StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Inspired, of course, by the online game World of Warcraft. Most characters and locations are the property of Blizzard Entertainment. All others are mine. This story is going to get very mature, so you all know.

Special thanks to Pick for helping me select a name for my leading lady.

World of Warcraft: Believe

Chapter 1

Stormwind City was a wreck. The once-proud walls lay sundered by titanic blows no machine could have caused. The statues that had once risen over the great bridge into the city, statues that had depicted the likenesses of heroes like Archmage Khadgar and Danath Trollbane, were now shattered, marble body parts strewn across road. Sayge was careful to step over their jagged edges; even in this dream-state he could still injure himself if he were not careful. His staff tapped the pavement before him as he walked, warning him where the stones of the bridge had come loose and where they remained secure. The gnoll looked for any signs of life besides himself, but saw nothing.

Rubbing his muzzle with one hand, he wondered what could have done this to the proudest city on the continent. Or rather, what would do this, for surely this was no simple dream.

He felt a sudden downdraft and looked up to see a massive blue form passing overhead. The great dragon winged its way into the city, heading for the ruined spires of the cathedral. Sayge briefly wondered if this was the one that had torn Stormwind to pieces, then decided against it. Those of the blue flight had their moments of fury, but when they lashed out, nothing was left, not even debris.

A roar dimly reached his ears and Sayge turned to look in the direction of Stormwind Keep. A terrible, baroque form stood atop the ruined fortress, a brother to the one that had just flown overhead but darker and twisted, its scales a jet black rather than blue. The blue dragon turned to meet this challenge and the new dragon leapt from its perch to glide towards its adversary. They met with matching roars as claws and teeth clashed against bodies armored with thick scale. The blue dragon exhaled what looked like a stream of mist that crackled with electricity, but the black clapped its wings and sailed above it to snort out its own breath weapon, a blast of what looked like magma. The blue deflected it with a shield of magical energy and the battle continued.

As Sayge watched, the world seemed to drop away. Then it did so literally, the ground distorting and melting, fading into blackness. The effect started at his feet and raced away, shifting the entire world into a void of blackness to leave nothing but Sayge and the dueling dragons, neither of whom seemed to notice the world fading. If anything, they seemed to become even clearer, their images sharpening until Sayge could make out every scale on their bodies. He found, to his amazement, that he actually recognized the black one.

Teremus. Teremus the Devourer. The Left Hand of Nefarion. Scourge of the Black Morass. Patron of the Black Swords. Slayer of Alric the Gauntlet. Oh, shit.

The blue dragon remained anonymous.

They moved faster and faster, tearing at each other, whole shreds of scaled flesh falling from their bodies. Sayge found that he couldn't look away from the titanic confrontation. The two beasts moved even more quickly, scales and claws flashing in a light without source. They moved faster than any living being possibly could, so fast they became little more than blurred streaks of black and blue against the black background. Then more colors joined the swirl. Red, green, gold, brown, silver, and purple. The dragons themselves had disappeared by now into the whirlwind. Sayge rubbed his eyes as they teared up from watching the swirl.

It was starting to make him feel nauseous-

---------------------------

I lean over the edge of my bed and spit a load of saliva into the pail I keep on the floor for this specific purpose. My stomach heaves, like it's turned over during the night while the rest of me stayed put. I feel like I'm about to hurl up last night's drinking, but to my own surprise I manage to keep everything down. Two more hocks and I'm done. I let go of the pail and slump back into bed. I'm lying on my right side, my right arm draped over the side of the bed, my left hand sitting on my head with its palm to the ceiling, my legs about halfway to a split. My left leg is colder than the rest of me because it's sticking out from under the blanket. The blanket itself is an old, frayed piece of cloth that barely does its job and looks like a quilting award because I've had to mend so many tears in it.

I haven't even opened my eyes yet and already this day is going to shit.

My head thuds painfully in time with my heartbeat and it feels like someone opened up my skull, swirled the contents around a bit, and then closed it again. My eyes feel sealed shut with sleep-sand. My nose is plugged up all to hell and I can't smell a thing. Through my closed eyelids, I can see a light coming in through the flap of my tent. I roll over so I don't have to look at it.

I wish I could blame feeling this crappy on last night's dream, but it probably has more to do with that entire bottle of rum I downed right before I went to sleep. Usually by the time I drink that much I'm in a coma until the next morning and the dreams just go right on by.

The light suddenly gets brighter and I hear footsteps. Oh damn, I know who it is. "Hey Sayge, are you still asleep?" The voice is female, just a tad on the husky side. "Go away and let me sleep," I say. Or at least, intend to. The actual result is more along the lines of, "G'wy lm'slep."

"Sayge, come on, get up. If Silas finds you here he'll have your head."

Ah yes, Silas, the venerable Silas, all hail the glorious Silas. Someday I'm going to catch that gnome without Burth around and punt him into next week. Then I'll be on bread and water for a month but it'll be worth it. Silas Darkmoon, creator and ringmaster of the Darkmoon Faire. I hate that son of a-

"Hey, I said get up!"

I utter a curse that's nonsensical even to me and finally haul myself up to a sitting position, whereupon my head promptly explodes and I fall back down to the bed. "Oh my gosh, Sayge are you okay?" There's a couple footsteps and she cuts herself off with a couple sniffs. "Have you been drinking again?"

Damn it.

I cough and clear my throat with a nasty rattle of phlegm. "No," I finally manage to grunt out clearly.

