Hammers and hooves rang on stone, and everywhere there was the clank and scrape of moving bodies, armed and armored for a world full of unrest and violence. Shadows passed like moving clouds as gryphons swooped overhead, their riders navigating the wide stone corridors of the air in counterpoint to the sea of beings moving below. Ironforge, the City Beneath the Mountain, manifestation of the might of Khaz Modan, throbbed with the activities of life, and death, and war.
Gyrik slipped easily through the crush of bodies that filled the wide expanse of the Commons, moving with the easy grace of one raised on the underground streets, amid the hustle and bustle. Dodging out of the way of a group of armored dwarves moving with purpose, he rolled under the legs of a shaggy mountain ram, leaving it blinking in surprise. Laughing, he shot on through the crowd, grinning at passerby before disappearing or being shooed quickly away, the latter mainly by tall, silent night elves or elegantly dressed humans picking their way through the dust and grit. There were being so many people! Much so of life and noise and confusion more enough than to be masking there a quick dart, here a loose wallet. Today were the cogs clicking together, snap-clank-snap, oh indeed yes. Oops!
Catching a toe on a loose cobble, Gyrik tumbled across the stones, right into the feet of a passing dwarf woman, the force of the over exuberant gnome causing her to sit down with a bump. Rolling awkwardly away, Gyrik shot to his feet, frantically attempting to both help the slightly stunned dwarf up and simultaneously not be within 100 spans of the general vicinity, all the while stringing together a stream of apologies. Shaking her head a bit, the woman laughed warmly.
“Oy lad, here, ain’t nothing to be worrying about, ‘twas just a little spill. What puts you in such a hurry this mornin’, hmm?”
“OhterriblysorryIambeingMiss,reallymorecarefulIshouldbeandwherewatchgoingIam,Iwasjustadeliverymaking
togoodtheMrs.FiresSeargentFarmountain!” This last was almost squeaked as a stout, well armored dwarf marched up to the pair, a grin fighting its way through his resplendent whiskers.
“Well well well, what would be having ‘ere then? This be young Gyrik, up to ‘is usual, hrmm?” He peered close at the gnome, who scooted backwards. “Do I need to be havin’ another word with the Tinkmaster, aye?”
“No oh Mountainfar Captain, uh, sir!” Gyrik grinned guiltily. The dwarven lady clucked and took a step to stand between soldier and street urchin.
“Really, Baelor, he was simply rushing about like all youth these days, and not looking where he was going. There isn’t no call to be a’fearing him so.”
The guard pushed his goggles up onto his nose and pulled at one of his thick eyebrows. “Well ma’am, bein’ your pardon, but all the smoothness o’ speech this lad lacks was just moved to ‘is fingers. Don’t go bein’ so sure he hasn’t picked up a thing or two of yours.” With this he stared meaningfully at Gyrik, who coughed into his hand and looked pleadingly at the dwarf as a small package wrapped in brown paper seemed to appear in his hands.
“er, yes, I was noticing that dropping this you were, Mrs.Toeb- I mean Bouldertoe!” he flustered, handing it to the woman. “there just. Apologies my most profuse for the upset!” Pushing the package into the somewhat confused hands of Mrs. Bouldertoe, he attempted to sidle quickly away into the crowds, but Guard Farmountain caught him in an iron grip and deftly pulled a shining silver necklace from one of the many pockets sewn into the gnome’s patched clothing.
“Ah, and were you off just now to return this wee trinket to poor Myra, lad? Or did you not know that she had been missing it these past few days?” Shaking his head sadly, the dwarf pocketed the necklace and, not releasing his hold on Gyrik, turned and touched two fingers to his brow. “Keep yer feet on the ground, miss. I best be off with this one, and seeing that he gets home safe-like. Good day!” With that, the dwarf hurried a protesting Gyrik off through the crowds.
- - -
“I simply do not believe that it would be efficient for the High Tinker to be seeing to this!” hissed Tinkmaster Overspark to the annoyed thief catcher. “He is still quite, quite busy deep in counsel with regards to the retaking of our fine abode, and does not wish to be disturbed by such petty affairs as a lone ragamuffin.” The gnome harrumphed, drawing himself up to his full two spans of height.
“But he’s bein’ one of your own,surely?” groused Farmountain, at this point fully annoyed at the high pitched refusals. “Somethin’s to be done, and you should be the ones to do it!”
“It is simply not to be done currently, yes,” replied Overspark, sniffing at Gyrik’s small, rather dirty form. Gyrik returned the gaze with an look that, to the dwarf’s eye, spoke of past anger and sadness. Something to do with the Gnomeregan disaster, most like. Sighing, he lay a hand on the young gnome’s shoulder.
