We jumped from the tower into the grass at a decent distance from the entrance to the complex. A reasonable precaution; there are guards ahead. Not Trolls, Humans. And if we jump out of nowhere in the middle of the camp (remember, the tower is invisible), questions will arise. So we landed carefully at a safe distance and unloaded the container with my toys. And we can get to work.
The same standard container the convoys used. Not a box, but a full-sized one, five by two by two meters. Part of the container is occupied by my machine, part by shelves with products. Everything is packed quite tightly, but it levitates (a meter above the surface), which means I can lug the equipment with me. And I mustn't forget to charge it with Mana; all these processes will consume it quite quickly, and the box isn't designed to spend it in such quantities.
And to be honest, I don't really understand why I'm even here. Let's be blunt—this is just another assignment. Only for some reason, it's located quite far from home. What will we find here and why?
"Questions, questions require answers."
My only hope is that the Magister isn't doing this just out of boredom, but that he has a plan we don't know about. I really hope he actually has one. But what could be so interesting in Troll ruins? Another tablet that will eat my soul, or maybe some ancient artifact? Too little information, and yet I expect we weren't driven here for nothing.
And no, I'm not complaining; the Magister can treat me as entertainment all he wants, but he's ready to invest in that entertainment. The container, access to the library, some tips on improving the machine. And all of this just for lessons that are potentially dangerous to my health and the need to overcome a few difficulties from time to time. If he turned out to be a pedophile, I'd think twice, but here everything is fine. If I have to endure a few hardships to get the knowledge for the war against the Undead, to become a strong Mage, I can endure it.
That's why I'm maintaining my presence of mind in this situation. Perhaps it's not all that simple. We'll see; we'll figure it out as we go.
I turned and looked at the Ranger apprentice who had stopped beside me. She also viewed what was happening skeptically, but more simply.
"You're overthinking it, DaVi. He's the teacher; he gives us tasks. We need to complete them and become stronger."
I didn't argue, as I still don't understand the point. And while I was thinking, I tried to find the magic tower. To feel for the strings responsible for the Cloak spell. Not particularly successfully. I managed to catch a certain distortion located "roughly over there," but nothing more. It seems that without detection magic, the fortress can't be pinpointed. Logical, I suppose. I turned back to the Rogue, who pointed ahead with a nod.
"So, here we are at the bottom," Venidan smirked, pulling her cloak over her head, "launch the bird; let's go get acquainted. I don't want to spend more time in these ruins than necessary."
The problem is there are no guarantees the knife is still there. These ruins are ages old; they've been looted at least once. And possibly more. Unless the Magister hid the knife in advance, there's no guarantee at all that it will be there. I'll have to bring something else back. A real "go there, I don't know where, bring that, I don't know what" situation. But that something must be from the depths of the Troll ruins. And I won't be able to just bring back a random item. In theory, the Magister should know where and what valuable things might lie. Besides, if the Trolls were driven out by Humans, they probably did a good job of looting, dragging away everything valuable that was in plain sight. Even Elves would have picked up some souvenirs.
Alright, we're in the field; stop the reflection and brooding. I turned to the golem. Essentially, it was a simple metal bird figure animated by magic. Actually, it's more complex; it has movable joints (teaching the machine to make them was a real headache, let me tell you) so it can flap its wings, move its legs, and turn its head. And eyepieces made of Enchanted glass.
A pulse of energy brought the feathered thing into action. It shifted from foot to foot, spread its wings, flapped them, turned its head, rustling quietly. Aha, everything's fine; the bird survived the transport without problems. I was a bit worried. This bird is a prototype I finished literally just before the flight. We managed to run tests, a couple of lessons, but that was it. It doesn't even have many spare parts, not to mention the control scroll, of which there is also only one. But since we're in the field, I insisted on taking it. Let's see what you can do.
"Birdie's ready," a short pulse of strings made it jerk into the air, spreading its wings and stabilizing itself mid-flight, "now, let's see."
