Topic (RP) Tales of The Furious Fishmongers. (Latest: 19)
Edited by Mudija on 18/03/12 22:27 (GMT)
Keep reading anyhoo!
Guardian ? ...... What guardian? .... I haven't seen any guardian.
Besides, they are way to heavy to lift anyway. Now if you wanted to take one with you, you should ..... What Guardian ?
*takes a well deserved drink of port, and stumbles off to ......
Edited by Mudija on 25/03/12 22:53 (BST)
Guardian ? ...... What guardian? .... I haven't seen any guardian.
*Looks around for Greezy Grindletrapz*
Where did that drunken idiot go to now?!
Edited by Mudija on 04/08/12 20:34 (BST)
TALE FIFTEEN: IN WHICH THE FISHMONGERS PUSH THEIR LUCK.
It was the dead of night in Silvermoon. Strong moonlight pierced the gloom and combined with several high ruby window settings to throw an eerie red glow over the deserted city streets.
There was mischief afoot, marked by the sound of heavy boots in the Walk of Elders district. Rough rope ladders were hanging incongruously from the high walls along the broadway.
Outside the inn known as the Wayfarers’ Rest, a crew of masked orcish sailors were holding court with a pair of scruffy goblins. Everybody was wearing red and exhibiting varying levels of sobriety. The goblins wore the blackened insignia of the Furious Fishmongers’ guild.
“How’d you get it here, anyways?” the first goblin asked, while stroking his impressively bushy white mutton chop sideburns.
“We loaded at Vashj’ir, and then followed the coast on a North-Easterly heading,” explained a tall orc, who was wearing the insignia of a Horde admiral, and had a pair of evil looking hatchets hanging from her belt.
“Plain sailing really, apart from a little trouble around Gilneas,” she said, pausing to grin down at her pristine worg-skin boots before continuing, “Nothing we couldn’t handle though.”
“I kept a skeleton crew at anchor just off the Ghostlands coast when we arrived, while the rest of us hauled the cargo here along the Dead Scar.”
“Oh man, they sure weren’t expecting that,” cackled goblin number one, slapping his left fist in to his opposite palm, “Boss must be outta his fishing waders!”
“Well, your fishmaster is pretty crazy,” stated the Orc matter-of-factly, “but he pays well, and my crew need to be kept occupied, so who are we to question his choices?”
“The guards are out for the count, ma’am.” reported another orc, who was wearing a copper patch over his right eye socket, marked with a skull and crossbones motif. “They won’t be up until morning.”
“What about the big golem-thingys?” asked the second goblin who was wearing goggles that were glowing with a demonic crimson tint.
“Your information was good. They only see what we want them to see, for now.”
“Good, good,” nodded the bespectacled goblin, before turning to his guildmate, “How we gettin’ out, Grindle?”
“You could fly us out, Zatso?”
“No can do,” replied Zatso, who was slicking his sea-green hair back from his ears, “Powerful magical fields here. There’s maybe a handful of specially trained bats and dragonhawks that can cope. We didn’t have time to… acquire one.”
“You can follow us,” stated the Orc leader begrudgingly, before signalling to her crew, “Gorgar, Rocka, let’s not outstay our welcome; our ship won’t stay undetected forever, and we don’t need a diplomatic incident here.”
The burly sailors nodded and gathered the crew who then proceeded to shimmy skilfully up their ladders, followed closely by the goblins.
“All right!” cheered Zatso, “Reckon we need to announce our delivery?”
“No need.” replied Grindle, pointing down at three rapidly approaching blood elves.
There was a blonde veteran in a ceremonial robe who was wielding a long dual-bladed weapon and a shield carved in the shape of a falcon, a wiry mage with a long purple robe, and a familiar dark haired figure who was dressed formidably in jet plate armour.
They arrived just in time to see the goblins disappearing over the wall.
“You there, what are you…?” the elf leader called up after them, his eyes flaring suddenly in angry recognition, “Wait, you two again?”
“Hey there, you wanted significantly larger merchandise, right?” taunted Zatso back down the wall, flashing a conspiratorial grin at his companion.
