<div style="text-align: center"><i>((Writing too long entries? Me? Good sir, you insult me!))</i><br/>
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---​</div><br/>A mirror was perched against a richly tapestried wall. It was a lofty mirror, at least two men tall.<br/><br/>A vicious stone gargoyle face with a hanging, profuse tongue crowned the deeply ornate frame circling the polished - usually reflective - surface.<br/><br/>However, to call it a real mirror was a confusing conundrum: If this particular tall mirror decided to enlist in a reflection contest, it wouldn’t really make it far.<br/><br/>Because the mirror didn’t reflect light – honestly, it didn’t reflect anything at all. If you stopped and peered dead at it, you would swear on your mothers’ grave (actual, future or otherwise) that it simply was a very boring picture of grey, undulating skies. A second glance made the picture less boring, as pictures didn’t normally move within their frame.<br/><br/>But these clouds did: They seemed perpetually in motion, coiling and uncoiling in and out of each-other; like looking on a speedy thundercloud.<br/><br/>Now, had this been an art gallery, important people would walk up to the picture and say important things to important friends in order to impress them with the ideal outcome that they ascended an important social ladder. It didn’t matter if they said anything that made sense, necessarily: It simply had to be delivered with a fittingly imperative, knowledgeable tone of voice and you were set for the stars.<br/><br/>But this wasn’t an art gallery.<br/><br/>It simply stood in a room, bathed in darkness: The only dim light sources were the two candleholders flanking either side, bathing the mirror in warm, orange hues.<br/><br/>A figure approached, stopping to loom at the precipices of darkness – doing things dramatically took more time, true, but what wouldn’t one do to impress whatever omnipresent beings who decided to take a gander at you that particular moment?<br/>The man spoke a single word. His voice deep, rich, dry and authoritative – it was one of those voices that you wish your grandfather had when telling fairy-tales... just... much more malevolent:<br/><br/>“<b>Sight.</b>”<br/><br/>Immediately, the clouds within the mirror frame wiped away, revealing a bird’s eye view of Stranglethorn Vale; the man was obviously seeing through something flying as the picture bobbed unevenly, sometimes glancing left and right.<br/><br/>“<b>Booty Bay.</b>” The man said.<br/><br/>The picture responded, banking right – for ten minutes, the figure balancing on the edge of shadow peered deftly at the scenery swooping under the glance of the mirror. Then, trees shied away to disclose the port-city of Booty Bay, the hive of scum and villainy and all things questionable; a bastion of goblin ingenuity, greed and rigid philosophical belief in the absence of good morals.<br/><br/>One of his favorite ports. It shimmered with cozy, twinkling lights against the deep, blue night.<br/><br/>“<b>Perch on that mast and look towards the tavern.</b>” He commanded.<br/><br/>A dilapidated sigh echoed from the mirror and whatever he was looking through basked with what was presumed to be wings before landing harshly on the mast-end.<br/><br/>The dramatic figure swathing himself in obscurity went silent with concentration for at least three solid minutes.<br/>The mirror spoke out in an echoing, croaky, high-pitched voice carrying traits of annoyance:<br/><br/>“<i>Well? Am I going to act like a ships figurine or do you want me to do anything?</i>”<br/><br/>The histrionic figure didn’t answer immediately: And when he did, his voice suggested deep thought:<br/><br/>“<b>Do you see the Pawn?</b>”<br/><br/>A snort was emitted from the mirror, the picture of Booty Bay jumping once:<br/><br/>“<i>Well, -if- I saw the Pawn, I would have graced your sensitive ears with an affirmative response, don’t you think?</i>” The mirror said in an insulting tone.<br/><br/>“<b>Keep looking.</b>” was his only response.<br/><br/>Another fifteen minutes of idle inactivity passed. Then, the picture jerked and panned down slightly:<br/><br/>“<i>Well, color me rainbowed, there he is! The Pawn has entered the chesshouse!</i>” the mirror said enthusiastically, presumably because whatever speaking could stop doing nothing.<br/><br/>“<b>What on Azeroth is that supposed to mean?</b>” the dramatic man asked in a preciously rare manner of confusion.<br/><br/>“<i>Simple! It means.. uh.. you know.. Pawn.. chesshouse.. wait.. uh.. are there any houses in chess?</i>”<br/><br/>“<b>Board.</b>” The dramatic man said.<br/><br/>“<i>Say again?</i>”<br/><br/>“<b>You meant to use the word “Chessboard”</b>.”<br/><br/>The two conversationalists shared an awkward beat of silence.<br/><br/>“<i>Oh, -never mind-, I hate analogies anyway.</i>” The mirror croaked defeated. The picture seemed to swoop closer to the goblinoid watering hole…<br/><br/><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">----<br/>
