are you doing?” he said to the wind. “That's not Uncle Fenton, he's turned, and those turned don't turn back.”

He sat against the rocks in contemplation, clutching the book, thinking of happier times, listening to the wind whisper over the ridge. He started to nod in the afternoon heat. He dreamed he'd been meditating in the hall of gears, he'd thought he'd heard The Call. A sudden chill prevented him from giving the ritual response, “I am ready to follow the plan.”

He woke with a start, then he imagined he heard the wind wailing out “Cam, Camfollower Cogswaddle.” This sounded anything but machine-like. He shivered despite the heat. He was thankful it wasn't dark yet.

Cam slipped into the shadows without responding to the voice, hoping the day's business had taken the Lieutenant Detective back to Stormwind.

Introduction to The Wood Frog

Grommet Cogswaddle made her way down from the attic over the curio shop, across the park-like lawn at the base of the Mage's Tower and up to the mailbox outside the Blue Recluse. The small Gnome pulled a chair over to the magical appliance and climbed up even with it's delivery orifice. Anyone watching would notice a certain apprehension, a hesitation as she allowed the spell to identify her before pulling open the hatch.

There was a single package, a brownish stain, now dry, had once been wet enough to wrinkle the wrapping paper at one corner. Grommet sighed. She quickly transferred the wildly off balanced package into her pack. She didn't even have to look at the mailing information to know it was from her mother. Grommet would wait until nightfall to make the trip to the Elwynn Forest cemetary. There she would open the package while hidden in the bushes next to the charnel pit. This made for easy disposal of the little "extras" her mother couldn't be bothered to remove from the boots and gloves she sent for Grommet to practice her enchanting skills on.

Beneath the package was a pair of letters. One popped open, an announcement, really, a fishing gathering, in Southshore. Grommet loved to fish, a few more pieces of driftwood, tangled line and tattered cloth and she would have enough materials to make a lawn chair. She sighed, wondering if she even knew where her fishing pole was these days. "I bet Southshore is lovely this time of year. Murlocs on one shore, Naga on the other, Syndicate on the side road and Undead on the main road."

Three human students of the arcane arts slowed as they entered the Blue Recluse, unsure if the Gnome was speaking to them. Grommet looked up at them and handed them the flyer. It was then she saw the scratchy thin handwriting on the back. "Meet me west of the docks."

The three thanked her and walked into the tavern. Grommet wanted to grab the flyer back, then resolved to just hope they didn't turn the thing over and think... she blushed.

"Oh, rust," She grabbed the last letter in the box, a thick packet of wrapped pages with the single word "Cogswaddle" printed in the same scratchy hand as the line on the back of the flier. Grommet ran into the tavern after the students. "Hey! Ignore that message on the back, that was a note for me!"

The three students laughed, and pointed. They had pinned the flier up on the shelf at the entrance to the tavern for others to see. It was obvious that they hadn't even looked at the back of the attractively printed flier. Grommet would have had to jump, or move furniture to get the flier. Since she was all ready blushing, Grommet decided to make a hasty retreat back to her attic room where she could read her mail in peace.

