Ironforge

Ironforge. Seaport, city-state, gamblers paradise. Like a bad dream it calls me back from across the ocean. Ironforge, like a fallen woman it both excites and repulses. Every cut-throat, gambler, thief and whore has passed through Ironforge and Ironforge has passed through them. It gets into your blood, into your bones and into your soul. It lingers on every stolen kiss and broken promise. It is a part of me and I am forever a part of it.

Polchemy’s Lair, Ironforge Harbour.

Polchemy eyes me quizzically from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. It is a look of disgust and curiosity. He knows what I am and he knows that in time I will pay for myself. There is always work for hired muscle in Ironforge.

“Soldier boy eh?” He spits “Fresh off the boat too by the looks of you! I could smell you half a street away!”

A month at sea can do that to a man.

“What’s your name soldier?”

I spit out the answer in staccato fashion.

“Arganthus. 45th Berserker legion. I fought at Monlish, sir”

He lets out a humourless laugh “Anybody, who can fight there way out of Monlish I have a use for”

He grunts, reaches beneath the table then tosses some coins in my direction.

“Get washed, get some new clothes and get that seen to,”

He points at my arm. There is a cut just below my left shoulder that is beginning to fester. It should be cleaned and stitched.

“If you know what’s good for you you’ll come back and see me when you’ve finished”

I spend a leisurely hour in a bathhouse off Ester Street, soaking my bruised and weary flesh. Delightful, giggling whores tending to my every need. Then it’s off to an apocathary, who treats the gash in my arm with a pungent, scented ointment before stitching it. I grind my teeth as he threads a needle through my arm. Finally, my afternoon is rounded off with a trip to the Tailor’s Guild. Fine robes the envy of any Ironforge socialite.

I return to Polchemy’s lair later that day. The sun hangs, heavy and low over Ironforge bay.

Polchemy gives me a look that I take for grudging approval.

He hands me a sack, sealed at the top with twine. I can feel the weight of it. Whatever it is it’s not money.

“Take this to Faddius on Lucra Street. Make sure he gets it”