A Field Of Profit - (Closing story for the Stromgarde campaign, âSong of Trolâkalarâ)
Lochtonâs piercing green eyes fell upon the stout figure of Khuzan, the dwarf whose presence seemed to bring a hue of sorrow, his group seemingly having suffered a loss according to papers already in his possession. As the contracted workforce bustled around them, securing the carts for departure, Lochton couldnât help but feel a twinge of disapproval at the dwarfâs choice of action.
Despite Khuzanâs contribution, or lack thereof, Lochton remained confident in their ability to fulfill their obligations to the Thane. The raw materials they had amassed from the items of interest they had collected would surely suffice for a bountiful production, even without Khuzanâs share. After all, the salvagerâs reputation for results was second to none, and Lochton was determined to uphold that standard no matter the circumstances.
With a firm resolve and a keen eye for opportunity, he was determined to navigate the complexities of the market and ensure that their efforts would yield the maximum return for their endeavours. For in the crucible of commerce, it was not just raw materials that determined success, but the skill and ingenuity of those who wielded them.
As the wheels of the rugged carts began to churn through the thin layer of mud on the road, the caravan slowly pulled away from the bustling camp, leaving the other forces behind. It was a necessary departure, a strategic move to ensure they had a head start on their journey.
With other carts still to be collected from various calculated hideouts, time was of the essence. The winding path ahead would be long and arduous, fraught with obstacles both natural and man-made. But Lochton had scheduled for as few delays as possible, and so they pressed onward, determined to reach their destination.
Their route would take them from the elven lands of Quelâthalas, or closer designated, the Ghostlands, through the rugged terrain of the Arathi Highlands, until finally reaching Stromgarde the home of the Thane, workshop location, and the destination of their precious cargo. Nestled within the confines of those weather-beaten carts lay not just the fruits of their labor, but the promise of prosperity, a profit for Stromgarde and allies.
With a flourishing motion, Lochton gracefully slid off his suit jacket, mindful of ensuring it wouldnât crease or get scuffed in the process. The garment, a symbol of his pride, expectation, and professionalism, was carefully hung on a nearby hook, its rich fabric of enchanted thread catching the light as it hung in the dimly lit workshop.
Now clad in just his crisp white shirt, tailored suit pants, and sturdy leather boots, Lochton prepared himself for the hours of hard labor that lay ahead. His attire, though refined, was what he commonly felt comfortable working in.
With a sense of purpose, Lochton moved to his writerâs desk, a haven of organized papers by category, topic, and priority amidst the chaos of the workshop. There, he carefully placed his decorative filigree and pocket watch, treasures of a different kind to the Director.
Turning his attention back to the task at hand, Lochton retrieved a sturdy step ladder from its resting place, its metal rungs gleaming in the light. With a firm grip, he positioned it in front of a section of towering shelves. He ascended the ladder, he would collect various reagents and parts needed for the operation of the portable coin press.
As Lochton ascended the sturdy step ladder, he couldnât help but feel the weight of the guardsmenâs mocking gazes bearing down on him. Their brutish laughter cut through the dimly lit workshop.
With each rung he climbed, Lochtonâs ears caught snippets of their derisive remarks, their snickers punctuating the stillness of the air. Yet, he refused to let their taunts distract him from his task. He had a job to do, and nothing, not even the jeers of a few insolent guardsmen, would be able to take him off the hunt for profit.
Reaching the top shelf, Lochtonâs green eyes swept over an array of items laid out before him. Among them, a peculiar mail glove, its surface adorned with strange runes. He would quickly pocket a collection of reactive materials for the production. With a steady hand, he selected each item, delicate fingers securing it all.
As he descended from the ladder,unshaken by the mockery, Lochton couldnât help but feel a surge of satisfaction. He may be underestimated by the guardsmen, but they would most likely never have a chance if words were going to be exchanged with attacks.
In the dimly lit industrial workshop nestled at the outskirts of Stromgarde, the air was thick with the acrid scent of boiling gold and the swirling fumes of molten metal. Amidst the cacophony of clinking, and hissing machinery, piles of treasures claimed from various troll camps loomed in organized piles, their glinting surfaces a testament to the spoils of the recent skirmishes.