“Many thanks fer your precious time, then. Well lad, ‘tisn’t nothing to be done ‘bout it now but to take it up with the High Seat.” Gyrik paled and tried to lose himself in the shadows.
“Not certainly you would be me taking before King Bea,” he coughed, “King Bronzebeard? Oh, no please Captain! But anything!” Farmountain could only shake his head sadly.
“My hands are tied, lad. I was telling you the first time to be watchin’ yerself, but you weren’t listenin’, now were yeh? But,” and here the dwarf hushed his voice conspiratorially, “the King is bein’ a mite busy hisself, and until such time as you can see him, if you were to be doin’ me a favor, mayhap I could put in a good word for yeh when you do?”
“Really would doing you be such a thing?” asked Gyrik, hesitantly.
“Oh, yes lad. If you were to, say, spend some time helping some of us guard folk out Coldridge way, and seeing if you might chat yerself up into the company of old Blackbeard o'er in the Cavern, well, it’d be a service.”
Boots Well Worn
Finally got around to writing more, and even if Gyrik's moved away, I still want to keep the story here updated. Since I've made use (briefly) or RIngo as a character, feel free to correct me if you feel something is out of yer character, boss dwarf.
---
Gyrik edged forward, nervous in the presence of the High Court. His fingers danced, although he knew the eyes of the guards under their helmets were watching his every move, and so he did nothing but stand, waiting, before the throne of King Magni Beardbronz- Bronzebeard. He mentally slapped himself.
I can straight speak, can I speak straigh... I can speak straight! I WILL speak straight!
He glanced, miserable, to the crush of dwarves lining the stone benches. Councilors, militia, and citizens; dwarven courts were public affairs, and always drew some sort of a crowd. A few gnomes stood in front, others who had been turned away by the Tinkmaster. Gyrik frowned slightly, anger stirring at both the thought of his home city, evacuated, and the High Tinker's refusal to acknowledge gnomish requests for an audience. His thoughts melted back to worry as he spotted his sister, Kindel, sitting quietly between Officer Farmountain and a dwarf he did not recognize. Farmountain spoke quietly to his companion, then stepped forward to stand beside Gyrik as King Bronzebeard's assistants motioned them forward to be heard. "Psst, lad" Farmountain whispered, giving the young gnome a clap on the back that nearly knocked him over, "Thanks ag'in fer the tip abou' Blackbeard's drop off; I gone and sent a few mates t' make sure the shipment is confiscated. We got enough trouble controlling the legal shipments o' swiftthistle," he growled as they moved forward.
A herald stepped before the king to annouce them. "Gyrik Spryspark, gnomish citizen, represented by Officer Farmountain of the Ironforge Twelfth." Gyrik snorted at the official name of what was commonly referred to as the Thief Catchers; the Twelfth was specially trained in combating the unseen contingent of Ironforge's seedier areas. Farmountain glared at him as the king focused his attention at an aide.
"Another case dismissed by Mekkatorque?" he questioned, and at the aide's nod he sighed wearily. "And 'e wonders why the troggs hold Gnomeregan." he breathed. Gyrik barely caught it, pleased that the lip reading lessons he had picked up two weeks back at Blackbeard's had stuck. King Bronzebeard turned his attention down to the pair, and the gnome shivered. The king's eyes were piercing and bright, and Gyrik knew he was being measured, examined. He didn't like the feeling. THe king glanced at Farmountain, and said, "Speak."
"I caught 'im filching from Mrs. Bouldertow, yer Highness, and a few times besides. A genuine pocketpicker, no mistake, but he and 'is sister," the dwarf pointed to Kindel, and Gyrik shivered again, "'ave been living on the street, as it were, and since the High Tinker would na' see 'im, I..."
"Well, toss the young lad in the dungeon for a few days, put them both up at the orphanage, and have done. This is a bit o' a minor audience, even fer you, Officer." The king looked up as Gyrik squeaked, trembling. Farmountain pushed him forward slightly.
"I'mverysorryyourHighness..." Gulp "I am very sorry, but if it please you I would very much not like it if my sister was out of my care, even for such a short time! Cannot you... You cannot put me in the dungeon, please! I have been help much to Officer Farmountain, and..." He trailed off, terrified. "Please..." he whispered.