"Then why the hell are you still in bed?"

"Slept in."

"Bullshit."

"Oh, shut up." I finally manage to sit up without my head feeling like there's a Murloc doing a tap dance on it and crank my eyes open, the lids scratching like sandpaper. Not that there's much to see. The shoddy fabric of the tent, the grass floor, my piece-of-crap bed, chair with four legs of different lengths, a cracked mirror, and one cabinet holding about twice the clothes it was built for, my staff leaning up against it. Typical carnie crap, in other words.

About the only thing worth looking at is standing in front of the tent flap. Mizranda's about six foot, typical for an elf, tall for a human, a giant to gnomes, but other than that, she doesn't look like most elves. She's got a little bit broader build than most of her kind and the way she emphasizes it with all the work she does it leaves her looking pretty damn cut. Typical blue eyes, but she's got red hair that comes down to about her shoulder blades and I'm willing to bet my next jug of bourbon you've never seen a red-headed elf. Her skin is a real light shade of blue too, which would make sense if she was a night elf like Sylannia, but she's not. Probably what stands out most though, other than the hair, are the hands at the end of those slim, strong arms. She always wears these fingerless leather gloves as a way to try and hide it, but it only ends up drawing even more attention to the fact that she's got only three fingers on each hand instead of four.

Her mouth twitches upwards. "Quit gawking and get up." Damn, she caught me staring again. I grunt, throw the covers off, and swing my legs out over the side before remembering a second too late that I went to sleep naked. "Well, that's a sight I could've done without," she comments mildly. Despite the words, she doesn't turn around or move to cover her eyes, about all she does is raise an eyebrow and grin. I grunt again, then inhale to get the phlegm out of my nose so I can freaking breathe. As soon as I do, my head clears a little, enough so I can stand up and wrap the blanket around my waist as a makeshift towel. As I step forward, Mizranda suddenly screws up her face and takes a step back. "Ugh, Sayge, you absolutely reek."

"Bite me."

"No, I'm serious. Get to the damn shower before Silas catches the booze scent."

"Sure thing." I pull my muzzle up in a grin and let my tongue loll out the side. "Join me?"

She rolls her eyes. "Keep dreaming, old man." She steps out so I can leave the tent and I follow, wincing as the sun strikes me right in the face. It's a bright, cheerful day out, not a cloud to be glimpsed though admittedly, my eyes are almost shut. It's the kind of day where you realize ninety nine out of a hundred people are overjoyed to be alive, and you're that last sucker with a hangover who wishes it was raining. I rub my eyes hard, my face molding itself like soft clay around my palms.

"You know," I grind out while I do it, "I am not that old. Thirty seven is a perfectly respectable age for a gnoll."

She grins. I can't see her face, but I can feel that grin and it makes me want to turn and slap it right out of her mouth. "Whatever you say, Sayge. Now, go on. I'll run interference for you." A moment later I feel her hand sting against my back, just above my right butt cheek. Then she's walking away in her bouncy little way and I'm left getting an eyeful of her backside. Damn tease.

-------------------------------

The water's not ice-cold for once, probably because the sun's been shining on the tub we use as a basin. Instead, it's only pretty cold. I grab the last bar and scrub myself down, the rough soap taking almost as much fur as it pats down. I run my fingers through that messy mohawk of mine so it doesn't clump up and make damn sure to wash the smell of the rum out of my mouth. I'm so busy trying to get clean I actually forget about the headache I'm getting from the water. For the first time since I started heaving over my bucket this morning, I'm not actively pissed off at something.

"Hey Sayge mon, hurry it up a step, you be usin' all de water!"

Figures that Rinling would step in and screw my day up again.

"Shut up, Rinling, Stamp takes longer showers than I do and you know it!"

"Dat don't be escusin' ya mon. Ya been standin' there long enough ta make de flowers live trough de snowtimes!"

"Hey, I've got fur to take care of. Back off."

"Ya got yeself two minutes Sayge mon. Den I gotta cut de water 'fore Silas has hisself a fit."

"Got it," I mutter. Technically, with Rinling around, I can take as long as I damn well please, but I decide to play the role of nice guy and hurry it up anyway. I know that if I were anyone else in this faire, Rinling would follow through on his threat and leave me standing there soaked and lathered like a moron. He did that once, a long time ago. Butt-naked and dripping wet, I'd grabbed him and pulled him aside for one of what Kerri termed "Sayge's Little Chats". Nowadays the guy won't dare short me.

Sometimes it's nice to be a psychic.

I pat myself dry with my blanket-towel and double time it back to my tent. By this time I'm starting to realize that there's almost nobody in our little tent/wagon city. The only folks I've seen are Mizranda, who's job from Silas is to make damn sure I show up to do my job, and Rinling, who doesn't seem to do much of anything besides stand in his stall and tell folks it's not open yet while he takes them for everything he can get and annoying people with his overdone accent. In other words, the only two who don't have somewhere more important to be, and that means I'm later than I thought.

Back in the tent, towel gets thrown over the chair, chair tilts, chair falls over and trips Sayge, Sayge goes flying and ends up facedown on the bed.

