(H) The Furious Fishmongers - The Dragon Isles [Recruitment + A Story in Four Parts]

We are the Furious Fishmongers!

After many years of angling together, with a fair amount of idiocy and mishap along the way, we remain open for recruitment.

We welcome chatty, friendly and social people to our close-knit, foolhardy fishing crew. We follow the roleplaying realm guidelines. New recruits are usually interviewed in-game. You can apply through the guild finder tool or come and chat with one of us.

For a flavour of what we are about, please read on:



It was a typically frigid evening along the southern coast of Northrend and the natural aurora that came with the territory illuminated the modest harbour of Kamagua. This spectacular light show was further enhanced by the glowing oil lamps here that belonged to the resident Tuskarr, known as The Kalu’ak.

Natural materials had evidently played a big part in the construction of this compact village, which was nestled within a small natural bay, between jagged rocks and evergreen trees. Ancient whalebone and seal skins had been respectfully arranged to make up half a dozen homes and shelters, artfully decorated with ocean-themed carvings and murals. The dwellings were clustered around a dock which was flanked by a quartet of large fishing hoists, facing the floating ice and high bergs of the Frozen Sea. The settlement was peppered with several hot firepits, loaded with incense sticks, which gave off pleasant musky scents. The songs of the orca could just be heard in the distance, masked by the constant whistle of the chilling local wind, but mainly by a significant amount of activity at the water’s edge

Clan elders, longtooth spearfolk and turtle riders alike were helping to load up and secure a small fleet of fishing boats and kayaks with baskets, nets and general supplies.

One gigantic load of equipment in particular was being hauled with some difficulty towards the harbour by two teams of burly local labourers. A strong tarpaulin that may have been intended to cover everything up wasn’t doing so. Glimpses of iron struts and engine parts on a huge sled were offered between pulling attempts.

A smooth green-skinned goblin clad in jet black leather armour was directing traffic He wore no colours to indicate his affiliations and his gear was strapped together with various buttons and rivets, making for a compact and practical outfit. A pair of subtly-glowing jagged daggers were located within easy reach, hanging from a brown studded belt around his waist. His outfit was topped off with a jaunty bucket hat, secured with a large buckle. His long curly ears flopped out through his headgear and he wore an expensive-looking pair of gold rings at his lobes. A gimlet red stare and permanent smirk hinted at a rather unpleasant character within.

The goblin stood next to a Tuskarr, whose squat walrus-like form was bundled up warmly in tanned furs although his bushy brown facial hair was probably just as effective. His hanging tusks were decorated with tribal markings and he wore a handcrafted fishing pole strapped across his broad back. This angler tapped the goblin’s shoulder to attract his attention.

“Dacomos! Look, Green Island has arrived from Mo’aki!”

The goblin turned to witness the impressive sight of a great sea turtle swimming ponderously into view, dominating the skyline. A crew of Tuskarr were manning the artificial decks that were firmly secured to the turtle’s back, making it as high as the tallest of the buildings in Kamagua. The motion of its gigantic flippers sent waves lapping against the dock as it slowed to a halt. A mismatched pair of travellers could be seen disembarking from their chelonian transport at the water’s edge.

Dacomos and his Tuskarr companion headed over to greet the newcomers, a tall male troll and an even taller Tauren male, who were crossing a sturdy jetty to the mainland, nodding to a dockmaster elder as they passed him.

The rangy troll’s eyes were concealed along with the majority of his grimy alabaster hair beneath the broad brim of a crimson hat, which was decorated with safari stripes along its sides. He wore a colourful set of painted mail armour, pieces of which were fashioned to resemble tribal masks and a simple club hanging from his belt. His bare feet and hands protruded beyond his chunky boots and gauntlets, exposing his downy blue fur to the elements. He wore a surly sneer across his warty face, which was tattooed in white vertical lines. His long pointy ears and even longer bony tusks marked him as a jungle troll, far from home. As he walked in the crouched way of his kind, occasional glimpses of a black lobster emblem, embossed upon a mostly red uniform could be seen upon his chest.