​</div><br/><br/>A massive, plate-armored, black-furred, long-horned, grim-faced, eye-piercing, frightfully over-armed beast of a tauren took two monstrous steps through the entrance to the Salty Sailor and stopped. Glaring eyes, surrounded with sunwalker symbols dyed into his fur, slowly panned across the room. He had the face of a man who crushed hill-giants with bare fists for morning exercise, ate live crocolisks for breakfast and climbed Icecrown Fortresses during his morning commute. He was a man that, if two of him stood on a large galleon of a ship, it’d sink due to their combined badassery. He was a man who you’d think arm-wrestled Onyxia and slew her after defeating her for the fifteenth time simply because he deemed her unworthy of existence.<br/><br/>He positively radiated pure, unbridled, ravenous violence.<br/><br/>And boy, could he glare.<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">U-uhm… s-sir.. I don’t w-want to intrude but y-y-y-you.. you uh.. seem to block the entrance just a t-teeny tiny bit.</span>” A weak voice behind him implored after a hand tapped his shoulder two times.<br/><br/>The beastly thing slowly ground his head around on his neck to peer at the puny, luckless mortal who dared waste his precious air by talking. And then, he said….<br/><br/>“<span style="color: Sienna">Oh! Earthmothers Grace, I’m so sorry. Lost in thought for a moment…</span>”<br/><br/>The large tauren took a decisive step to the side and casually did a sweep with his hand, throwing the perpetrator a polite little smile. Sometimes Baqir really ought to remember his size, the tauren mused before proceeding with his prime objective: Peacebloom Tea.<br/><br/>Siding the tauren mountain besides Amos Finnigan Runkelbottom was like seeing a practical example of the concept “anti-thesis”:<br/><br/>The Dalaran Understudy of the Something’ieth Magical Circle (..or ring, or spherical denomination; he wasn’t so sure what to call it himself) was human, and a scrawny one at that. Messy, neck-long deep blond hair framed a gaunt, freckled face imbedded with two wide, unnaturally blue-hued eyes.<br/>Two pronounced incisors, overshooting his upper teeth, combined with large ears immediately make most onlookers think gopher.<br/><br/>He had a dangly build; a far-cry from adventurers that normally frequented the Salty – and this alone made him look like a fish out of waters.<br/><br/>He wore a tattered Dalaran student robe with the insignia of the Kirin Tor over his heart; In his hand he held a root-like, tattered staff crowned with a downright silly, iron rat-head. His belt, stuffed with knickknacks, doodads, thingumabobs and whatchamacallits, also sported a cumbersome leather-bound, dusty mage-tome having bookmarks jutting from its pages.<br/><br/>On his shoulders, a large, immaculately striking barn owl perched with a haughty expression of curious disdain. Right off the bat, the animal looked far too composed to be a simple bird.<br/><br/>All this awkward human emerged behind the comparatively gargantuan tauren – and he looked barely a day beyond nineteen.<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">Much o-obliged!</span>” he stammered through his front teeth, clutching his staff with both hands.<br/><br/>The tyke shuffled across the wooden floor briskly, noting the plethora of glares that he almost invited by the rugged surroundings. To call him jittery was an understatement – he was poorly suited for anywhere outside a library.<br/><br/>As he approached the bar – a few men-widths away from the blood elf and undead – the goblin barkeeper gave him an lethargic glance asking:<br/><br/>“You’s allowed out this late by ya’ parents, kid?”<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">P-pardon?</span>” Amos started, inherit dread somewhat disrupting his ability to listen.<br/><br/>“<span style="color: Gray"><b>As a matter of fact, good sir..</b></span>” his barn owl replied in a sagely voice, causing the goblin to lose his confident footing; It wasn’t every day that fowl answered on behalf of humanoids.. “<b><span style="color: Gray">..he is well above the age requirement of alcoholic consumption. I should, on his behalf, take affront at the mere –intimation- that he would be so foolish to brave into a drinking hole as an underage. But, for the sake of good sportsmanship, I’ll let this one pass. But mark my word, I would take this up with your superiors if-..</span></b>”<br/><br/>The goblin interrupted with an annoyed hand gesture, finding the novelty of a talking bird to be waning simply because he blabbered on endlessly:<br/><br/>“Arright, aright, birdie, I get the point, keep your feather-coat on. Ya’ gonna’ get a drink or can I go serve someone else?”<br/><br/>“<b><span style="color: Gray">Westfall Brandy - served in a flat bowl, kindly.</span></b>” The owl replied with an illogical smile contorting his beak.<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">I’ll.. I’ll t-take a b-bourbo-..</span>”<br/><br/>The owl swat Amos' head with his wing:<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">…orange j-juice, thank you. Just in a mug. No flat bowl.. just.. yes, mug.</span>”<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">...I'd really wish you stopped doing that....</span>” he added in a low mumble, courteously ignored by the owl.<br/><br/>The scrawny understudy cleared his throat and made a horrible attempt to lean casually sideways against the bar. His laughable attempt to put his face into indifferent folds was almost comical.<br/><br/>“<b><span style="color: Gray">Really, Finnigan, you –know- we’re here on far too important business to get you drunk. Must stay fresh for tomorrow!</span></b>” the owl chastised him in his rich, deep tone:<br/><br/>“<span style="color: RoyalBlue">I k-know, I just wanted to..</span>” Amos started, lowering his voice.. “<span style="color: RoyalBlue">y-you know, -b-blend in-. Be u-unconspicious.</span>”<br/><br/>The owl snorted:<br/><br/>“<b><span style="color: Gray">Amos, you couldn’t blend in if you used an invisibility spell. People on the other end of town would notice your fidgeting.</span></b>”<br/><br/>The young man nodded sideways, admitting in defeat that there was a certain truth to the statement.<br/><br/>“<span style="color: Gray"><b>A refreshment, a bit of snooping around and off to bed we go.</b></span>” The owl continued, undulating his wings idly.<br/><br/>A bowl filled with brandy was slid before the two and a mug of orange juice clonked down besides it.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>