I slow down and walk into my tent, carefully laying the towel across the back of the chair. I open up the bottom drawer in the cabinet and pull out what I like to think of as my "ooh, mystical" outfit. A headdress I got from a tauren druid for helping his son. My ears go through the holes designed for a set of horns. Shirt and kilt from a troll I spent a weekend with once who complained she was gaining weight. I think she was right, but it looked to me like most of it was going to the right places. My tail bends the wrong way and I spend a good minute pulling it through the hole in the kilt and smoothing it out. Cloth wraps for my hands so that people can't see my palms and assume I'm going to pull something out of my sleeves. They catch the sleeves of my shirt and I let them flare out for a rakish look. More wraps for my legs so people don't get nervous and assume I'm butt naked under the kilt. My cloth belt and then, the finishing touch. Two trogg skulls, the back halves sheared off, the bone polished so that it won't darken. I hang them off my shoulders using a strips of cloth for an appropriately foreboding image. At least they don't talk to me any more. They did when I bought them from some dwarf. That's how I found out their names, Revxin and Crezcrin. Brothers. I think they were killed by a warlock, somebody who blasted them with so much magic that it left some of their memories burned onto their remains. Poor guys.

And finally, my holdouts. Five inches of redwood mounted with a crystal handle. And a ten-by-six stack of paper bound with leather. The book is fake, a bunch of pages with nothing but chicken scratch I scrawled all over one day. It's the cover that makes it special. The whorl design conceals a handgrip on the back cover and inside the leather are a couple of metal plates. Somebody decides they don't like their fortune, the book gives them a few hours to sort it out. The wand, on the other hand, is very very real. Hidden under Revxin's old skull, I can draw it in a second and give someone a solid week of hell.

Outfit ready, I take a look at myself in the mirror. A face of grey looks back, a wide gash outlined with sharp teeth for a mouth, a pair of eyes that glow a dull, sickly green. I clack my teeth a few times. They're starting to get yellow again, damn it. I rub them quickly with a finger in a vain attempt to lighten them a bit, then finish pressing up my mohawk. Done. I start to leave, but hold for a second and continue looking at myself in the mirror. Those glowing eyes…only freaks like me have those. A clan apart from the rest of the gnolls. And are those age tracks I'm starting to see? Damn. Almost before I realize it, I've opened the nearest drawer and retrieved a mid-sized glass bottle of amber liquid. I stop myself, start to put it away, then shrug. What'll one swallow do? I uncork the bottle, steal a moment to inhale the sharp whiskey scent, then take a quick gulp before recorking the bottle and shoving it back in the drawer. Ah, that's better.

I leave the tent and head straight in the direction of the faire. Already I can hear the voices of a crowd and I increase my pace. I really hope they haven't opened the gates yet. If they have I'm in really deep trouble, and I don't think I'm quite that ready to face Silas under those circumstances.

"Sayge!"

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

I stop and turn to face the two-foot terror himself. Silas Darkmoon. If looks could kill, I'd be a dead gnoll right now. Behind him stands Burth the ogre, about five times the size of his employer but only one-tenth the presence. Silas steps forward radiates anger, and for a second I think he really is going to throttle me.

"You are late! Again!"

I say the first thing that comes to mind, "I overslept," even though I know it won't satisfy him.

He pounds his fists on his knees. "Damnation, Sayge, I'm tired of your bullcrap!" He sniffs the air. "And there's booze on your breath! Again!"

"Not enough to make things difficult, I promise-"

"That's not the point!" he practically roars. "I've told you and told you and told you a thousand times! No drinking during faire days! You know damn well that you can't do your job properly when you've had too much and you're jeopardizing my income!"

I narrow my eyes and open my mouth to answer, but what comes out is far more profound than what I originally intended: I belch out the air I swallowed along with that gulp of whiskey, right in Silas' face.

Burth starts to chuckle and then quickly stops before the boss can round on him. The ogre's loyal, but he always laughs at toilet humor even if it's at his employer's expense. I have to admit, the look on Silas' face is priceless and I swallow a giggle of my own before I burst out laughing in front of him.

"You…you…" By now he's absolutely quaking, fists clenched and teeth grinding. "Why do I not just fire you?" he finally bursts out. "Why do I keep you around, you lousy, belly-grubbing boozehound?!"

I growl and lean over Silas. "I am going to sit in my booth for ten hours today," I snap. "Not counting my lunch break. I am going to earn you exactly twenty-seven gold, twenty-three silver, and fifty-two copper pieces, and that's after I take my cut. I am going to speak to over four hundred people, two-thirds of which will be back next time. About midway through the afternoon, I am going to help Burth eject a somewhat rowdy customer." The ogre perks up at that one. "And by the way, Kerri is going to break another barbell today so be ready to replace it." With that, I lean back again and cross my arms defiantly, trying not to let him see how much my head is swimming right now.

He growls and finally grinds out, "just-go-Sayge."

I turn and walk away, a little more bounce in my step than there was a minute ago. Good days, bad days, they come and go, but nothing puts a smile on my face like showing up Silas Darkmoon. Within another minute, I come to the end of the tent city and reach the fairgrounds proper. Ben, one of the laborers Silas keeps around to do the grunt work lets me in with a nod. I nod back.

Ah, crap, this is what I was afraid of. The faire is full of people, mostly orcs and tauren with a few trolls and night elves sprinkled around and the very rare human or gnome. I don't see any dwarves, which is just as well. Tightfisted bastards. I don't see any of the forsaken either, which is also good since the smell makes me puke. Everyone is at their stalls hawking their respective poison, except for Rinling who's just kind of standing there looking useless. From somewhere out of eyeshot I hear a cheer. That'll be Kerri showing off. I quell the urge to run for my booth and just saunter through the crowd, hood pulled down to conceal my face so that I look mysterious and perfectly calm. It works, as usual. People carefully step around me and make nervous glances, even tauren and orcs twice my size.