Boxes

              Grommet'd hardly heard from her mother since Cowlflap had left Gnomeregan to volunteer as a medic for the Argent Dawn.
             The first letter was full of concern and worry that Grommet had not gotten into the Arcane Academy after all, along with the admonitions to study harder and “apply again later. I know you can do it! Maximom, serving the Light at Light's Hope Chapel. P.S. They don't know anything about the soothing Power of the Infinite Lever!”
              Grommet had dutifully kept the letter, "organizing" it into one of her many boxes. She had not thought of it since, and had only partially taken her mother's advice, she was studying, but it was more of a real world applications course of study, she had the callouses and bloodstained robes to show it.
             After the first letter had come a series of eight packages, wrapped in several odd publications, seemingly from some sort of religious press. Grommet had filed a single copy of each of them away in one of her boxes as well, the one closest to the small fireplace in her room. Why her mother would send dozens of copies of them, Grommet was afraid to ask. Maximom was a fairly respected priestess of the Order of the Infinite Lever, so not likely to be taken in by such a rough and illogical religion as portrayed here. The first few boxes contained various knick-knacks to sell, and some jewelry (a hobby of her mother's, though these were quite unlike anything her mother had made before.) Grommet had sold the lot off to help pay for private tutoring.
             Grommet excitedly wrote to her mother that she was studying enchanting in hopes of helping her own magic work better. And, coincidentally, hoping to distract her mother from the topic of the Arcane Academy; Grommet had pretty much lost all hope of meeting their entrance requirements. The next package contained several enchanted items of armor and a couple of weapons, the shipping cost must have been exorbitant. They were all far too complex for Grommet to make any progress with them, so she took them to the auction house in hopes that someone else would be able to use them. That shipment had also contained the first hint that things were not right with her mother. There was no letter. Whilethere had been no letters with the first few boxes, they had come all at once over the course several days, and were obviously goods meant for resale, after the economy of Gnomeregan broke down, barter was pretty much the way things got done, Maximom was good at it. This package, though, was obviously sent in response to her own letter, but there had been no correspondence.
              Upon returning from a trip to Kharanos to purchase her first mechanostrider, Grommet found that another package had arrived, full of odd little carved glass balls. Grommet had taken one out, pondering it, and promptly got lost in the maze of lines etched in its surface. She sat, mesmerized, and drifted off. She dreamed of shouting and blood and fire and smoke and the smell of death, not fresh like the wild boars whose leather Grommet skinned and meat she preserved to provision her allies in the local militia, but old death, rotten with evil. The smell permeated the box and clung to the glass baubles. Grommet took the box of baubles to the fountain outside the Cathedral and washed them, unconsciously reciting the “Checklist of Smooth Operations” she'd learned as a child. She discarded the pasteboard shipping box, and though the smell was gone, she couldn't bring herself to meditate on one of the baubles again. She sold that whole lot for a somewhat surprising fee. It funded her next couple of lessons and allowed her to purchase what she needed to make a runed rod to further her study of enchantments.
              The final clue that something was amiss was the boots.
              Westfall and the choking mines underneath were days ago. The undead that still worked the deep mines were all formerly good men of the Explorer's League and Ironforge Mining Guilds. How they'd been turned was a mystery to Grommet, but it had taken most of the day to get the smell out of her robes. Grommet had donned her coveralls and gone down to the Blue Recluse to study and check her mail, and hopefully forget. She'd frozen again, fighting the undead, and had almost died because of it. If that Handsome Dwarf with the two headed hound hadn't come along....
              Another package, the outside was singed and items were stuffed inside as though in a hurry. The smell of smoke and blood was still on them. It was an odd collection of mismatched armor and baubles and trinkets. Then there were the boots. They were at the bottom of the box, on top of a note, scrawled in what looked like blood. Grommet set the boots aside, one of them much heavier than the other. She picked up the note. It was, though large and rough, undoubtedly her mother's writing.
              “Study harder. I'm coming for you. You MUST be ready. Cowlflap Cogswaddle”
              “Cowlflap Cogswaddle,” Grommet blurted aloud, startling a young mage headed into the Blue Recluse. Her mother never signed her letters that way, not since, as toddlers, Grommet and Camfollower had nicknamed them Maximom and Omnidad. They always signed their letters with their nicknames. They even called one another by them, even when working around the medical platform, at least when they thought no one could hear.
              “What's the matter, Maximom?” she whispered to no one.
              She picked up the heavy boot, and discovered the remains of a foot from the ankle down. Her squeal echoed through the Mage's Quarter.
              The young mage stepped over to see what the problem was. He saw the raw rotting edges of the contents of the boot and passed out at Grommet's feet.

