Emrick had only been in the city for ten minutes when a dragon flew overhead.  Most of the people on the broad street ducked and scattered as the behemoth's wings sent a tremendous rush of air blowing downwards.  The mage, though, simply looked up as the strong wind tossed his hair and rippled over his clothing.  The dragon was one of the Netherwing, that was for certain.  It's purple-black body was corporeal at the moment, but the outline of its form seemed to shift; shrinking, expanding, wavering, like heat rising off desert sand.  And while the Netherwing were generally hostile to the mortal races, it wasn't unheard of for dragons of the Flight to ally with individual people.<br/><br/>This particular specimen wasn't screaming or casting anything, and it passed right over the Lower City towards the southern edge of the Terrace of Light: the Flight Master's perch.  Emrick tried not to roll his eyes at whoever the show-off was who rode on the beast's back.  Obligatory warning horns echoed through the masonry of Shattrath as the Sha'tari Skyguard took the necessary precautions.  Netherwing drakes were favored by the fel orcs to the east and north, and it wasn't hard to believe that they'd raid Shattrath with them.<br/><br/>Emrick turned his gaze away from the spectacle, continuing down the street.  Well, it was more of a market.  The Lower City was half basin, half avenue, and everything was very slapdash.  Still, an inquiring person could find all variety of goods and services in the sunken half of Shattrath.  Emrick suddenly didn't feel like sleeping anymore, and he had a variety of supplies to buy and sell after all.  And there was the scrolls he had to drop off with the Explorer's League.<br/><br/>The mage sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.  He hadn't slept in nearly twenty hours, not wanting to spend another night in the infested Zangarmarsh, but he didn't feel the least bit tired.  In fact, he felt invigorated.  What sense did that make?<br/><br/>Emrick looked up, finding himself in front of a tidy stall.  Atop the smooth wood and the garish cloth adorning it was a variety of odds and ends.  There were valuable rocks, brand new rolls of cloth, a quiver full of Thalassian arrows, and - looking out of place amongst the finery - a stack of yellowed papers.  Behind the stall stood a blood elf, his green eyes watching the mage curiously from underneath long, blond eyebrows.  A number of packages in varying states of being emptied were stacked behind the stallkeeper; it looked like he had just arrived in Shattrath.<br/><br/>Although most of his wares were of interest to the mage, the parchment specifically aroused Emrick's curiosity.  Tying Talia to a nearby post, he smiled at the blood elf, bowing his head respectfully.  "Bal'a dash, sin'dorei," he said in fluent Thalassian.<em>Greetings, blood elf.</em><br/><br/>"Bal'a dash, malanore," the vendor replied with a curt nod and an approving expression.  "We can continue in the Common tongue if it is easier for you."<br/><br/>Emrick thanked him, then pointed at the parchment.  "I'm curious.  What exactly is on those?"<br/><br/>The elf picked up the top paper, handing it to the mage.  The ink was fresh despite the age of the parchment.  "They're contracts, for mercenary work.  People pay me to find adventurers, and I pay you to do the work."<br/><br/>He had heard of such adventurers.  He had even traveled with some of them as they carried out their personal contracts.  Emrick had always been curious about their profession.  Five gold for retrieving a stolen item from the arrokoa?  It sounded like a great deal.<br/><br/>Emrick handed the paper back to the stallkeeper.  "Maybe I'll take you up on it," he said, browsing the elf's other wares.