I finally get to my tent and look who's there! Mizranda of course, leaning back in some shoddy chair and idly chewing on a finger while she reads a book. Probably one of those erotic stories she reads for inspiration. I walk right up, reach out, and give the binding a good tap so that it almost ends up in her face. She looks up with that amusingly cute angry expression. "Hey! Oh, hey Sayge. Ready to open up?"

"Ready, as soon as you pull that butt out of that chair and let me inside."

She grins and tosses her hair coquettishly. Oh, for crying out loud, I'm in hot enough water already to deal with this. I slash a finger across my throat and she gets the picture, flipping her book closed and rising. She starts to reach for the 'closed' sign so she can flip it over to the 'fortune teller' side, but I wave my hand no. "Give me a second to set up shop, will you?"

She shrugs. "You got it, big boy." I roll my eyes and walk in, surreptitiously taking a good whiff of her scent as I pass by. Nice. Once inside my booth, I turn all business. Drop the dry ice in the basins for the spooky fog effect, set the little fake ruby in front of the candle for the creepy red light, then turn and slap the crystal ball until it starts glowing. The ball is really magic, but the guy who made it was a maniac and I've never managed to get it to show anything more than weird clouds and blurry images. But then that's all I need for this job, so it suits me just fine. I sit down on the chair right behind my crystal ball and roll my shoulders until I hear a cracking sound. I pull my hood even further around my face so that everything above my muzzle is shadowed before taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out again.

Mizranda pokes her head inside the booth, immediately followed by her cleavage. "Ready?"

I take one more quick breath, clear my throat, and nod. "Ready."

She winks. "Have fun Sayge."

Fun. Right.

Mizranda disappears and I'm left all alone in my booth with my hands to either side of the crystal ball. Sitting like this hurts my back, but I can't slouch or folks will take one look at me and dismiss everything I say as phooey. I could fix that, of course, but it would give me a lot more headaches than I'm willing to tolerate at fairetime.

My first customer arrives a couple of minutes later, a big, hulking orc that sticks his head through the flap with a raised eyebrow. "You the fortune teller?"

"That I am, my friend," I reply in the driest, most even voice I can manage as I raise my hand and gesture to the chair across the table from me. "Please, be seated if you so desire, and don't worry, we have a most talented carpenter."

He looks quizzical as he goes to sit down. "What to you mean, carpen-"

With a loud crack, the chair's back right leg snaps and the orc goes tumbling to the ground. I don't smile. It cultivates the idea that I predicted this, instead of making it happen myself.

The chair's actually a breakaway, designed to fall apart when you put enough weight on it. I use it maybe once a year since I can't use it too often or people will get suspicious. If anyone looked closely at the 'broken' leg, they would probably notice that the break is a little to clean to be natural. Fortunately, most people are a little too jittery to ever look closely enough.

Exhibit A is my new orcish friend. He hops to his feet, eyes about as big around as small moons. He blubbers something incoherent in orcish and I raise my hands to make a calming gesture. "Easy, easy, my friend," I say dryly. "It happens. Nobody will blame you. And as I said, the faire has an excellent carpenter on hand." The soothing tone works more than the words themselves and the orc calms down. I wave his gaze towards the crystal ball. "Now. You have traveled great distances to come here. Let us not have our occasion ruined by a mere piece of furniture." I wave my hands over the ball and try to relax so I can activate it without making myself look like a total fool. For once it doesn't act up and within moments it darkens almost to pure black.

I look into the ball as though reading something there, but what happens next is entirely down to my powers of observation. Anyone can get a good reading on a person if you know how to look at them, and I've been using his confusion to my advantage. It's the ability to improvise on what you see that makes or breaks a quack fortune teller. Now, time to start the dance.

"I see that you are a traveler of many miles." Anyone looking at his patched boots could tell that one. "You are working to earn the money for a mount." That one's a bit more of a guess, but a pair of raised eyebrows confirms it. "I see that you are troubled by episodes of terrible rage." That one's true of most orcs. "You have come to Thunder Bluff in the hope that spending time with the tauren will help you ease the pain you feel inside." Again, more than one orc's tried this trick, but if my customer's looking at me like I've sprouted antlers, who cares?

"Shaman," he says, and I can't stop a flinch. Orcs attach a lot of weight to that title and having one of them using it around me always makes me uncomfortable. "Are you reading my thoughts?"

I slowly shake my head. "No, my friend. It is far more complicated than that. But you came to have questions answered, not to raise new ones. How long have you been among the tauren?"

He blinks at the apparent non sequitur, not realizing that I've done it deliberately to throw him off balance. "About two months," he finally replies.

"And have you found someone to guide you through this most trying time?"

He blinks again and mutely shakes his head.

I let my breath out in a sigh and slowly shake my head as though disappointed. "Go back to Thunder Bluff," I say calmly. "Seek the tauren named Nanak Runetotem. He is wise and will be a great help to you in your quest, far more than what little aid I ay provide." Remember that druid I mentioned? Nanak is a pretty decent guy who doesn't mind being sent another wayward son. I think he collects them. "Now, I'd suggest you be on your way, my friend. May the fates be with you."

