'A Drink' - 13

Fizzlefart was waddling slower than usual.  He had just finished his much anticipated interview with Lady Mynora Moryggan of the Shan Tel'dorei, and despite the fact that he had received all the information he needed and more, he was quite displeased.  

There had always been some glimmer of hope deep within his mind that Berufeng would still be alive.  He had been writing a biography of the man's life, and part of him had always wished (and assumed) that someday he'd get to meet the man that he had been studying for nearly three years.  And then he found himself sitting on the stone steps of the moonwell in Stormwind, with Mynora's tale crushing his hopes.  


The Blue Recluse was nearly empty, as always.  Joachim Brenlow was polishing glasses with a rag—glasses that more likely had grown dirty from dust than from use.  He spotted the pink-bearded gnome the second he hobbled into the bar, and a grin crossed his face.  "Hey there, Dr. Sprinklespigot!  How goes the writing?"  

Fizzlefart looked up at the bartender grimly, and pulled himself up into a chair at the table closest the bar.  "Not in the mood for the Romance Novel jokes, Brenlow.  So don't even start."  Joachim got a lot of enjoyment out of picking on Fizzlefart for his first published novel, the infamous 'A Steamy Romance Novel.'  Despite the fact that the book was out of print, it seemed like every other week an adventurer would happen upon a copy of it and pass it around his circle of friends, snickering.  

"I've written seventeen notable pieces of fiction, and twenty-four esteemed research papers since then, Brenlow.  Why must you insist on reminding me of the one piece of smut I wrote at the beginning of my career?"  He sighed heavily, throwing his journal and quill on the table.  "I'm working on my twenty-fifth now."  

Joachim laughed heartily, placing a clean glass on the counter and filling it up, even before asking, "Will you be having the usual, Fizz?"  The gnome nodded grimly, but the drink was already poured anyway.  Brenlow rounded the corner and placed the glass down in front of him.  "What's wrong, buddy?  I never see you like this…"

Fizzlefart sighed again, sitting up straighter.  "I've been writing a biography on this elf, and I just found out today from his ex-fiancee that he's dead."  He took a sip of his ale, and added, "I dunno… I guess I just kind of hoped I'd get to meet the guy someday.  But reality's sinking in."

Brenlow patted his friend on the back softly.  "I'm sorry, mate.  That's gotta be tough, I can imagine.  But hey, at least you'll do the guy a favor by writing a really great book about his life, right?"

Fizzlefart nodded solemnly, guzzling half the glass.  "Yeah, I can try.  I've got most of the facts together now… just need to get to writing, and I can publish the thing.  I've been going at this one for about three years, just been keeping it quiet."

Brenlow patted Fizzlefart's shoulder once more, and returned to his post behind the bar.  "You'll do a great job, I'm sure.  What's the bloke's name, anyhow?"

"Berufeng Hawke," the gnome replied, before finishing off the glass of ale.

"What?" the bartender gasped.  "That's the name of the bloke who dropped off his tabard and necklace with me about three months ago!"

Fizzlefart doubled forward and sprayed half a mouthful of dwarven ale all over the table.  "HE WHAT?!"

"Yeah…" Brenlow explained.  "This elf comes in here all dressed in fancy chainmail armor—stuff I've never seen before—and says his name's Berufeng Hawke.  Hands me this blue and silver tabard and a little pink necklace and asks me to hold onto it for him until he gets back from Northrend.  I told him he was crazy, that Northrend's a dead man's land and there's no boats going that way just yet, and he told me to just take the stuff and never say nothin' to nobody about them."

"That's… that's absurd!  It changes everything!!!"  Fizzlefart shouted.  If there had been any other patrons in the bar, certainly they would have been offended by the volume of his voice.  "His tabard and moonstone showed up bloody and broken and torn in a package to his fiancée!"

Brenlow nodded quickly.  "So THAT'S where them damn things went!  I went to get into my safety deposit box about a week after that and the lock had been picked… some thievin' bastard stole all my gold, that tabard, and the necklace."  He paused a moment, leaning against the counter.  "Why would they bloody 'em up and send them to her, though?  That's what I don't get…"

Fizzlefart slammed his cup down on the table, and began hurriedly gathering his things.  "Because they wanted her to believe he was dead, when he wasn't…"  He leapt to his feet and rushed toward the door.  "I've gotta go, Brenlow!"

"Hey, aren't you gonna pay for that drink?!" he shouted after the gnome.

"Just put it on my tab!"