Three figures sat at the bar, each of them looking depressed. Two of them were dwarves, and the other was a gnome. Right now they were discussing their life troubles.
"So he just up and left, eh?" Said the first dwarf, who had a full head of un-kept flaming red hair and an enormous red beard. "Sounds sort of like a person I used to know. I forget his name now."
This dwarf was Grablen, a devoted alcoholic who never seemed to remember the fact that it was forbidden for Paladins to drink.
"I could hardly believe it at first," the gnome said, looking thoughtfully into his flagon of Thunderbrew lager. "I got his letter a few days back. At first I thought it was a sort of joke, but I went over to his house that night and all that was left was a moldy wheel of Darnassian Bleu and a family of mice." This gnome's name was Piddly. He and Grablen had known each other for years.
Now the third dwarf spoke up, he was slightly shorter than Grablen; his jet-black hair was cropped into a small ponytail at the back of his head, and his beard was uncommonly short.
"Soundsh like a lousy short of pershon, thish guy..." He muttered, clearly he was more drunk than the two others. "One day, he just getsh tired of the place he livesh for yea--hey! Fill up the cup, Jake! ...for years and leaves it behind for good?" He looked at the two others and shrugged, spilling the contents of his mug in the process.
This dwarf's name was Sir Morris Heckleberry, but his friends just called him Sir Stabs or Stabsworth for short, for he was very fond of the blade. He took it as a personal offense if someone called him Morris.
"I don't think it's just like that," Piddly said, swiveling his barstool around to face Stabsworth.
Stabsworth hiccuped loudly into his beard.
"I think there's fishy business afoot. I wanna get to the bottom of Alteren's leaving. It just seems out of the blue, even for him. Maybe he was taken?" Piddly said, looking at his companions.
"Taken for what? Questioning by the Horde?" Snorted Grablen, choking on a peanut.
He coughed raggedly for a moment, then wheezed, "What could he possibly know that the Horde doesn't? It's not like our hating them is such a big secret. Plus, even if the Alliance did know something, who would bother to tell Alteren? He was always out of the loop. I don't think your theory holds much water Piddly."
Piddly thought for a moment. "Well," He said. "Wherever Alteren is, I'm sure he knows what he's doing. So-long guys, I'm heading to home. I'm as tired as a dog." He pushed off the barstool and landed lightly on the floor.
He felt the outside of his robe. He stopped and looked up at Grablen hopefully.
"Heh, I'm fresh out of teleportation runes. You wouldn't happen to have any, would you Grab?"
Piddly asked, smiling weakly.
Grablen pulled a small grey rock from his pocket and tossed it lightly to Piddly, who caught it and with a flash of blue light vanished completely. Not to be seen again until early the next morning.
"I think I'm gonna take that as my queue. I should be heading home too, Stabs." Grablen said, slapping Stabsworth hard on the back.
"I think I'll stay a while longer," Stabsworth said, pulling a knife out of his vest and looking at it intensely.
"Fine, but lay off the booze for now. You've have enough already, I think." Grablen grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl at the bar and shoved them into his mouth. As he chewed the peanuts, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small white rock about the size of his thumb, which had a blue rune carved into the face. He placed it into the palm of his hand and squeezed it hard. In a flash of green light he had vanished into thin air.
A very primitive piece of magic, the hearthstone. But it's effectiveness cannot be denied. Twice before, Grablen had slipped off a steep cliff, and had only been saved by the stone. The first time was a complete accident, but the second time Piddly had pushed him.
Grablen had just touched his pillow for what seemed like a few seconds before a harsh knocking could be heard on his door and white morning light could be seem through his windows.
He stumbled out of bed, his head pounding from the hangover. When he answered the door, he was surprised to see Piddly standing there, jumping up and down with a letter in his hand.
Grablen put a hand to his temple in hopes of stopping the throbbing pain in his head.
"What's that?" Grablen asked, beckoning Piddly to step inside.
"This, my friend, is another letter from Alteren." Piddly squeaked excitedly, stepping inside.
He unfurled the brown scroll with a flourish, and read aloud:
"Dear Piddly, and Grablen: I'm sorry I left you so abruptly, but I had to. The air in Dun Morogh has been suffocating me, it feels like. Plus I'm not feeling well. It's embarrassing to admit, but I have contracted the Plague. I don't know where it happened, but I think it was somewhere around Green Lobster. I should have known better than to eat there, but I did it anyway.
Right now I'm living on a private island with other people with the Plague. It's kind of like a leper colony, but without the free food and beaches. Basically it's like prison, but without the view.
I'm losing my skin very slowly, but the doctors tell me that once all of the skin around the joints falls off, that's where it stops. I guess that's kind of good, but still I'm depressed. I've learned a lot about the Forsaken while I've been here. The odd thing is that I'm learning the language called Gutterspeak, and I've never even heard it spoken before. They tell me the plague changes the brain as well as the body, so I've decided to write you this letter before I forget how to write in the common languages.
They have also told me that once the brain is completely infected, I can go to school again. I've decided to help others and right now I'm a volunteer priest in the island's church.
Sorry again my friends, I hope you live long full lives." Piddly finished, folding the letter slowly and looking downcast.
"Cheer up," Grablen said. "We're going bowling later."