DRAFT: Terror on the Tram

Grommet Cogswaddle
in
Terror on the Tram

              Grommet Cogswaddle had managed to make enough profit on the skins she'd taken while running errands across the wilderness of Dun Morough to afford a room in Ironforge for a few days. She wanted to spend some time studying before making the trip to Stormwind to apply at the Arcane Acadamy.
              Unknown to Grommet, the Scourge had all ready arrived, eager to disrupt her classes.
              Grommet cut through the center of the central forge, she loved the sound of hammers ringing against the great anvil, the business of blacksmiths and engineers chatting as they worked, democratically sharing what they knew, offering improvements and suggestions. Despite being ruled by a king, the Great Forge was a meeting place that provided not only for technological development, but for political development as well. It was because of the community links forged here centuries before that the Dwarven Kings found themselves bound to a sometimes fractious and always raucous Senate.
              Finding herself amongst the history tomes in the Explorer's Library, Grommet mused that Dwarves would have a full on republic if they weren't so stubborn about their traditions, and having a king was certainly a dear tradition. She wondered when her own people would begin to demand a say in Dwarvish governance, as their own institutions had all but broken down in the collapse of Gnomeragan. Gnomes had adapted to their new alliance societies with mixed results. In the case of Ironforge, the society was republic enough to absorb the Gnomish political pressure and make it part of its own. In human lands, being small like human children was likely all that prevented a full crackdown by members of either the clergy or the sovereign's government. Human towns had counsels, whose job it was to provide requested resources to the crown, and, so it seemed, to beg for some return on those resources. That seemed to be about as far as democracy stretched in Stormwind. Grommet could not imagine how humans had put up with such unfairness for so long. (She did freely admit that central rule did have certain undeniable efficiencies that her own political system had lacked, particularly when it came to dealing with unexpected conflict.)
              Grommet's reverie was disturbed by coughing and hacking from a nearby table. A reader had collapsed, enveloped in a foul sick cloud. Grommet instinctively moved away. The reader rose, altered, a feral look in his eye. Guards arrived, but not in time to save a poor library clerk who'd been too absorbed in her own work to notice the change.
              Grommet left the library and looked around her. There were signs of illness everywhere, insects crawled about that she'd never remembered seeing before. Suspicious looking piles of crates oozed a miasma of diseased energy so thick that she could see it. She was startled to realize that not everyone saw the danger as people walked up to the crates, out of curiosity or stubbornness, she couldn't tell.
              “Stay away from those crates, there's something wrong with them!”
              “Mind yer own buisness, squirt!”
              “Just want to see where they're from and who they're going to. Sure are a lot of them.”
              Grommet could see that the writing on the crates was magical in nature, but nonsensical in reality.
              “This here crate belongs over in the War Quarter, I'll just take it there m'self, I'm gong that way any how.” A burly Dwarf hefted one of the crates and began carrying it, the miasma flowing out of the crate and into his mouth, ears and nose, un-noticed, as he made his way through the Great Forge to the War Quarter.
              “This is bad,” Grommet spoke aloud, though no one was listening to her. “I think I'll head to Stormwind early.” Grommet reasoned that the open architecture would be healthier. Another coughing fit broke out in the Library, this time, one of the guards. “I'd better hurry.”
              The griffin shot into the air, seeming glad to be leaving the place. Grommet clutched the saddle, grabbing hand fulls of neck feathers. The tighter she gripped, the steeper the griffin banked. Grommet realized that her tight grip was signaling the griffin that she wanted to go faster, so forced herself to ease up. The griffin's flight immediately smoothed out. She glanced down. Though many of the high places in Gnomeragan had no hand rails, none had been to be so high as this. Then she realized that rather than a solidly engineered craft with multiple safety systems, this was a living breathing being. She had no parachute.
              Grommet forced herself to look out to the horizon. She took to counting her coins to distract her from the flight. With a start, she realized that she shouldn't have taken the flight, she would barely have enough for her classes, especially if she wanted a tutor (and that seemed to be the fastest way for her to learn.) She would have to try to find a room other than an Inn.
              The griffin hovered over the landing area, unsure. Grommet had closed her eyes on their final approach, remembering that some of the griffins liked to weave through the guard towers before landing. She wondered only a moment why they weren't down yet; the landing platform was awash in combat.
              Grommet tumbled backwards off the griffin, and stayed low in the pile of straw until the scuffling moved away from where she hid. Grommet raced out of the landing area and across to the Mage Park and it's tower full of classes, tutors and tomes. The trade district was not as lively and open as usual. People were huddled in small groups, some even with every person's weapons ready and pointing outward. They eyed Grommet with suspicion as she ran to the Mages' Tower.
              Grommet studied well into the night, and one of the tutors mentioned the Blue Recluse being open for dinner. Several of the tutors and students wanted to take a break, Grommet wanted to go, but the fare there was far more than the dozen copper coins left in her purse would allow.
              “I have rooms in Ironforge, so I will just take the tram back.”
              “Be careful, things have gotten strange out there.”
              “I will.”