The orc sticks around long enough for a perfunctory, "goodbye, shaman" and then he's out the door like a shot. I stand, kick the remnants of the breakaway chair aside, and resume my seat. That went easily enough, and I didn't even have to work the sixth sense or induce a vision for it. Not a bad way to start the workday.

A few minutes later, a troll pokes his head in. "You de witch docta, mon?"

Oh hell, I need a drink.

Kuja? You rock

Ah, drunkness and supernatural powers.

And nice to see Teremus lore....even if he's a bitch to so many

Ah, the joys of crazy fortune tellers.

Looks awesome so far.

LadyTevar wrote:Kuja? You rock

Certainly! This is awesome.

Ha ha, who kited (will kite?) the drake?

Mizranda...sounds like she might have a little troll blood in her, or at least got an unusual set of recessive genes.

Chapter 2

It's not until three hours later I decide to make a real prediction. Up to this point all I've done is wrangle and weave smokescreens, but Silas won't pay the big numbers for that. Time to reaffirm my reputation.

The next person inside is a human woman. Perfect. Word spreads like wildfire among humans to other races and in my experience women are a lot more likely to talk about something unsettling than men are. In fact, that seems true for a lot of races...anyway, as she begins to brush the flap aside to step in, I close my eyes. By the time she's sticking her head through the opening, I've relaxed almost into a trance. In the little time I have, I scan her mind. Name's Katharine. Born in Stromgarde. Archer. Troll hunter. Escaped the plagues because she was part of Proudmoore's fleet. The woman's got guts to come all the way out here.

"Sir?"

Her voice breaks my concentration but I manage to keep my eyes closed. A little niggling pain starts at my right temple, sort of like someone pressing the end of a toothpick up against my skin. I hold my hand out, palm up. "Please, take a seat, Katharine," I say. She gasps audibly and I have to fight down a grin. Then I hear her practically fall into the chair (I replaced the breakaway fake about an hour and a half back).

"How did you know my name?"

"I know...things," I reply, making sure to keep it appropriately mysterious.

"Are you blind?"

This time I allow the smile. "No. But what comes next requires that I keep my eyes closed so I don't see overlapping images." I tilt my head a little ways downward to make the smile less friendly and more menacing. "So I don't go insane, you understand."

That's only half false. Trying to watch two realities at once, even if one of them is a fairly static tent, drives me up the wall and makes me want to retch. I hear her shift uncomfortably and lay both my hands flat on the table. "Now, I need you to relax, my lady. If it pleases you, close your own eyes or look into my crystal ball to help your mind settle. And more than anything, please remain as quiet as you can. A loud noise might disrupt my concentration." One more deep breath. "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she all but whispers.

I take in one more breath and hold it, simultaneously tensing the muscles that let me flex my ears. Nothing happens at first, this is what's called the calm before the storm. Then my heart begins to beat harder, trying to keep my system going when there's no air coming in. My lungs start to burn. My hands begin to twitch and ball up. A few colors flit around inside my eyelids. A roaring sound fills my ears. I squeeze my eyes.

I inhale sharply and the distorted shapes and colors suddenly begin to resolve. I'm standing in a city of humans – Theramore, it's Theramore – on a bright summer's day. The wind is blowing and other than the banners snapping in the breeze, it's almost silent.

"I see a city. Theramore."

Most of the people don't seem to notice me. I ignore them because they're unimportant. The only important one is just in front of me. He's tall, handsome by human standards, a blond with piercing green eyes. He's looking directly at me.

"I see a man."

He wears the armor of a Kul Tiras marine. He leans towards me and speaks, but there's no sound. Still, I can understand him.

"Your brother."

"He's alive?" A gasp.

The man continues to speak in silence. Behind him, the city of Theramore begins to slowly warp away, recognizing its own unimportance.

"He defected to join Jaina Proudmoore along with a few others. That is how he avoided dying at the hands of the orcs."

A soft sob.

Katharine's brother tilts his head and I wave my hand forwards, encouraging him to continue. He does so.

"His term of service is nearly ended. He wants to return to Stromgarde and find you. He feels there are more important battles to be fought in Lordaeron than here in Kalimdor."

"That sounds like him."

The scene around me begins to shift and I force my eyes open, dispelling the trance. I've learned the hard way what happens when you watch for too long: sooner or later you end up watching people die, more often than not in terrible ways.

My head pounds and my vision is blurry. With every heartbeat, it seems like a nail is being driven further and further into my brain. Katharine is weeping and I manage a weak smile. "Have heart, my lady," I say, aware of how utterly dry my mouth feels.

"It's just that...after so much time..." she pauses and wipes the tears away. "Are you in pain?"

"I hope your reunion with your brother is a most joyous one," I say, blatantly dodging the question. "I myself understand how difficult it is to be separated from a loved one." I draw a finger across my brow to wipe away a faint sheen of sweat. I need a break.

"Did...you see anything else?"

"No, my lady. A lesson learned most quickly in my profession is to never dwell too long in the dream. Do so for too long and the dream becomes the reality. But do not despair." I sit up straighter and finally manage a warm smile despite the fact that everything's just gone blurry again. "I am sure that I and my fellow travelers come to Elwynn once again you will be there to tell me the story of you and your brother."

Her face lights up. It's not surprising; most people find their moods improved when they have something to look forward to. "Yes, I will..." she hesitates and looks embarrassed. "I don't even know your name," she finally says.

I can't help but chuckle. She acts like it's such an importance. "It's Sayge," I answer politely. "Just Sayge."