I pulled the goggles onto my head. A funny device that, without access to the Magister's library, I would have been building for several more months. But this way, and in the status of an apprentice, the matter went faster. They look like steampunk night-vision goggles with a binocular function. Several lenses with different Enchantments, one pair of which is needed to see through the bird's eyes. A mechanism switches the lenses, allowing me to see reality with different filters. Or, in the case of my flying drone, to see what the bird sees. The bird, by the way, has the same mechanism.
And yes, I'm sincerely proud of this thing. Yes, I had to run around to masters. Yes, I had to ask, persuade, sit in the library until I fell asleep face-first in a book. Redo the joints, find suitable lubricant. And as for how much effort and Mana was spent on that damn scroll... It was hard, but necessary. If I study things at a leisurely pace, I'll never get anywhere in time. And with "operations" like this, it's very likely we'll have to make similar flights more than once.
But that doesn't stop me from being proud of my successes, right? The moment I first launched the bird into the sky, when I saw it steadily cutting circles over the village. When, obeying my will, it flew where it was needed. When I installed the lenses for the "through the eyes" view and saw our settlement from a bird's-eye view... I squealed like a little girl. And my mom, sitting nearby, was happy. Isn't that amazing?
Though it didn't end quite so cool and epic; it turned out that landing requires separate experience. In short, the bird just crashed to the ground to the quiet snickers of those around. But I was too pleased with myself to be offended. Alright, let's work.
The first second of the "through the eyes" view caused the usual confusion until I oriented myself as to what, where, and how. After all, the terrain is unfamiliar, and I'm here for the first time. And then I jumped and cursed when a cold hand slipped down my collar.
"Venidan, what the hell are you doing?"
A click, the lens slid up so I could better see the Rogue's snide smirk.
"Checking your reaction. You concentrate too much and see nothing around you."
I sighed. At least she didn't throw a bug or a centipede down my collar, and for that, I'm thankful.
"I'm just not used to it yet. What can you do, multitasking wasn't included. And I'm here for the first time, after all. Maybe you'd like to fly it yourself?"
She snorted.
"As if. No offense, DaVi, but my detection skills are better than some people's. So go on, learn, and one day..."
I won't answer. And yes, Veni's words are quite debatable. Detection skills include many things. Not just the ability to notice tracks or movement. But also various magical methods. If I remember correctly, Night Elves use a purely magical analog of my bird, and it's supposedly even capable of noticing the invisible. So Venidan is just showing off, that's all. Anyway, I'm used to it.
The bird, obeying a magical command, flew toward the settlement. And it's fascinating, especially when you look from a height, panoramically. Trolls have clear associations with Aztecs or Incas, I don't know. So the fortress itself is a multi-tiered temple surrounded by a ring of buildings and walls. A long, sloping stone staircase leads to it, with torch stands in the shape of skulls along the way. Extinguished. Around it are even more stone ruins of houses, long abandoned. At the very top of the huge pyramid is an entrance to somewhere; I suspect that's exactly where we need to go.
"Well, what's there?" I jumped again at the quiet but unexpected talk in my ear, "don't shake, just don't be silent. I can't see what you're doing there, can I? Maybe you're peeping on someone?"
Just... alright, that's a reasonable point. She doesn't see what I see. My fingers are trembling slightly, correcting the flight. I still don't quite understand how this magical leash works, making the bird's strings obey commands at a great distance. But I mustn't forget that it's not very long. Far-sight, yes, but if I send the bird several kilometers away, I won't be able to correct it like this. It's enough for about half a kilometer.
Aha, and here are the locals. I see them!
"The bird is taking position over the camp. I see Sentinels on the walls, one, two. I see tents, closer to the temple, like on the Magister's map. And there are three, five more people by the tents. Two by the temple. Humans, it seems. Holy crap!"
Venidan immediately jumped up, gripping her bow more comfortably:
"What's there?"
I cursed mentally. I cursed very hard mentally! They're breaking my precious!
"The bird's been hit. These guys down there have guns. How did they spot me so fast? Maneuvering, trying to lead it away."
A bullet struck the bird's metal torso, leaving a hole and partially jamming the head rotation. My golem was shaken quite a bit by it. But a golem isn't a living creature; it's not that easy to bring down as long as the scroll is intact. A bullet whistled past as I threw the machine to the side. Another shot, miss. And another. My Elven hearing heard the pops even from this distance.
