|Trell: Interest in Archeological Forsaken [For Storyline]
||[Jul. 19th, 2009|09:13 pm]
The Warcraft Columnist
Once again in a seedy cantina in the Lower City of Shattrath, Trell moved to the bouncy, erratic tune blaring through the crowded, alien-filled room. Smoke hung above the heads of the patrons, some chattering in countless languages, others stoned from some Ethereal-imported drug. An Arrakoa squaked over the din, and a bar fight began but a few meters away from the main bar counter, but everything continued as it had. Over the years she had spent getting hammered in this particular tavern, Trell had learned that people losing arms and getting black eyes was all in a day's work to the barkeep -- himself a burly, wart-covered Mo'arg.|
Edging towards him now, Trell sat down on the only open stool at the bar, and, raising her voice to be heard over the people talking around her, said, "Derg! Derg, have you heard anything about--" She was cut off by a sharp screech from where the bar brawl had been occurring, evidently the Arrakoa being hurt. When the level of noise subsided some, she tried again: "Derg, have you heard anything about that Fargul fellow? You know, the skeletal Forsaken that was waiting for someone in here last night . . ."
Derg glanced up from scrubbing a grimy glass with an equally grimy rag, and answered, "Aye. Some other dead folk like him wandered in a few minutes after you left, and, well, took him out to an alley . . . I doubt it ended well for him. Whatever he did to 'em, they didn't like it." Trell frowned. Fargul wasn't strong, from what she knew about him, and had indeed made a number of enemies when he had saved Regranaam from certain death at one of his faction's large excavation sites.
"Any chance he'll be coming back, do you think? Did he talk to you at all?" Trell placed both of her elbows up on the tall bar, and braced her chin on a fist, looking off to the side at a number of purple-skinned hobgoblins dancing some strange Kezan shuffle. The Mo'Arg behind the counter shook his head, and spun the contraption attached to his left arm: part saw, part spinning orb. Trell had never gotten a chance to discover what it was for, and was glad for that.
After a moment of relative silence -- between the two of them, at least, as the cantina continued to rumble -- Derg spoke again, voice its usual low growl. "You know, if you're that interested in their archeology group, you could ask Bimmle. He's a Kobold that hangs out hearabouts . . . one of the back rooms, which he's renting. Rich bugger, and smart, for one of his race."
At that point, the noise level rose another notch, and, unable to continue conversation with Derg any longer, Trell simply offered him a nod and wandered off towards the hallway, searching for Bimmle's private room. The rooms in the back of the cantina were of a curious sort; for the sentients that couldn't -- or wouldn't -- get drunk on liquids, they released noxious fumes pleasant to some Draenor and Ethereal types. Locating a rack Legion-style gas masks at the beginning of the hallway, Trell endeavored to search for Bimmle, door after door . . .