Within this bustling workshop, struggles were not merely physical, as the treasures of war were meticulously sorted, catalogued, and processed. Every item, from gleaming trinkets to curious artifacts, held its own value, waiting to be transformed into a currency more palatable to the employing Thane - coin.
As the next batches of precious metals; gold, silver, and copper, were readied for the unforgiving embrace of the coin press, the workshopâs diligent Director presided over the operation with a keen eye. His greying brow furrowed in concentration behind his modified glasses, he scrutinized the hoard like a hound for profit.
Amidst the stretch of glittering items, it was the special pieces that captured his attention. With a cautious touch, he examined them, his fingers hovering over them, making sure not to touch them yet. These were not mere commodities, as the workshop hummed with activity, the Directorâs gaze lingered on these curious treasures, focusing his modified glasses.
Upon a worn down workbench, a random selection of weaponry lay sprawled out. Each piece that of trollish or elvish craftsmanship, their surfaces gleaming with a surreal luminescence through his glasses modified lenses. A massive spear, its haft adorned with intricate carvings, stretched along the workbench, beside a wickedly curved dagger, its edge honed but rusty. Nearby, a gleaming elvish sword rested beside a crude but sturdy shield. Claw-like weapons, their serrated edges glinting in the subdued light. Amidst this arsenal of war, nestled among the blades and shield, lay a collection of minor talismans, their mystical energies pulsating softly in hues of green and purple. These enchanted trinkets whispered of dangers. It was here, amidst this assortment, that Lochtonâs expertise shone brightest. Despite his lack of experience in managing cursed or enchanted items, his modifications gave him the upper hand, and his eyes for profit never failed him.
Lochton understood the delicate balance of commerce and advertising. Not every potential buyer needs to be informed of a productâs side effects. In the world of trade and negotiation, discretion was often the key to success. And so, as he prepared to present his wares to prospective clients, Lochton knew that sometimes, less was more.
With precision from years of practice, the Director delicately slid his manicured fingers into the protective embrace of a ring mail glove. The metal mesh fit snugly to his hand, offering both flexibility, dexterity and defense against the possible dangers of enchants and curses that might be locked inside the items. Flexing his fingers, he ensured that the fit was perfect, his gaze inspecting the wards, runes, and enchantments that adorned the gloveâs surface.
His eyes of green looked through his lenses, this purple-hued gauntlet held a singular purpose, to shield its wearer from the malevolent forces that could lurk within the items under his care. Each rune was etched into the metal by a dwarven runemaster, each ward meticulously inscribed by wise scribes, together they formed a barrier against unwanted loss of control.
With practiced ease, the Director began the delicate task of handling the artifacts. One by one, he would carefully lift them from their resting places, his gloved hands never touching their surfaces directly. Each cursed item, or enchanted trinket, were cradled within small display cases, its transparent walls offering a glimpse for potential buyers. By sealing each case, the Director ensured that these artifacts would remain safe during transport. With meticulous care, he prepared to deliver his treasures into the hands of those who could bring the right amount of coin.
With a sharp, mechanical bark that echoed through the workshop, a diminutive canine unit sprang into action, its metal frame gleaming in the dim light. Like a sentinel of steel, it patrolled the entrance with unwavering vigilance, a formidable weapon mounted on its back serving as a stark warning to any would-be intruders.
With a whir of gears and a faint hiss of hydraulics, the canineâs head spun on its axis, swivelling a full 180 degrees to fix its gaze upon its creator. Its optic sensors gleamed with a faint blue light as it observed the Directorâs every move with precision.
Meanwhile, the Director moved with practiced efficiency, his movements fluid and purposeful as he placed another secured display case along the wall, each artifact safely nestled within its transparent confines. With a careful eye for detail, he ensured that each case was positioned just so, ready for shipment to its final destination.
As the canine unit continued its patrol, its mechanical form salvaged from an earlier version, the Director paused for a moment to survey his handiwork. With a satisfied nod, he knew that these items were going to bring in good profit, and were now protected by the ever-watchful gaze of his loyal creation.
