Home
She stood in the chill wind of Northrend, her cloak wrapped about her giving only small comfort and warmth. Murmuring a cantrip, she created a small ball of fire in her hands, smoothing a hard shell over it and tucking it into her robes for heat. Now if she could just do something about her toes. A small breeze eddied around her, picking up dry snowflakes and whirling them around her ankles.
The gryphon master raised his hand and beckoned. Her mount was ready.
With great dignity he picked her up and settled her onto the gryphon. With dignity just as great she acknowledged his assistance. Too many people made the mistake of assuming that, because of their small size, gnomes were harmless. It was easy to treat them like children. In the taverns, they had been called "anklebiters", "kneecappers'; until a drunk sailor would find himself roped and hog tied while a gnome rogue faded into the shadows or a silly night elf girl found herself wandering under the tables bleating in the guise of a sheep.
She settled back into the softness of down, thrusting her feet between feathers and feeling them slowly thaw. Making sure she was settled and safe, her gryphon shook his head, signaling the gryphon master, and thrust into the air.
Now she had time to think and inwardly, she wondered why she was still here. Arthas was dead and the Scourge beaten back, defeated. In Ironforge there were rumblings, rumors and whispers. The Mechengineers were meeting in council. No official announcement had come yet but plans were in the wind. Gnomeragan was to be retaken.
In the warmth of her nest she pulled her gloves off and looked at her hands. They were callused with ridges. Yes, she was a mage and the arcane power could fill her and shake her to her core. For years she had learned, studied, trained and could harness that power into a deadly force. But, running a thumb down the palm of the opposite hand, she thought, "I am also an engineer." It was bred into her. A part of her race. She was a strange melding of the practical with the arcane. And after so many years her city, her home, was going to be rescued. It was her responsibility, but more than that, her burning desire, to help free her home.
She landed in Dalaran City and once more she was lifted and assisted down with great dignity.
She headed for the Violet Citadel, nodded to Rhonin in passing and took the portal to the Purple Parlor. She sat at a desk and began to write. In careful script on a thick, cream colored envelope she wrote, "To High Tinker Mekkatorque, Ironforge City". Pulling paper to her she began, "Your Majesty.."
In spare words she offered her services as a freedom fighter. Her heart swelled and one small tear flowed down her cheek. She was going home.
The gryphon master raised his hand and beckoned. Her mount was ready.
With great dignity he picked her up and settled her onto the gryphon. With dignity just as great she acknowledged his assistance. Too many people made the mistake of assuming that, because of their small size, gnomes were harmless. It was easy to treat them like children. In the taverns, they had been called "anklebiters", "kneecappers'; until a drunk sailor would find himself roped and hog tied while a gnome rogue faded into the shadows or a silly night elf girl found herself wandering under the tables bleating in the guise of a sheep.
She settled back into the softness of down, thrusting her feet between feathers and feeling them slowly thaw. Making sure she was settled and safe, her gryphon shook his head, signaling the gryphon master, and thrust into the air.
Now she had time to think and inwardly, she wondered why she was still here. Arthas was dead and the Scourge beaten back, defeated. In Ironforge there were rumblings, rumors and whispers. The Mechengineers were meeting in council. No official announcement had come yet but plans were in the wind. Gnomeragan was to be retaken.
In the warmth of her nest she pulled her gloves off and looked at her hands. They were callused with ridges. Yes, she was a mage and the arcane power could fill her and shake her to her core. For years she had learned, studied, trained and could harness that power into a deadly force. But, running a thumb down the palm of the opposite hand, she thought, "I am also an engineer." It was bred into her. A part of her race. She was a strange melding of the practical with the arcane. And after so many years her city, her home, was going to be rescued. It was her responsibility, but more than that, her burning desire, to help free her home.
She landed in Dalaran City and once more she was lifted and assisted down with great dignity.
She headed for the Violet Citadel, nodded to Rhonin in passing and took the portal to the Purple Parlor. She sat at a desk and began to write. In careful script on a thick, cream colored envelope she wrote, "To High Tinker Mekkatorque, Ironforge City". Pulling paper to her she began, "Your Majesty.."
In spare words she offered her services as a freedom fighter. Her heart swelled and one small tear flowed down her cheek. She was going home.