Cowladin the Paladin: Slave Pens

(a bit of World of Warcraft fiction)

On the other side of the teleportal, it was dark. Cowladin hefted his war maul and waited for his eyes to adjust from the harsh sun of Thrallmar. He could hear dainty footsteps, and the sound of someone brushing his clothes. Or her clothes. With elves, you couldn't really tell. There were three elves in fancy dress, plus a silent, nondescript troll in nondescript leather armor with a pair of nondescript knives at his belt. The elves all had complicated religious or magic symbols embroidered on their brocade robes, and they were probably all named Tirralirralalirrasirra, or something of that sort. Well, he didn't really have to keep track of which one was which; as long as the healer spells landed on the good guys, and the mage spells landed on the bad guys, that would be good enough.

“Moo,” he said by way of greeting, and added, “Where are we?”

“Thangarmarth, darling,” lisped one of the elves.

“Zangarmarsh, as in mud, flies, mosquitoes, gnats, and nagas?”

“No, darling. Well, yes, nagas, but there are no nasty bugs here,” piped another elf. Or maybe the first one. “We are in a cavern under the great lake. The water is kept out by magic, inferior to the elvish sort of magic of course, but effective enough. There’s no way for insects to get in.”

“Specifically we’re at the slave pens,” added the third elf, or maybe the second one. They all looked alike, as far as Cowladin could tell. “We’re going to kill the slave masters and release the slaves. Unless they’re particularly yummy slaves, in which case we might keep them for ourselves!”

Cowladin scratched his mane. “So…we’re under thousands of tons of water?”

“Yeth, darling.”

“Said water being held up only by the magic of the naga lords?” He muttered the ritual to bless his fellow adventurers.

“Yes, of course.”

“The naga lords we’re here to kill?”

“Yes!”

Another elf put in "Speaking of yummy, you look pretty yummy yourself, big boy. What are you doing after we finish here?"

Cowladin ignored the elf’s flirting. “So…we’re going to kill the naga lords whose magic is the only thing keeping the water from flooding this cavern and drowning us all?”

“Exactly!”

“And we’re not anticipating any problems from this?”

The elves looked at each other and shrugged in a beautiful, elegant, and uncomprehending way.

Cowladin sighed. “As soon as we kill the last naga lord, the magic stops, the place floods. Right?”

One of them said, “Well, I suppose it might. Why? Oh, yes, I see what you’re worried about! Tons of water thundering in, picking up huge boulders and knocking things about, drowning any non-yummy slaves, sloshing swirls of black mud and silt all around and covering everything with yucky stuff. But don’t worry about it. The décor here was all done by nagas. If it all gets destroyed, it’s probably just as well. Although the nagas do have some quite exotic leather gear, and I'd loooove to pick up some of that."

The troll perked up at that, drew his knives and glided silently down the path to scout ahead.

Cowladin shrugged. “I was more concerned about the ‘us not getting drowned’ part, but I suppose I can bubble hearth if I have to.” He slung his maul over his back, hefted his shield into place, and drew his cutlass. "For the Herd!"