              The cobbled paths were oddly quiet, but the city itself was not. Guards ran past, on their way into the Trade district. Grommet decided it was a nice night for a stroll along the canal. The air was cool, fish jumped, the stars shone brightly over head, at least until she neared the Dwarven district. “Temperature Inversion,” she said to no one in particular, but it made her appreciate the continuous ventilation of Ironforge, powered of course by the heat of the Great Forge itself. “Out doors is highly over-rated.”
              Grommet made her way towards the Tram station, only detouring once to avoid a large conglomeration of people, people who were inspecting boxes and crates and finding that they weren't exactly where they were supposed to be, so they might just move them as a favor to who ever had tried and failed to deliver them properly.
              “Ugh! I think I got some on me!”
              Grommet turned the corner to see a young mage and a hard looking woman shooting disgusted looks at the miasma cloud around a large cockroach.
              “Let me clean that up,” the woman said, and with a few gestures Grommet recognized from her own father's healing skills, cast a spell on her young friend, then on herself. “We need to see if anyone else has been infected, this could be bad. Let's stop for my armor.”
              The young mage looked nervous, “Does this mean our evening is over?”
              “No, just that this will be a working date.”
              The young mage sighed, the sigh of a man who knows he's not getting any.
              Grommet scurried past, a huge grin on her face. Human males had a delightful ability to look imminent disaster in the face, and immediately think of something else, usually women. She liked the woman's practical approach, it was very Gnomelike. The humans didn't acknowledge her as they moved by, all their attention focused on their new mission.
              Grommet looked at the ruined insect from what she hoped was a safe distance. She marveled at it's size, It looked like it had some sort of pale liquid sheen trapped between its body and wings. “It's a good thing they aren't more intelligent.”
              “What?”
              “Oh! I didn't see you there.” Grommet found herself facing a handsome young Gnome with a tall shock of red hair.
              “What's not intelligent?”
              “That,” Grommet pointed to the ruined bug.
              “Of course not, it's a bug.”
              “You're right, of course, but there's still something out of alignment here.”
              “Yes, well, I have a tram to catch.”
              “Me, too, mind if I come along.”
              “If you can keep up.”
              The handsome Gnome sprinted away.
              Grommet was left far behind. Until she stopped, huffing and puffing at the train platform.
              “I missed the Tram by that much,” the young Gnome held his hands barely a whisker apart.
              “You're just like my brother, insanely fast, but poor timing.” Grommet heard brakes squealing in her head as she watched the Gnome's face fall.
              “Did she really just compare me to her brother,” was written all over the handsome young Gnome's face.
              The two Gnomes stood in awkward silence waiting for the Tram. Grommet waited until the last second to board, making sure no one infected got on. As the tram pulled away from the loading station, Grommet moved to the front of the car, and the handsome Gnome stood a respectful distance towards the rear of the car. Grommet gave a little cheer, the tram always made her happy, its smooth and speedy progress inspiring in a deeply spiritual way. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a hunched man shape launch itself from the refugee lined walkway onto the tram, and into their car.
              Three beings froze. Grommet struggled to remember a single spell, but before she could un-jumble the spells she knew from the ones she'd just learned, the creature had slammed the handsome Gnome against the back rail, knocking him flat instantly. Grommet squeaked and ran to the front rail of the car. Highly engineered safety systems kicked in, preventing her from leaping over into the next car. She turned, expecting to meet the same fate as her car mate. Frost danced on her fingertips. The creature sprayed a full blast of mucus like bile over her. Then was off the car before she could finish her spell.
              Grommet spent the rest of the trip sitting with the unconscious Gnome. Trying to clean herself off. She was still shaking when the Tram pulled into the station.
              “You need to get to a healer. We'll take care of this one.”
              Grommet looked up, and up at the speaker. An elf, clad in forest greens and her hair tightly contained in long braids pointed out of the Tram Station.
              “Where did the zombie go?” A plate clad warrior of the Argent Dawn asked.
              “He jumped off the train, way back before the lake.”
              The walking output of a steel mill rumbled something under his breath that Grommet didn't catch.
              Grommet felt confined by the large number of tall people who'd gathered around, so excused her self with a curt, “I feel fine, nothing a bath won't fix.”
              Grommet reached the anvil, and realized the anvil was silent, even the smithy's vendor was away, his barrels and crates of flux and coal unattended. Grommet's belly soon felt like loose oil senders rattling against the insides of a crankcase. “I think I should find a healer,” She'd remembered seeing one by the Griffins, and not thinking anything of it at the time, believing it to be a recruiter or some such. A quick glance showed her that post was now empty. Grommet felt her cogs slip. There was no one in the forge, even the guards seemed to be missing.
              Grommet ran, the bank was always full, there would be someone there. “Healer, I need a healer!”
              “On the balcony at Stonefire,” came the response.
              Grommet tossed a wave and a “Thanks,” out to the crowd, who watched her run off, some shaking their heads.