"Veni, cover me, I'm trying to lead the birdie away. These parasites are indecently accurate!"
And that wasn't a metaphor. Another couple of bullets whistled past.
"Those are Mgalekgolo," the Elf concluded, "usually they're the ones who are accurate and look at the sky. I wonder if the Magister knew they'd be here?"
I don't care if they're Mgalekgolo or Jedi; they've spotted my flying scout and want to break it! Another bullet punched a hole in the hull, causing the golem to lose a leg, and the wing started pulling to the side. Yes, flight control is still handled by the wings. I put so much effort into this bird, and these monkeys with guns are breaking it! At least the scroll is intact, and I can more or less control it. Fortunately, the bird has already flown outside the camp; I need to turn it around, land it, and get it out. And then go settle things with those jerks who did this!
A few minutes later, I relaxed, bringing the golem lower and guiding it over the forest. The Mgalekgolo couldn't reach it here anymore.
"That's it, I'm landing it. Let's go deal with those shooters."
I was already about to take off, but Venidan grabbed my hand.
"Are you serious? You're just going to go there?"
I nodded.
"Of course. I suspect the Mgalekgolo will go after the prey, so we'll meet them by my broken golem. And as for how it goes, we'll figure it out on the spot. This is my prototype; I spent a hell of a lot of effort on this chicken, and they broke it! And if it makes you feel better, they're hanging around the ruins we need anyway. So we'll get acquainted."
Venidan let me go, sighing and gripping her bow.
"I don't know what 'hell of a lot' means, but I'll be behind you. Try not to do something like that treant again, okay?"
Yeah, thanks. While we ran and flew through the forest, I continued to monitor the bird's work. It was descending. I couldn't see the Mgalekgolo among the trees, but I was still sure they were there. If they really are Mgalekgolo and not just sharp-eyed shooters.
The forest, by the way, is the most ordinary deciduous one. I'm not a botanist at all; I'm not familiar with Earth's plants, but these trees... Well, they look ordinary. They don't radiate magic, they don't glow, they don't have bizarre bark shades. Just firs and maples, or oaks, or some other deciduous trees. Grass, bushes—everything is also very ordinary. After all those Elven forests, I was even hit with a bit of nostalgia; I wanted to touch the grass. But let's not dwell on the sad stuff; we have business.
We fly silently. Or rather, I fly, and Venidan runs, and it seems to me she makes less sound than I do when I brush against the bushes. She seems to seep past the plants. She tramples the grass as she runs—that's unavoidable—but she doesn't snap twigs or rustle the brush. The noise she creates is lost against the backdrop of the forest just a meter away. I'm even jealous; I want to be able to do that too.
"Keep it down," Veni tossed back. "You're flying, yet you're making as much noise as a drunken Warrior."
I had to slow down, but I kept moving. It was a fair point; there were Mgalekgolo on the other side, not just some random nobodies.
"The bird has landed." This time the landing turned out better than the previous ones.
I'm doing great. Or maybe it's some strange magic where a damaged golem is easier to land than a whole one. I don't know.
We slowed down, picking our way quietly through the forest. I honestly tried to spot the enemy, but I couldn't—the forest was too dense, and the bird was already down. Our opponents weren't in a hurry to make noise either. Eyes were no help here at all, so I switched to magical vision. Venidan, however, was doing fine, prowling along with her bow ready and an arrow nocked (but not drawn), watching, searching.
We heard each other simultaneously. Venidan stopped, drawing her bowstring, and I concentrated the strings of magic, raising a Mana shield and preparing to exhale an icy wall—and there, right in front of us, were a pair of Dwarves, aiming rifles at us.
Colorful guys, about a meter and a quarter to a meter and a half tall. My height, basically, maybe slightly shorter. If I'm a total midget among the Elves, I'm just right for these men. Except even so, the difference between us is like that between a bodybuilder and a fashion model. Interesting personalities.