As the Director finalized the packaging of the secured display cases, a soft hum filled the air, accompanied by the gentle whirring of mechanisms coming to life. Cogsworth 2.0, the mechanical canine unit, seemed to sense the completion of another task. Its optic sensors flickered to life, bathing the cases in a soothing blue glow that seemed to shimmer against the metallic surfaces.
With mechanical precision, Cogsworth 2.0âs head pivoted once more, its gaze fixed upon the workshop door as if anticipating the arrival of the shipmentâs destined carrier. Then, with a burst of enthusiasm, it emitted a series of cheerful barks, each one punctuated, âBORK BORK, PRODUCT CONFIRMED FOR SHIPMENT, BORK!â
As if in response to its proclamation, a small receipt materialized from a slot atop Cogsworth 2.0âs head, its edges crisp and pristine against the backdrop of metal and machinery. With a satisfied whir, the canine unit seemed to settle into a state of readiness, its task fulfilled and its duty performed.
With the confirmation of shipment echoing through the workshop, the Director allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. With Cogsworth 2.0 standing guard and the product safely secured, the treasures of the workshop were now poised to embark on their next journey.
With a nod of acknowledgment, Cogsworth 2.0 pivoted slightly, its mechanical form emitting a series of soft clicks and whirrs as it received the Directorâs instructions. Its optic sensors flickered momentarily, processing the data before transmitting the necessary calibrations to the nearby coin press.
As the Director slid off his mail glove, he exhaled a quiet sigh of relief, feeling the weight of the dayâs tasks begin to lift from his shoulders. With ease, he rolled up his sleeves once more, revealing part of his skinny arms as he prepared to resume his work at the portable coin press.
In the dim corner of the workshop, illuminated only by the faint glow of molten gold, the Directorâs presence seemed to be of strong purpose and determination. With each pour of liquid metal, he brought forth not just currency, but the promise of prosperity for Stromgarde and its allies.
As the golden light danced across his features, reflecting in his eyes like sparks of fire, the Director felt a surge of satisfaction. With each press of the machine, he set his mark in his craftsmanship, letting the darkness of the corner give way to the brilliance of hot metal.
As the long hours passed and the spoils of war dwindled out of the designated storage area, a sense of organized chaos began to take hold. Where once the space had been filled with the loot and raw materials of the enemiesâ weapons, armor, and other plunder, now it started to overflow with display cases and coffers filled with freshly minted coins. Despite the Directorâs own fees being paid, the coffers seemed to swell with each passing hour of production.
The workshop fell silent as a sudden, ear-splitting screech shattered the air, piercing through the steady hum of machinery like a blade through cloth. It was a sound of terror, a stark contrast to the controlled chaos that housed the industrial shelter.
All eyes turned to the source of the disturbance, where one of the Directorâs contracted assistants stood frozen in shock, his gaze fixed upon the cursed item he had dropped to the floor. In his haste to finish up, he had picked up an unaccounted for cursed item, the damage had already been done.
A wave of horror washed over the Goblinâs face as the consequences of his misstep became painfully clear. The once vibrant green hue of his skin slowly turned a creeping grey, as the curse spread across his flesh. His body trembled as the crippling curse of petrification tightened its grip, transforming the green assistant into a lifeless statue.
Lochtonâs brow furrowed in frustration and resignation as he realized the implications of the accident. Not only would he have to bear the cost of either curing the unfortunate Goblin or compensating his family for their loss, but the incident would also mean an avalanche of paperwork.
With a measured tone, Lochton addressed the small gathering of Arathi guardsmen who had been assigned to watch over production, and offer protection while the Director were at full work in the workshop. His voice carried across the expanse.
âPrepare the carts. Production is almost finalizedâ.
He gracefully slid on his suit jacket, a subtle gesture that spoke volumes of his composed demeanor, Lochtonâs gaze of green eyes flickered to his pocket watch. Lochtonâs mind was racing ahead to the next steps. With a sense of purpose that bordered on determination, he issued his instructions to the guardsmen, his voice steady.
âWe must expedite the shipment of the proceeds to the Thane. Inform him that our production has yielded sufficient funds to cover the expenses incurred, as well as to provide a financial benefit to those who have contributed to our efforts.â
Donât mind me, just a bit of a nudge in case the writer OP needs more time than the Blizzard Forums will give him. Also 10/10 basedness in this thread