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Beginnings, Ill-Omens, and Boats *Part I*

Shenrel's picture

“What do you mean it’s not here?”

The dockmaster, whose face had all the expression of a turnip, regarded Shenrel Oakwall blandly as his quill pen scratched across a wooden clipboard.

“I mean the ship hasn’t arrived yet,” he replied in bored monotones. “You must be new to the city; your grasp of Common seems rather shaky. I can direct you to the night elf embassy if you require a translator during your time here.”

Shenrel resisted the urge to knock the small human unconscious. The cacophony of the busy Stormwind docks was doing little to reign in his temper. People where running everywhere in a mad hurry, their shouts mingling with the calls of the gulls overhead, wearing the night elf’s patience thread-bare. It had all the noise of a battlefield, but none of the thrill.

“It should have been here three days ago. Three. Days.” Shenrel’s teeth ground against each other audibly as he stared the dockmaster down. The human was clearly unimpressed, which put Shenrel off-balance. Most citizens regarded him warily; he was large for a night elf, his clothing adorned with numerous animal totems and had a glare that sent most merchants into a stammer. He rather enjoyed doing that.

“We are not masters of the ocean, good sir,” the dockmaster answered, as if speaking to an ignorant child. “Ships do not always arrive on time. Storms are quite frequent between Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms, and navigating around the Maelstrom is not a simple task.”

“You do not understand, human,” Shenrel said with poorly-concealed anger. “I am going to be part of the expedition going through the Dark Portal, the one that’s leaving in a matter of days. I need to know when that ship is going to arrive, as it is carrying cargo essential to my work. Can’t you find its location using magic?”

“I beg your pardon,” the dockmaster replied crossly, “but with the invasion of the Iron Horde in the Blasted Lands, we barely have enough mages left in the city to maintain our own magical necessities. Let alone enough to find a single ship on the Great Sea. This is not Darnassus, good sir, and it is certainly not Dalaran.”

Shenrel shut his mouth and snorted angrily, surprised by the dockmaster’s stern reply.

“When it arrives, I will make sure you are contacted immediately. Now. Good. Day.” The dockmaster turned and walked off without another word.

Shenrel started at the back of the small human for a few moments, then with a snarl shifted into the form of a storm raven and flew off in search for a training dummy to rip apart.  He was keen on returning to the fight, and was now stuck in the city until the thrice-damned ship arrived.

Whatever patience the night elf once possessed, now appeared to have been left back in Darnassus.


Lirriel's picture

((I am amused by Shenrel's

((I am amused by Shenrel's grumping!))