Both wore hats, very ordinary ones. Heavy boots, leather pants, a frock coat with a vest, and a white shirt on both. One was a brunette with a wrinkled face. The second was gray-haired, wearing a monocle. Both had long, meter-long beards as thick as I am, and fingerless gloves.
And both were aiming actual rifles at us. One had a double-barrel of an absolutely wild caliber; the second had a single-barrel, but also clearly not a five-point-five. A centimeter, or maybe even two. And that rifle looked more than serious. It was the first time I'd seen such a weapon, but I was almost certain I didn't want to feel a bullet from it hitting my shields. And Venidan had no shield at all; basically, if anything happened, I'd have to strike for Affliction immediately.
The gray-haired one laughed, lowering his barrel. About forty degrees—not aiming, but ready to raise it and fire into a chest in a flash.
"Look at that, Monty, Elven small-fry. I told ya that bird couldn't be a Troll's. Your golem, girls?"
The brunette snorted, also lowering his weapon. Venidan followed suit. I lowered my hands but didn't drop the shield, no matter how much Mana it ate. These jerks still put holes in my birdie.
"And you shouldn't be flyin' over the camp," Monty added.
I… I gasped with indignation! How dare he! Why, I'll—!!!
"So you mean to tell me, you bearded bastard, that you realized this bird wasn't a threat to you and you started blasting anyway? Are you out of your mind, you blockhead!!! I'll twist your rifle barrel into a straw and shove it up your backside, you hack sniper!!!"
The gray-haired one started guffawing openly, while Venidan seemed slightly bewildered. The brunette, however, looked on skeptically.
"You got the strength for that, pipsqueak? Or do ya think just 'cause you're hidin' behind a shield you can do anythin'? I'll box your ears and give ya a whippin'."
I pulled at the strings around me. You're about to see who's pipsqueak and who's a Mage. How's that rifle gonna help you when everything in a hundred-meter radius freezes solid?
"DaVi..."
I ignored her.
"Back off!"
"Incoming fire!!! Get down!!!"
The roar was so deafening that the trees shuddered, birds took flight in a panic, and Venidan and the Dwarf hit the ground, covering their faces with their hands. On pure reflex, I deployed a dome to cover everyone from a strike from above—thank you, Magister. I will never forget the "Tanya Degurechaff" style training methods. That's when Fireballs are flying at your head and you'd better manage to bury yourself or coat yourself in shields before they land. And you have less time than you'd like.
After about five seconds, it became clear that no one was going to blow us up. The Dwarf with the monocle was looking at us reproachfully.
"Right. Before we all do somethin' stupid we'll regret later, let's start over. I'm Hemingway Nesingwary, a hunter. This is Monty Blunderbuss, my friend and comrade. And you, High Elves, who do you belong to?"
I sighed, suppressing the urge to just yank the strings. But my upbringing demanded an answer. Especially since the elder Dwarf (though I wouldn't say it to his face) was quite right.
"I am Davilinia, a Mage's apprentice."
"Venidan, a Ranger's apprentice. DaVi's Magister and mentor assigned us a practical task in these ruins."
Monty squinted suspiciously, but the elder Dwarf nodded, holding his musket in one hand and stroking his beard with the other.
I, meanwhile… was intensely trying to remember: who is this guy? No, seriously, the name is familiar. Hemingway Nesingwary—that is definitely a named Warcraft character, definitely. Wait! Wait!!! He's a parody of Indiana Jones and a reference to Ernest Hemingway at the same time!
"You're the greatest big-game hunter of them all! I remember now!"
Monty nodded, Venidan looked on questioningly, and the hunter himself chuckled and stroked his gray beard, pleased.
"Well, now that we've met, we can stop the brawlin'. The birdie, I take it, is yours."
I sighed.
"My first successful scout golem. And on its very first mission, right at the start, someone just had to go and play target practice."
Quite unexpectedly, the brunet Dwarf looked embarrassed. He scratched the back of his head with a massive paw (I just realized both of them had hands the size of shovels), adjusted his hat, and said:
"Well, sorry 'bout that. These lands are full o' Troll buildin's and fortresses. Zul'Aman, Zul'Mashar—they're close enough that we shoot at anythin' that ain't livin' and movin'. Their tribes are still here, what's left after Zul'jin. I was playin' it safe—figured I'd shoot it down first, ask questions later."