“Get back down here!” demanded the blood knight menacingly, “What is this? Is this a raid? What merchandise? Why are you using the walls and not the Shepherd’s Gate?”
“Allow me, Champion.” The robed veteran stepped up, raising his warglaive to the ready. “Whoever they are, I believe they’ll find me more than a match in combat. There is nothing in this realm that can hold that gate from me!"
The Champion nodded and turned to his mage associate as the veteran darted off to scout the gate ahead of them.
“Where are the guards, Tyren?”
Conjurer Tyren was examining the surrounding area. He brushed his hand lightly against a grass verge before giving his fingertips a cautious sniff.
“Some traces of alchemical compounds. Any guards that we find will not awaken for some time, Champion Vranesh.” said Tyren neutrally, betraying no emotion.
“By the Sunwell, you need to see this!” cried the veteran from the distance, his voice quavering with incredulity.
As Tyren and Vranesh approached the gate, its shadows appeared to have taken on the wrong shape somehow, more like a giant tunnel than a gate opening.
Conjurer Tyren illuminated the high archway by summoning a ball of enchanted green light that centred on his outstretched palm.
The veteran was revealed, fixed to the spot, staring open mouthed at an improbable sight; the way was blocked by the monstrous maw of a dead whale shark.
The vast creature’s head had been levered in to position to block the main gateway out of the city. Its great wide death grimace revealed a dozen bent and broken teeth, each as high as an elf.
“Oh that is it!” bellowed Vranesh, hurling his sword to the ground in exasperation, “That is the absolute limit! This time, that filthy troll and his fishmongers have gone too far! Upon my oath, I will see them pay for their crimes!”
NEXT UP: FISHMONGERS ON TRIAL!
Edited by Mudija on 19/08/12 20:36 (BST)
TALE SIXTEEN: IN WHICH A JUDGEMENT IS MADE.
A pretty raven-haired Blood Elf and her enamoured escort, an equally dark-haired male, were strolling together through the Royal Exchange in Silvermoon City. They were heading for the Walk of Elders when their way became blocked by a large crowd spilling out from the Hall of Respite.
“There’s something going on, Alenarian my love.” stated the elven lady.
“So it seems, Nylest,” agreed her companion, raising his lengthy eyebrows. “We’ll have to go around, through the Bazaar.”
“Excuse me,” Nylest touched the shoulder of the nearest onlooker, “What’s happening here?”
“They’re trying that fishing troll,” replied the bystander excitedly, “I heard that Rommath himself is in there!”
The elves exchanged a look, their interest piqued.
“We have to get in!” said Nylest.
Proceedings were well underway as Alenarien began clearing a path for through the gathered throng with his broad shoulders. Several large disused fel crystals had been moved to the rear of the hall to accommodate the tightly packed spectators.
Champion Vranesh was prosecuting and just getting in to his stride. High Magister Rommath was indeed present, hearing the case.
“The charges include,” barked Vranesh , “Urinating in a public fountain!”
“Hey! I can’t read de’ signs mon’,” protested a long tusked troll who was mostly wearing crimson garb, including a wide-brimmed hat that shielded his eyes. “You try readin’ ‘dem mystic sigils after five south island iced teas!”
Raucous Orcish laughter could be heard coming from the back of the hall. A crew of drunken sailors were among the spectators.
“Why are there so many orcs here?” muttered Alenarian.
“Best not cause any offence, my love,” whispered Nylest, “We have enough issues with Orgrimmar as it is. I heard that last envoy got kicked down a well!”
The bold troll was sat at a bench near the front of the hall. A suspiciously slight figure in a hooded satin robe sat quietly alongside him and a goblin wearing engineering goggles sat on the carpeted floor in front.
“Suspected mis-appropriation of an Arcane Guardian,” continued Vranesh.
“Cheers Zatso!” Mudija growled, aiming a swift kick at the shrugging goblin.
“The insertion,” (More orcish chuckling.) “The insertion,” asserted Vranesh, “of a dead whale shark in to the Shepherd’s Gate, and liability for all subsequent disruption caused to city affairs! Do you have anything to say?”