"Beggin' yer pardon, your Highness." Farmountain stepped forward again, putting one hand on Gyrik's shoulder, "but what the boy says be true. He's been of much use to me in 'intelligence getherin'', as it were, and he be showin' some real talents there, and in, er, acquiring things. I think he could be a real help if he's put to good use, and, well," the dwarf motioned for his companion to step forward. "This 'ere's Mr. Ringo Flinthammer, head o' the Sawed Off militia." At the name, the king's eyes sparkled, and Gyrik wondered if there was some joke he had missed. "He's been agreein' ta take the lad and 'is sister in, give 'em a place to live and the lad work to keep 'im out from under foot, as it were. As thane o' his unit, Mr. Flinthammer has say on who he takes in, but a pardon comes from the throne, as it were, beggin' yer Highness's pardon." Farmountain blinked, seemingly surprised at his long speech. The king, though, thought a moment, then raised a hand.
"Well, if Mr. Flinthammer 'ere promises to keep an eye on the lad, all is well. So be it."
---
Gyrik edged forward, nervous in the presence of the High Court. His fingers danced, although he knew the eyes of the guards under their helmets were watching his every move, and so he did nothing but stand, waiting, before the throne of King Magni Beardbronz- Bronzebeard. He mentally slapped himself.
I can straight speak, can I speak straigh... I can speak straight! I WILL speak straight!
He glanced, miserable, to the crush of dwarves lining the stone benches. Councilors, militia, and citizens; dwarven courts were public affairs, and always drew some sort of a crowd. A few gnomes stood in front, others who had been turned away by the Tinkmaster. Gyrik frowned slightly, anger stirring at both the thought of his home city, evacuated, and the High Tinker's refusal to acknowledge gnomish requests for an audience. His thoughts melted back to worry as he spotted his sister, Kindel, sitting quietly between Officer Farmountain and a dwarf he did not recognize. Farmountain spoke quietly to his companion, then stepped forward to stand beside Gyrik as King Bronzebeard's assistants motioned them forward to be heard. "Psst, lad" Farmountain whispered, giving the young gnome a clap on the back that nearly knocked him over, "Thanks ag'in fer the tip abou' Blackbeard's drop off; I gone and sent a few mates t' make sure the shipment is confiscated. We got enough trouble controlling the legal shipments o' swiftthistle," he growled as they moved forward.
A herald stepped before the king to annouce them. "Gyrik Spryspark, gnomish citizen, represented by Officer Farmountain of the Ironforge Twelfth." Gyrik snorted at the official name of what was commonly referred to as the Thief Catchers; the Twelfth was specially trained in combating the unseen contingent of Ironforge's seedier areas. Farmountain glared at him as the king focused his attention at an aide.
"Another case dismissed by Mekkatorque?" he questioned, and at the aide's nod he sighed wearily. "And 'e wonders why the troggs hold Gnomeregan." he breathed. Gyrik barely caught it, pleased that the lip reading lessons he had picked up two weeks back at Blackbeard's had stuck. King Bronzebeard turned his attention down to the pair, and the gnome shivered. The king's eyes were piercing and bright, and Gyrik knew he was being measured, examined. He didn't like the feeling. THe king glanced at Farmountain, and said, "Speak."
"I caught 'im filching from Mrs. Bouldertow, yer Highness, and a few times besides. A genuine pocketpicker, no mistake, but he and 'is sister," the dwarf pointed to Kindel, and Gyrik shivered again, "'ave been living on the street, as it were, and since the High Tinker would na' see 'im, I..."
"Well, toss the young lad in the dungeon for a few days, put them both up at the orphanage, and have done. This is a bit o' a minor audience, even fer you, Officer." The king looked up as Gyrik squeaked, trembling. Farmountain pushed him forward slightly.
"I'mverysorryyourHighness..." Gulp "I am very sorry, but if it please you I would very much not like it if my sister was out of my care, even for such a short time! Cannot you... You cannot put me in the dungeon, please! I have been help much to Officer Farmountain, and..." He trailed off, terrified. "Please..." he whispered.
"Beggin' yer pardon, your Highness." Farmountain stepped forward again, putting one hand on Gyrik's shoulder, "but what the boy says be true. He's been of much use to me in 'intelligence getherin'', as it were, and he be showin' some real talents there, and in, er, acquiring things. I think he could be a real help if he's put to good use, and, well," the dwarf motioned for his companion to step forward. "This 'ere's Mr. Ringo Flinthammer, head o' the Sawed Off militia." At the name, the king's eyes sparkled, and Gyrik wondered if there was some joke he had missed. "He's been agreein' ta take the lad and 'is sister in, give 'em a place to live and the lad work to keep 'im out from under foot, as it were. As thane o' his unit, Mr. Flinthammer has say on who he takes in, but a pardon comes from the throne, as it were, beggin' yer Highness's pardon." Farmountain blinked, seemingly surprised at his long speech. The king, though, thought a moment, then raised a hand.
"Well, if Mr. Flinthammer 'ere promises to keep an eye on the lad, all is well. So be it."