Hemingway cleared his throat, drawing attention.
"Tell ya what. Come to our camp, as guests. It's right where you're headed anyway. Since things started off on the wrong foot, we'll help each other out. But at the very least, you both need a square meal—look how skinny ya are," he smiled into his beard.
At that, I couldn't help it; I returned the smile, glancing at Venidan. She gave a slight nod of agreement.
"Alright, Master Hemingway, we just need to go back and get our things."
The Dwarf chuckled.
"Right then, so you're not travelin' light. What've you got back there?"
I figured since we were effectively under escort anyway (it was clear they didn't trust us and were keeping an eye on us), I might as well answer.
"Supplies for a week or two, a workbench for assembling and repairing golems, and a stock of parts. And no, there isn't a second bird there."
The Dwarves agreed. As we walked to get the supplies (during which I was informed they could have found them themselves because I'd left too much of a trail), they explained why a group of hunters had suddenly become so interested in these lands.
"The Trolls were kicked out, no doubt about that. But they left behind a lot o' big game, some changed by Troll rituals, or just former pets. Includin' Tuskus, a flyin' snake that lives in the temple dungeons. The beasties have gone feral and wouldn't mind a snack of uninvited intruders," Hemingway reported, tracking our reaction.
We exchanged looks. So that's where the Magister sent us. Obviously, he knew there was a beastie here. He probably expected the two of us to take it down. Or he knew about the hunters. Both options were possible, honestly.
And I suspected the trophy he wanted might be the skull of that creature. But there were complications, as the Dwarves clearly hadn't come here just for a drink. Or rather, for a drink too, but the one and only Hemingway-freaking-Nesingwary doesn't just drop by for a visit for no reason. Which meant the question of how to split the trophies would arise. Basically, the Mage had thrown us a real puzzle.
As I flew alongside the Dwarves, I studied them. In short, a Dwarf is a very, very stocky mountain of muscle. While my proportions are generally Human-like, more or less (Earth-like), these guys resemble a nightstand. Not fat, but wide in every direction. A large head, a thick neck, very thick muscular arms with large fingers, a fairly short torso, and also very wide and clearly muscular legs. Their short stature makes them even more low-slung. It contrasts so sharply with what I saw in Quel'Thalas that I couldn't take my eyes off them. Amazing—and I know staring is rude! But it's just so interesting!
"Uh, excuse me, but… are all Dwarves that muscular?" I couldn't hold it back.
By the way, they'd stopped aiming at us; they were just walking alongside. The elder Dwarf was smiling quite kindly, resembling a stern but generally good-natured grandfather. But I still hadn't dropped my defense, and Venidan was being cautious too. These guys were so wide I thought he could break me with one hand. Seriously, his arms or legs were almost as thick as my torso. Like I said: a nightstand made of muscle; bodybuilders would die of envy.
"What, never seen a Dwarf before, eh?" Monty asked.
I looked him in the eye and gave a slight nod. I still really didn't like this guy, but after the apology, he wasn't being rude anymore and was generally a model of politeness… for a common laborer. We'd immediately switched to informal address, and everyone was fine with it. Though I kept feeling the urge to use formal address with the elders. But no one had complaints there either. Upbringing.
"Yes, this is my second practice and my first experience communicating with a non-Elf, so forgive me if I do something wrong."
"Yeah, same here," Venidan agreed. "Ordinary life doesn't involve much contact with outsiders. And I'm still just an apprentice."
The hunter just waved a hand.
"A third o' the camp is made up o' folks like that, so don't sweat it. We see Humans often enough, but not everyone's seen an Elf. It's fine, as long as ya don't do anythin' foolish; we'll settle the rest. I was thinkin', since you're headed into the depths o' the temple too, how 'bout helpin' with the hunt? There's more than just the snake—there's raptors and other predators that need thinnin' out, since we're all gathered here."
Well, I couldn't resist.