“I brought me a lawyer.” said Mudija smugly, slinging a thumb in the direction of the hooded figure alongside him.
“Errm, Lawyer? I thought you said priest!” Zatso cowered at Mudija’s fuming expression.
“Trouble with the staff?” hissed the priest, “Allow me.”
The available light seemed to flow away from him as he extended the tell-tale bony wrist of a Forsaken man to direct a magical spell.
Zatso suddenly shot up from the floor, turned and ran headlong in to the north wall of the chamber, knocking himself out cold. General laughter ensued, this time with everybody joining in.
“Mind control?” Mudija grinned at the priest, despite himself, “Nice work! Welcome on board, Mister…?”
The priest looked lost in thought for a moment, before replying. “Dorahl, I think. Yes, Dorahl.”
“When the defendants have quite finished running around and wasting even more of my time, perhaps we can render judgement?”
Vranesh bowed and gave way to Grand Magister Rommath.
“Well troll, it seems you have been…busy,” he announced diplomatically, causing some light tittering at the back of the hall.
“I’m always busy, mon!” Mudija sneered, pulling a face at Vranesh who was turning bright red in consternation.
“Be silent!” Vranesh glowered back. “Let the Grand Magister speak to your fate!”
“Yet, I see no reason to cause yet more schisms between the peoples of The Horde,” continued Rommath. “I have a suitable… direction for you instead of any graver punishment.”
“You can’t be serious!” hissed Vranesh, loudly enough to be heard by the front few onlookers.
“Patience Champion, there is always a way to make events work in your favour. You’ve been pushing me to exile certain members of our citizenry. Watch and learn.”
“It is my judgement that you, ‘Mad Mudi’ Mudija, proprietor of the Furious Fishmongers, will from this day forward, gainfully employ such citizens of Silvermoon as I see fit.”
Vranesh blinked, more than a little stunned.
“No, no, no!” cried Mudi, lowering his hat to hide his face from a collection of unfortunate citizens that were stood under guard to one side, awaiting their fate.
“To begin with, I send the mage Faviel Firebranch in to your service; I am sure you can find uses for him!”
“No!” shrieked the red-headed mage in alarm. “This animal turned me in to a frog! He made me a vagrant in Durotar! His minions pelted me with fish! Please do not do this, I beg you!”
“It is already done,” smirked Vranesh. “This court session is ended, farewell!”
A general hubbub of excited chatter broke out, as the hall began to empty. Faviel was released and reluctantly went to join his new master.
“How may I serve you, Master Mudija?” he sighed miserably.
“Ya could die in a fire.” mumbled Mudi.
“Hmm?” asked Faviel.
Dorahl leaned over to Mudija and murmured to him.
“Mind you,” said Mudi, grinning roguishly, “I could use a Transport Controller.”
“Really? I… I don’t know what to say! Here I was thinking you’d exploit me mercilessly as revenge for this judgement!”
“Perish the thought,” said Mudi, gathering his belongings and preparing to leave. “Now conjure me some water and then open a portal to Orgrimmar, ya pointy-eared little ginger freak!”
Thanks to Nylest and Alenarien for the use of their characters. Much love always to my main fishmonger associate, Dorahl.
NEXT: MUDIJA RULES THE WAVES?
Oh, that Mudi and his stories... he makes you laugh, he makes you cry (from laughing).
Tale 17 is inspired in part by the above post.
Any complaints about it should therefore be sent on to Lady Frecka of the Burning Dawn.
Edited by Mudija on 19/08/12 20:38 (BST)
TALE SEVENTEEN: IN WHICH THE WARCHIEF GETS CAPTURED.
A monstrous fleet of Horde warships was converging just off the eastern seaboard of Kalimdor, moving down along the Merchant Coast.
The host of gunships were clad in blackened steel with heavy elementium spikes protruding from every available surface. Their reinforced hulls were adorned with the crimson banners of the Horde and were crewed by several hundred champions, guards and sailors.