"Well then...Sayge..." she rises. "Good bye and...thank you." Then she's out the door, thank the gods. I slump and press my hands to my head. That damn pain won't go away! I've got to get out of here before someone else comes in. I rise quickly and go to the door, picking up the 'back in 5 minutes' sign and the visitors' chair as I go.

Damn, the faire is crowded now. The smell of orc and tauren fills the air. I drop the chair in front of the tent flap and set the sign on it. Then I'm off, wandering through the crowd. People babble back and forth in various languages, mostly orcish and Arathi, the common language in the human lands. The sun's getting high in the sky by now and the heat is beating down, making everyone sweat and making the smell even worse. I take off the headdress, fold it up, and stuff it in a kilt pocket. Instantly the heat just starts radiating away.

I realize whose booth I'm about to pass and grin. Then I change direction to walk right up to it. "Yeah," I say without preamble as I get there. "This whole thing, this faire thing? It all sucks, I want my money back. The drinks are watered, the food is terrible, the sideshows are crappy, and I think I got groped by one of your carnies."

"You got it, bro," the booth operator replies calmly. "From now on, in light of yo' complaint, th' drinks will be pure alcohol, th' food will be exquisite, th' sideshows will be burned, startin' wi' a certain fortune teller, and you'll know you got felt up. Oh, and I personally guarantee you'll get every silver piece you ever paid for admission."

I grin and Gelvas matches it. I hold my hand out, palm up, and he gives it a healthy sting. "'Ey, good t'see ya Sayge. How's th' day goin'?" Every word is delivered in a lazy flow of vowels with only a suggestion of the harder sounds. I never get tired of hearing a Gelvas' accent. I think I could listen to the guy talk all day long.

Gelvas Grimegate, goblin native of Booty Bay. He's Silas' numbers man. Inventory, profits, debts, it all comes to him. He also distributes salaries so it pays to be nice to him. His job during the faire is to hand out prizes to folks who bring him enough tickets from the games. Silas put him here when he realized Mork couldn't count for beans.

"It's busy," I reply. "I was heading over to Sylannia to grab a drink. Want to come along?"

"Eh, sorry man, I'm real busy. You know orcs, one hi's a target, n'en another one does it, n'pretty soon you got a whole clan tryin' ta batter ya door." He shrugs. "Never gonna get 'em, man, tell ya what. Could use a mug though. Ey, you get an extra drink, bring it over here, yo?"

"You've got it. Black Crimson, right?"

"Ey, you know it!

"S'cuse me," someone says from behind. I turn just enough to see an orc standing right behind me, an armful of paper tickets cradled like an infant.

Gelvas turns on the poor guy. "Ey yo, whassa matter wi' you? Cancha see I'm talkin' to my man here? Show a little respect t' the guy, 'e's gotta sit inna hot booth makin' folks like you happy f'tha whole day while yer out here throwin' t-matas an' breakin' my targets! Have a little patience m'man, he's gonna be gone inna minute yer gonna be standin' 'ere an then I gotta deal wi' you!"

I'm trying to keep myself from bursting out laughing from the orc's expression as he goggles at the little guy a fifth his size and bawling him out while there's people all over the place starting to snicker and point. Once again I decide to play the nice guy and end his embarrassment. "Alright Gelvas, one Black Crimson rum, I'll have it here in a few. Sounds good?"

"Yer a g'man Sayge," Gelvas replies, switching tacks instantly. "Go'won I'll still be here when ya come back. Ey, show me some 'spect man," he says as he holds a hand out and I slap it. "Take care an tell Sylannia hey fo' me will ya?"

"Will do." A moment later I'm walking off and the orc is taking my spot saying "this is fifty tickets, right?" I grin and imagine the way Gelvas is going to be ranting tonight.

A minute later I can hear, "Come and get it, sausage, turkey, roast beef!" being bellowed over the murmur of the crowd. That'll be Stamp, the chef. You know, I always thought it was ironic Silas picked a tauren to sell roast beef of all things. The food tents are all jam-packed with all manner of people. It's astonishing sometimes, how people like trolls and elves that loathe each other are willing to come to the faire and sit in the same tent, sometimes on the same bench, and kibitz about anything and anyone. Sometimes it just gives you a little bit of hope there.

While I'm thinking about world peace, I'm also getting into the line for a drink. Sylannia's booth is always the most crowded one at the faire. She makes a mean brew she calls the Darkmoon Reserve that usually drops people with a mug or two. But then, if you spent something on the tune of eight millennia as a brewmaster, I guess you'd be pretty good at it too. She's a pretty suave dealer too. She gets shipments from all over the place; there's ale from Ironforge, rum from Booty Bay, wine from Ashenvale, vodka from Everlook, whiskey from Azeroth, and even hard cider from Hillsbrad. Heck, she even carries a pair of good-sized jugs around with her.

Okay, that's pretty crude, but it's true. Sylannia has some curves on her that are just amazing. And she never wears anything under her tabard so you always think you're about a second away from catching a glimpse of something scandalous. It's not like she's heavyset either, she's got a nice, solid figure. She takes advantage of her height, too, always leaning over so she can supposedly talk to people face to face and leave them distracted with a generous amount of cleavage at the same time. She does it so automatically I don't think she even realizes it anymore. She also cut the back of her tabard short and wears these wolfskin pants that cling to her like they're two sizes too small and show off every single curve she's got.