"It would be much easier to search with a scout golem."
Monty chimed in:
"We'll fix it. Are we Dwarves, or are we just out for a stroll? We've got a mechanic in camp, and a field forge too. Big game can break weapons, bend swords, or crush a blunderbuss. If ya know how it's supposed to be, we'll fix it."
I nodded.
"I have the blueprints with me."
"Then it's no problem," Hemingway replied, clapping Monty on the shoulder. "We'll show it to this shooter's wife; she's a mechanic. She'll have it good as new by evenin'. It'll fly even better than before. Dwarven quality, and the guarantees to match."
Well, actually, yeah, you are out for a stroll. But so are the Dwarves. Okay, that's silly. As if reading my thoughts, Venidan laughed:
"Well, we did come out for a stroll, didn't we?" At which we all laughed.
Amidst such conversation, we successfully found the container and brought it to the camp. After that, Monty ran off and actually brought back the bird. Two holes had appeared in its iron body, one leg was torn off, the wing hinges were damaged, and the casing was partially crushed (the caliber of those rifles of theirs was clearly like an elephant gun, if not higher, and the stopping power was on par). Accurate bastards; I'd have to take it apart, replace some parts, straighten things out, and put it back together.
The hunters' camp was exactly as expected. Against a wall among the ruins, in a cleared spot, several tents were pitched, forming at least some shelter from the wind. It was likely someone's courtyard once, or maybe a warehouse. In any case, the walls were partially preserved, forming a fence; a hole was visible where the gates used to be. And where there were no walls, there were traps and sentries. The result was a camp closed on three sides, making it harder for predators to attack at night while everyone slept.
By the entrance, incidentally, a Bear was dozing—brown, but not very large. Not a Grizzly Bear giant, but more like an American black bear. Though for me or a Dwarf, it would be plenty. The Bear looked at us, then at the Dwarves, and went back to sleep; he was fine.
The Troll ruins themselves were notable for two things: the massive meter-long stone blocks everything was built from, and the bas-reliefs carved into the stone. Skulls, monsters with tentacles, snakes, long-necked lizards, and something like velociraptors. And ugly, snarling faces of unknown creatures with horrific fangs, long tongues, and muzzles distorted by hunger or rage. It was creepy; the fact that it was located in ruins gave a sense of some "ancient evil" or "ancient danger." So it was actually better that we'd have company.
As Hemingway explained, not everyone there was a professional hunter. Just like with the Rangers, two-thirds of the squad were youngsters, learning and doing various chores under the supervision of their elders. For example, the aforementioned culling of wild predators. Hunters of Hemingway's level would handle the largest and most dangerous game, while the apprentices and subordinates would track and destroy the rank-and-file beasts. Like those raptors, which thrive in packs, making the ruins crawl with them. A lizard about two meters tall with a long tail, very fast, agile, and mobile, capable of moving through the ruins not just horizontally but vertically, clinging to the stone with claws and constantly changing direction, making them very, very hard to hit.
They might not take down a Warrior in plate Armor, but they'd devour ordinary laborers who don't have such Armor (it's just too expensive) without breaking a sweat. And they do eat them; that's one of the reasons such clearings are carried out. It's hard for peasants to work the fields when a pack of lizards might run out of the nearest forest and eat the cows (or whatever livestock the local Humans have) at best, or the peasants themselves at worst.
"You can join in too. It's important, useful work."
I thought about it…
"What about the ecosystem? I mean, if you kill off too many predators, that's it."
The Dwarves nodded gravely, both of them.
"In normal conditions, that's true. But we're talkin' 'bout beasts raised by Trolls and then abandoned. It's a bit chilly for raptors here, sure, but they're pack animals and they've got no real enemies. When they've got nothin' to eat, they turn to sapient folk who just can't run away. Murlocs and random travelers who can't defend themselves. And then they get eaten by that very snake guardin' your treasure."
Logical, no questions there. And yes, I still thought a piece of the snake would serve as the treasure.
We entered the camp along with the container, under the gaze of sentries who nodded to the Dwarves. The camp, as I'd noted, was much smaller than the Rangers' had been. Only about fifteen people, Dwarves and Humans. Mostly with rifles and hunting bows, they squinted at us, but with curiosity rather than aggression.