              Just a couple of hundred yards to the tavern, Grommet's sight faltered and she missed the door. Circling back, she raced inside, and up the stairs. Somehow, she was turned around in a crowd, the illness took on a life of its own, a voice seemed to call to her, encouraging her to give up.
              “No,” she said aloud and stepped into the room with the balcony. It was full of elves. White hair, purple hair. The healer was busy with them.
              Grommet saw that he would turn regularly and heal people out on the street below. She yelped, but he still did not see her.
              Grommet's vision faded and she tumbled back out of the room, and down the stairs.
              “I don't feel so well,” she said and clutched her stomach, the pain stopping her before she could reach the street and healing.
              The voice, it was calm, assured, but demanding. Grommet didn't like it. She lurched to her feet. A human and a Gnome were engaged in conversation at a table across the room. They stopped to look at her, they looked like, well Grommet hadn't eaten since she started her tutoring in Stormwind.
              “No!” Grommet shook off the feeling and staggered out into the street. “Balcony, it's not too late...” was what she meant to say, but only a strange gurgling came from her lips.
              A guard rushed at her, an instinct, from some other mind, kicked in and she parried and stuck the guard to the ground in a gooey effluent vomited from somewhere unholy deep in her body. The urge to bite, infect and move on was almost impossible to overcome.
              “I'm tall!” Grommet reveled in it a moment, looking down at the helpless guard.
              “I was going to put her out of her misery,” from a small feminine voice in the tavern.
              That was enough to kick what Gnomish personality was left into high gear and she turned to step out under the balcony, arms raised to the healer in supplication.
              Holy light ripped reality asunder and brought down its healing powers. Grommet didn't remember her father's healing powers burning so awfully, and that fact stuck in her head for some time after she stopped moving.
              How long she was out she could only measure by the continued conversation inside the tavern. Grommet couldn't really follow it, but there were strong arcane energies being tossed about, and that drew her back inside. Grommet crawled, unseen and tried to make it into a chair. She rolled out onto the floor at the feet of the mage, instead.
              “Are you okay?” the same feminine voice asked.
              Grommet wanted to shout “No!” at the reddish pink ponytails, but that was the same voice that had so disappointingly spoken about putting her out of her misery, she stopped herself. “I will be, thanks.” Embarrassed, Grommet stepped back out of the tavern. Baram had allowed her to clean up after one of her messier lessons, so she made her way next door.
              “Actually, you'd probably be safer in the tavern, there's some mighty powerful doings there, and not just from the Argent Dawn priest on the balcony.”
              “But, I almost threw up on them.”
              “Strange times, these, I imagine they've seen worse.”
              Grommet couldn't fault his logic and, after carefully checking the roadway, ducked back into the tavern.
              “Do you mind if I sit here. I'll be very quiet.” Grommet realized that she might have well asked them to protect her, but by now she just didn't care.
              “Please have a seat,” the bouncy pigtails motioned her to a chair.
              “Thank you,” and for some reason she curtsied to the work cloth clad woman. There was something commanding about her.
              Grommet sat quietly, sipping some tasteless conjured water and nibbling on some pumpernickel. Her trainers assured her that there wasn't some poor baker somewhere out of his mind because his goods kept going missing, but their explanations of what was really happening left a lot to the imagination. Whenever Grommet went to a bakery, she always made sure to tip well, just in case.
              “So, what's your story?”
              “I was attacked on the tram, even though I checked before I got on.” Grommet pouted at the memory, both fresh and somehow all ready ancient at the same time. She shuddered.
              “Tram jumping.” The human mage moved closer to the conversation.
              The pigtailed Gnome blinked, as though surprised and perhaps a little delighted to hear something she didn't know. “What's that?”
              “A kind of sport I heard about in my youth,” said the mage, sounding more familiar than just hearing about it, “people would move down the platform and then try to jump onto the moving tram.”
              “Why would they do that?” And though Grommet had the same question, she didn't voice it.
              “The challenge. It's sort of a sport.” The human stopped, realizing that both Gnomes were now ready to bolt down that conversational opening rather than talk about the attack.
              The questioning continued, and Grommet was surprised that the telling was so much longer than the incident itself.
              The two mages decided they must do something about it and prepared to leave. Grommet lost herself in counting her coins again, deciding that it might be worth it to spend the last of them on something stronger to drink.
              “Okay, lets go.”
              Grommet looked at the pigtailed Gnome, not knowing if she'd spoken to her (as her attention had all ready turned inward.) “Me?” she asked with a terrified look on her face. The pink-tailed Gnome shook her head.
              Grommet sat back down with a much relieved sigh. She thought to wave good bye, after they'd walked out the door. “Good luck, be careful,” she said to the nearly empty room.
              “You going to order something?” the bartender asked, but tenderly.
              Grommet shook her head.
              “I don't know what's worse, being attacked by zombies or being grilled by the likes of those,” the bar tender chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.
              Grommet knew. Grommet treasured the older Gnome's command of the interview. Though she felt like her cogs still skipped and slipped, Grommet felt much more aligned. It was good to know that the 'likes of those' were out there patrolling the city.