Most folks think it's weird for a gnoll like me to be attracted to a night elf like her. We're members of different species, heck, races that don't even resemble each other! But then, being a gnoll means I'm naturally attracted to tall, curvaceous women and Sylannia fits the bill perfectly. Gnoll females have six breasts for crying out loud, more often than not good-sized ones, and how many other races can even begin to compare to that? But I haven't seen a real gnoll woman in over three years, so all that lust gets shifted over to her.

Not for the first time, I'm glad I wear a spacious kilt.

The line keeps moving and I finally get my turn. Sylannia noticed me a little while ago and tossed me off a wink, now she grins and leans way over so our faces are at the same height and I can almost see everything she keeps under the fabric. I place my hands on her beer-stained counter as I step up and she rests her fingers on mine, gently rubbing one furry knuckle. "What can I get for you, stranger?" she asks in a voice as soft as silk.

"I can think of a few things," I say with a broad wink, "but let's keep it simple. One mug of water, one of Black Crimson."

She sighs as though disappointed and her smile drops. "Sayge, you know I'm not allowed to give you-"

"It's not for me," I break in, "I stopped to talk to Gelvas and he asked me to get him one."

She arches an eyebrow. "Really?" she asks with a hint of suspicion. "I know how you put it away, Sayge."

"It's for Gelvas, honest, you know it's his favorite." I squeeze her ring finger gently.

She thinks for a moment. "I'll tell you what," she finally says. "I'll give you the water now. Come back when you're done and I'll give you the rum. That way if Silas happens to notice you, you won't get rung through the wringer. Sounds good?"

"That it does," I reply, and she gives me a little scratch on the wrist before going back to the barrel. Then for no apparent reason she goes to the other side of the booth before she comes back with a fox's smile on her face.

"Here you go," she says as she hands it over. I take a quick sip to confirm my suspicions; she's slipped a shot of Reserve into the mug.

I reach out, take her hand in mine, and press my muzzle against it once, rubbing from nose to jaw in one quick motion. It's about the only way a gnoll like me can 'kiss' someone. "You are the most wonderful woman in the world," I say before letting go.

"And you're a shameless flatterer," she says with a grin. "Now go on, I've got customers. You know, the people that actually pay for their drinks."

I clutch my heart and make a sad puppy-dog face before getting out of the way and walking off. The tents are all full and I don't like being crowded when I drink, so I head up to the nearest gentle slope and take a seat about thirty feet away from a pair of tauren women garbed in simple brown dresses and watch them casually for a moment before sipping. One's very expressive, using her hands to accentuate everything she says. The other, the one with fur so dark it's almost black, is more reserved, her hands resting in her lap and nodding minutely when she contributes a word or two to the conversation.

I sample my drink and the cold water – as well as the heavily bitter Reserve - immediately makes my parched mouth feel better. The headache reduces itself it a mere tickle at the back of my mind. Bless Sylannia.

I continue watching the tauren pair as the spotted one continues her story. She's speaking in Taurahe so I can't follow her too well but from the little slashing and pushing motions she keeps making, I gather it's about some kind of fight.

Tauren are probably the most open people I know. Compared to some folks I've met, they're honest almost to a fault. I think of Stamp, a little rough around the edges but willing to wade right into a brawl and break it up if one of his friends is in trouble. I think of Nanak and how he's willing to give a hand up to someone he's known less than a minute. Outside of battle, I'd be willing to say tauren are the most gentle and giving race in all the world. Comes from a history of inter-clan warfare being called to an abrupt half followed by a whole lot of encouragement to band together, I guess.

"Silver if you tell my fortune, good sir," a female voice says, breaking my train of thought. I look up from a drink that's suddenly half-empty to see Mizranda sitting down next to me. Oh, brother.

"Well, let me see," I reply, and put a hand to my forehead in a mock trance. "I see a man."

"Oh, I like this already." There's that grin again.

"And a woman."

"Even better."

"And they're both too busy with each other to notice you."

She punches me on the arm, leaving it numb. "Smartass," she says with a chuckle. "So, are you on lunch? I saw the sign."

I shake my head. "No, I just needed some water. You know, I should keep a jug in the tent or something. Nah, then it'd get warm. I had a headache and I needed a break."

"You gave someone a reading, right?"

I nod.

"Hey Sayge?"

"Yes?"

"How come you never look into my future? Or Silas', or Rinling's, or something like that?"

Another sip. "I told you," I say bluntly.

"No, you told me you wouldn't. You never said why." She brings her knees up and wraps her arms around them. "I don't mean to pester you, Sayge. I just want honesty."

I take a moment, sipping my drink and watching the tauren. The black-furred one is speaking now, and the spotted one is listening intently, head tilted in thought. "Honesty," I finally say. "All right. Mizranda, reading the future is never a simple thing."

"Okay."

"And it doesn't stand alone. My sixth sense ties into it."

"Okay."

"Well, that means that the closer I am to someone, the better I know them, the more time I spend with them, things like that, that affects what I see when I try looking into the future." I take another gulp. "The better I know you, the more I see. I see...personal things, intimate things, things you don't want a soul to know about. I see every scar, every broken heart, every lover and hater. I'll see you at the worst moment of your life. I'll see you more afraid than any other time. I'll see who you love and who you make love with. I'll see what they share with you and what they keep hidden. I'll see your children and how you raise them. I'll see their own scars and loves form as you grow older. And eventually, I'll see you die."