The Humans, as I'd thought, were much sturdier and broader than what I was used to. And after the Elves… let me just say it. They… weren't beauties. Maybe I'd gotten used to Elves having perfectly Human proportions and universally model-like looks, but these broad faces, which didn't always suggest the presence of intellect, the wide muzzles, a certain crookedness…
It would be foolish to stoop to direct insults, but after the Elves, the difference was glaring. And no, the Dwarves didn't have that problem; the beardiness and huge muscles made them look more like stylish bodybuilders, and the beards hid any facial defects. I realize I shouldn't fixate on this, probably. But it's what catches the eye. It really grates on them after months of living among Elves. I can understand why Elves look down on others. I can't agree with it, but I understand.
And yes, they were staring at us too. Me in my Mage outfit and my steampunk goggles (and the container, which had the Quel'Thalas mark scrubbed off), Venidan in her cloak and Ranger attire (which, incidentally, was put together similarly to what the Dwarves wore). We were a curiosity to them, and they to us. Also, there were no Systems Alliance markings or anything similar on the tents, confirming these hunters were freelancers, not part of an army. They were well-armed and well-clothed. They kept their gear clean and clearly weren't hurting for money.
In a corner of the camp lay a pile of skulls; in the largest tent, there was a very delicious smell of roasted meat and something else. Herbs, spices. Mmmmmm. I get it.
"Not bad you've got here," Venidan noted, echoing my thoughts. "I assume the business is quite profitable?"
Monty Blunderbuss snorted.
"You bet. But keep in mind, this is all decades o' work and buildin' a reputation. Good work should be paid well, and Hemingway is the best in the business. You've gotta give the job everythin' you've got, all your time—make it the meanin' o' your life. We haven't been to Ironforge in ages and who knows when we'll be back; no time. I ain't complainin', mind you, just that a lot o' folks hear 'bout the pay and think it's easy money. Ha. I've nearly been eaten twice in the last year alone! Last time, a giant turtle bit this very blunderbuss in half! If it weren't for my better half, I'd be walkin' 'round with a bow."
"And did you kill the turtle?" Venidan inquired.
Monty nodded.
"Damn right! Huge beast, size of a house. But the legs and head are vulnerable enough. No teeth, but don't let that fool ya: their beak is strong enough to snap bone and good steel in one bite! We lured it into a trap, flipped it over, and the rest was just a matter o' technique. Its belly is tough, but it can't reach ya there with its legs or head. Though it wasn't easy, I'll give ya that."
It was actually interesting. Yes, they were still keeping us in sight, and they'd poked their noses into the container, but I generally liked the atmosphere here. A sort of cheerful friendliness, as if they'd gathered here to have a good time, swap life stories, drink, and eat barbecue. I think at least these Dwarves enjoy their work.
I also realized we could get a ton of information from Hemingway. Maybe come up with a new version of golems for hunting in enclosed spaces, or improve the bird for searching, or something else. Of course, nothing was guaranteed, but the quest level had jumped since Hemingway's appearance from "what are we even doing here" to "cool, how do we kill this thing." And if we managed to prove ourselves here too, it would be another definitely useful acquaintance. It would be foolish to turn down opportunities. Maybe we could find some knowledge, new concepts. Interesting people to talk to.
And I just realized I'd been mistaken about the Dwarf. No, the one who's Indiana Jones is Brann Bronzebeard; he's an archaeologist. Hemingway Nesingwary is a pure big-game hunter. He has his own team of hunters and, like Brann, crawls into all sorts of holes in search of game.
I sighed quietly to myself. I guess my problem is that I don't know the Systems Alliance very well. I was never particularly interested in them. I know the personalities in broad strokes, some events (for example, that a black dragon will end up in the role of the king's wife in Stormwind), but specifics, dates, sequences? No, I can hardly help with any of that. And considering it's at least a year or two before the Blood Elves join and the new Horde is formed, when it comes to specifics, I can say surprisingly little. It just means that in many ways I'll have to start from scratch, without a base and on pure potential. It's fine; I'll manage, I think.