The biggest ship was a mighty battle cruiser, decorated extravagantly in crimson with lots of golden trim. Its figurehead doubled up as a hullbreaker, which was fashioned in the image of a giant hammerhead shark, its fanged maw gaping in mid-air. There was a blackened lobster symbol burned in to the main deck, spread large and wide enough to be visible from the air.
“We’re nearing the needles, Admiral,” called a tall Tauren lady, who was making a subtle adjustment to the course of the mighty vessel, while she consulted a detailed paper chart.
“Excellent,” replied the Admiral, a rather smart looking goblin who had slicked green hair and was wearing spectacles that were plated with gold. “Better wake the warchief then.”
The helmswoman shuddered before realising with some relief that the Admiral was talking to the deckhand stood next to her, a skinny Blood Elf, who was wearing raggedy crimson robes topped off with an ill-advised headscarf.
The unfortunate sailor made his way slowly below decks, his face presenting the grim visage of somebody that was resigned to his fate. The crew in the immediate vicinity went quiet and listened. There was a knock, a growl and a clang. The luckless mariner returned to his post, wearing a large tureen on his head which was pouring the last of its grey soup down over his pale face.
A tall hunchbacked troll with tightly bound white hair proceeded to clamber lazily up to the top deck, his once colourful tattoos faded from a lifetime of wear. A crimson eyepatch covered his right eye and a golden hafted fishing rod was strapped securely to his long back.
“Ey, Zatso!” snarled the Warchief angrily, “We got the last of ‘dem Southsea fools cornered yet?”
The Admiral rolled his eyes a little, before regaining his composure. “Yes Warchief. We have them sighted at far range, closing in three minutes.”
“Ey now!” announced the Warchief. “Tonight we smash Two-Tusk and his tin pot ‘navy’ once and fer all! If he pulls that stunt where he hides in ‘dem treasure chests, we just blast him outta the water!”
A few shouts went up from the forward boats and cannon fire could be heard in the distance, along with the tell-tale splashing of heavy debris impacting in water. They were entering the straits that sheltered the deep trench known as the Mirage Abyss.
“Bettah move us in to position, Admiral Zatso.” advised Mudija, his eyes narrowing as the fleet passed between the ruined wooden towers of the Southsea Holdfast and the Splithoof Heights encampment.
“Yes Warchief,” replied the goblin, as he signalled to the nearest vessels using a shuttered lantern, “You’re not worried about sneak attacks? He might just be that desperate!”
“Pfft,” scoffed the Warchief, stroking one of his prodigious weathered tusks, “That’ll be the day that jumped up pirate gets de’ bettah of me!”
“Look out!” came a second goblin’s warning, a little too late as it turned out. A sharp crack of timber was heard, followed by a sudden rush of air.
The Warchief was suddenly caught up in a tightly bound net. The crew moved in to help, but they were too slow and only able to watch as their struggling Warchief was dragged ignominiously from the side of the ship.
He landed on something solid. That didn’t seem right.
He thought he could hear his crew mumbling close-by, but their words were hard to make out. Somebody with a death wish was splashing water on to his face.
“Hey Bahu!” exclaimed a crimson clad goblin mirthfully, “Come and see!”
The goblin was one of two who were crouched alongside the feverish Mudija, who was himself lying prone on the edge of a jetty in the Valley of Spirits, with his face half resting in the stagnant rivulet that ran below him.
“What now, Zatso?” sighed a solid looking Tauren lady, who was sat at a rickety bench in the back of a large red and tan tent. She was marking out a glyph with a quill and ink on to some fraying parchment. Assorted crudely marked barrels and crates were stacked clumsily beside the shanty canvas. A cracked leather sign hanging listlessly from the roof declared this to be the stall of the “F_rious __shmongers”.
“Boss troll got tangled up in his hammock and rolled down to the waterway!” Zatso called back.
“Hah, bet he was havin’ that dream where he’s the Warchief again!” chuckled a second goblin.
“Not again!” complained Bahu, putting down her inscription project and moving to aid her stricken Fishmaster, “I’ll lift him while you and Grindle cut the line; I told him not to eat the last of the winter squid!”
NEXT: FISHING TRIPS ROUND THE LAKE.