She's silent as I take another casual sip. "If I tried to read the future for someone like...say...Gelvas, or Stamp, or Burth, someone I've known for years, or even you, it would just be too much too take. Everything would be crammed into my head all at once. I'd see every moment, hear every word, feel every touch, down to the last minute detail. I'd go mad." I glance at her. "Understand now?"

"Yes," she says softly. All her cheer is gone and I feel obligated to reach out and gently clap her on the shoulder.

"Hey, look out there," I say, gesturing with the mug. She looks in the direction I point, towards a series of plateaus that rise high above the plain. A few structures can be distantly seen and smoke rises from a few places. "What do you see?"

"It's Thunder Bluff," she says flatly, a little confusion in her voice.

"Yeah, that's right, Thunder Bluff." I slowly rise to my feet. "You know, that city's younger than you are and it already has a population as big as Ironforge. It has a capital building, a hospital, a sort of church, even a military garrison. All cobbled together in a couple years by just three people and their extended families. Only a decade ago, Cairne Bloodhoof was a nothing from nowhere that nobody cared about. Now he's considered a leader in the same class as Varian Wrynn or Tyrande Whisperwind and hell, she's ten thousand years old!"

"Yeah, it's impressive when you look at it like that. But...so what?"

I smile down at her. "Fate is a fickle thing, Mizranda. Even a short span of time can change so much. But we can take control of fate when we act strongly and decisively. But of course, if we don't make informed decisions, that decisive action can take us straight to hell." Another sip. "My point is that people shouldn't worry too much about people like me. Look at me, Mizranda. I'm a gnoll that can see the future and read people's minds. But I live in a tent eight feet wide. I work ten hours a day, giving myself splitting headaches in the process. When I'm not working I'm drinking myself into a stupor and I wake up wishing I was dead. People who think for themselves make things happen, Mizranda. People who leech off others, people like me, get brushed aside and forgotten." Another swallow. "The point in all this rambling is that you shouldn't be worried about the future. The future gets here sooner or later. You just have to be ready to deal with it."

She smiles. "I get it. And thank you for the honesty, Sayge."

I shrug. "You're welcome."

"So, how long until you get back to business?"

I check my drink. Almost gone. "A few minutes."

Her smile changes a little bit, becoming less kind and more mischievous. Then she curls her hand around my leg just above my knee. I stiffen and not in a good way. "Want to make the most of it?"

"Miz..." I stop as I feel her hand sliding farther up my leg, brushing against my fur the wrong way and sending tingles up my nerves that make me twitch involuntarily. A little further and I won't be able to say no anymore. "Mizranda, please stop that."

Her hand retreats back down my leg to rub my paw gently, but she still doesn't take it off me. This is why I hate dealing with her. She's so nice to talk with and bitch to, but then she turns around and gets way too familiar for my tastes. "Nobody's watching," she says. That's true as far as it goes. There's plenty of places to go to get out sight.

"Mizranda, look. I'm not unattracted to you-"

"So what's the problem?" she asks as she leans her head against my thigh and presser her chest against my leg. Dammit, dammit, dammit, Sayge, don't lose it.

"You come on way too strong for me to feel comfortable around. And I just...I just don't want to go there with you."

She shifts her weight away from me, thank the gods. I let out my breath. "Intuition?" she asks flatly.

"Just...old-fashioned gut feeling. How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I'm thirty two."

I do some quick mental math. "That's the elf equivalent of fifteen for gnolls. Mizranda you might be almost as old as I am, but every time you touch me, instinct starts screaming 'no'. Part of it is that I'm just not attracted to women who act like you do – that's not an insult, mind – but part of it is that I can't shake the feeling I'm...robbing the cradle, as it were. Do you see where I'm coming from?"

She frowns and finally takes her hand from me. "I'm more grown-up than you suspect, Sayge," her voice harder than before. Yeah, she's pissed.

"That may be, that most certainly may be," I concede. "Look, I don't want to be at odds with you, Mizranda. I just want you to treat me with respect."

She flips her red hair defiantly. Then she stands and suddenly I'm all too aware of how she could crush me if she wanted to. I'm almost tempted to reach for my wand and I fight that instinct down. Then she softens, like she reached some kind of internal decision, and I relax. "Okay," she says calmly. "I'm sorry Sayge. I'm...used to doing things a certain way." She looks like she wants to say more, and I damn well know there's more there, but she stops.

I give a little bow. "It's all right, Mizranda." Then I decide it's time to end thins conversation. "Er, don't we have jobs to get back to?"

We stare at each other for a moment. Then she gulps. "Um, yeah, I kind of snuck away to come talk to you. I'd better get back before I'm noticed."

"And I need to get Gelvas his drink before he starts wondering where the hell I am."

"I'll see you later Sayge," she says quickly as she jogs back towards the faire.

I'm briefly, very briefly tempted to open her up and take a quick look around but quickly think better of it. To read someone I'm as close to as Mizranda, I'd need to get in and get out as fast as possible. Poking around is just an invitation for disaster, for me and for her. Besides, it's unnecessary. I looked through her past when she joined the faire a year ago. No way in hell do I want to go searching for anything I missed. What I saw was plenty bad enough.

"See you."

Cute.

Kuja, do I really have to say it again? You Rock.

Sorry to drag this up, but I finally read it (God. I. Am. Lazy.)

I really liked it! You've got really natural dialouge, and I love dialouge (too much, perhaps, methinks... .) Definitely fun, and I love the little cute moments. Great stuff! And yay for us fantasy writers!