During this time, we reached the tents under the gazes of the camp residents. Hemingway, who I gathered was the boss here, dealt with the curious ones.
"Nothin' to stare at! Get back to work!"
The day passed unnoticed. As the Dwarves had promised, they had the masters and equipment to fix the bird. And a field forge, yep. It didn't turn out perfect—holes in Armor are better solved by a full part replacement—but they restored the hinges, so I had a scout bird again. Fully functional; that was important.
I liked the Dwarven blacksmith. A stern woman, twice my size, stocky and strong. Capable of both crushing a skull with a hammer and cooking dinner. Actually, in exchange for her work and the chance to hear more about Blacksmithing and Mechanics, I'd volunteered as a cook's assistant. And I can repeat: I like it here. The atmosphere is warm and friendly. The team definitely enjoys themselves. As for the staring, it's not out of malice, but curiosity. I'm interested too, you know.
Venidan slipped off to talk to the local hunters, to pick up some experience. Or whatever she was doing. And I, while unpacking the container and waiting for the bird's repair, decided to listen to what the elder Dwarf had to say. And he didn't mind. We were about the same height, so it was easy for us to communicate. Except I don't drink, but they found me some compote made from local berries. Tasty, a bit tart. Hemingway Nesingwary took a sip and said:
"My son is out there now, in the ruins. Doin' what I told ya—trackin' raptors, huntin'," he paused, thinking. "I don't suppose you're all that interested in the hunter's craft, Mage. Don't know, hmm. I can tell ya 'bout the habits o' beasts. This evenin', when everyone gathers 'round the fire with some ale, there'll be plenty o' stories. Listen to what I say, and you'll learn many secrets o' the woods."
A good topic, but habits aren't everything.
"I'd rather hear, respected Master, about your blunderbuss. It must be a legendary weapon. I'm truly interested in Mechanics and magitech, Mr. Nesingwary."
The Dwarf narrowed his eyes, looking through his monocle. He looked at his double-barrel. The most classic rifle of the most classic hunter. No optics, just the iron sights and your skills. He looked at me, still frowning.
"What's this then? You're a Mage. An Elven one at that. Why would you be interested in Dwarven firearms?"
I pointed to the container, where numerous tools were visible, secured in pockets along the walls.
"A Mage is a Mage. But I happen to have a talent for building mechanisms. Firearms look like something I could add to my new machines. I've got a couple of blueprints..."
For example, a Dwarven sphere or a version of a Droideka. Something compact, suitable for Defense. Of course, I wasn't going to arm them with lasers; the Mana consumption would be so high, forget it. But the fact itself, the idea...
I'm torn between a set of modular devices and mass production. Both approaches have advantages and disadvantages. And what really kills me is having no one to share this problem with. I can't exactly discuss it with Venidan, can I? She just wouldn't get the point. So I have to find the solution myself.
The Dwarf thought for a full minute.
"I'm more a hunter than a smith. So, you built that stuff in the box yourself, eh?" I nodded. "Hmm. Didn't expect to see that in my old age. Not bad work, for a beginner. Better you talk to Monty's wife. She's a firebrand and a sharp mechanic. I'll put in a word; she'll take a look, give ya some pointers when she's got time."
Great news, folks! New information. If I can pick up concepts from the Dwarven Engineering school, new ideas will follow. And that's just wonderful. In a burst of enthusiasm, I actually hugged the Dwarf, who seemed to stay perfectly still, afraid of crushing me. Or just wildly surprised.
"Thank you, Master Hemingway! I'll do just that! And tomorrow, with the bird, we'll join the clearing. Only..."
The Dwarf still looked puzzled. But he nodded, understanding what I meant.
"We're still goin' deep into the temple. We'll back ya up, if ya show yourselves well. You're a strange one, for sure—a Mage who wants to be a mechanic, helpin' hunters with our business. But if it's a good cause, I don't mind. If ya want to learn, I'll share some secrets."
I'm all for it. Between getting settled and meeting everyone, the day passed completely unnoticed.
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