The large brown Tauren who walked alongside him bore an even larger caber strapped across his back, which he carried without apparent effort. He was marked with white tribal warpaint along his thick hide and armed with a pair of hefty looking axes which gave off the tell-tale azure glow of enchantments. A mass of long dark hair ran behind his broad horned brow, ending in a trio of warrior’s braids which swang as he moved, his hot breath making steam in the cold air. He wore a simple gold ring through his nose and carried himself with the stern demeanour of a veteran warrior. His crimson guild tabard was a match for his troll associate’s but was well-hidden amongst the feathers and furs of his deceptively simple tribal armour.

“So this is your boss?” asked the angler.

“Yeah, for now….,” muttered Dacomos to himself quietly, before raising his voice to make the proper introductions.

“Yeah, so Noatak, this is Mudija, Fishmaster of my guild…” said Dacomos, extending an arm in the direction of the troll, whose good left eye blazed red at this comment, “…and the big guy is Mister Tunril, one of our Overseers.”

“Mudi, Tun, this is Noatak, the fishmonger around these parts.”

“What we be doin’ here, Daco? Where’s everyone goin’?” barked Mudija, acknowledging Noatak’s presence with a brisk nod, whilst ignoring the goblin’s insult.

“The locals are making ready for some grand new venture, Mudi,” replied Dacomos, “They’re sayin’ the Dragon Isles have awakened! You know, that place where all the dragons have been flying to. These Tuskarr got old relatives there, opening up a whole new trading lane. New waters means new business. We gotta get in on this. We’ll make a killing!”

Mudija and Tunril exchanged a look.

“Whut’s under there?” asked Mudi gruffly, gesturing at the poorly concealed payload which was being hauled with limited success before them. “Mistah Tun, if you please.”

Tunril seemed untroubled by the low temperature and his solid hooves crunched over the tundra as he strode with purpose towards where the locals were evidently still struggling to haul the immense load to the water’s edge. He added his formidable natural strength to the fray and all of a sudden the equipment found its way to its destination at the water’s edge.

“Surprise!” yelled Dacomos as Tunril lifted the tarpaulin away to reveal what appeared to be the contents of a large blacksmith’s shop, covered in earth, grass and oil. Underneath the debris, a row of long milled logs had been lashed together to form an oversized raft. Assorted bottles, floats, lanterns and netting had been stacked within the would-be craft, along with a token attempt at providing benched seating for passengers. The large engine from a goblin zeppelin had been crazily jammed in at the rear, with little regard for safety or style.

“De Iron Lobster” noted Mudija, grimacing slightly as he inspected the junkpile before him.

“Mark two!” announced Dacomos, proudly.

“Mark ten, more like.” quipped Tunril drily, between gulps from a carton of pungent seal whey, which a grateful work gang member had given him as a reward for his recent feat of strength.

“We even know how far we gotta sail to get to these islands?” asked Mudija.

Noatak looked aghast. “Sail? It’s a little way by turtle, but… surely you don’t think you will actually get there onboard this……thing?! I had thought these were all merely parts to be sent on, not an actual vessel. There’s no way this eyesore can float!”

Tunril easily lifted a huge iron panel from one of the craft’s gunwales, then demonstrated a large hole within by placing one of his hands through it to the other side. “Needs more stuff,” he agreed, before turning to talk to the local crafters, who seemed eager to help with this new project.

“We’re gonna need more anglers, bait cutters…” mused Mudija, “…de’ guild is all over de’ place. Dalaran, Kalimdor, mebbe even Pandaria!”

Dacomos and Mudija began bickering loudly about gold and crew numbers.

Meanwhile, Noatak had made his way over to the dockmaster, who was waving off Green Island as it swam off to its next port of call, his handheld oil lamp casting slanted shadows across the jetty.

“What kind of idiots would dare attempt to sail anywhere onboard… that metallic monstrosity?!” asked Noatak in horror.

As he spoke, Tunril and a couple of local labourers had successfully raised a mast of sorts in the centre of the deck of the unusual vehicle. A large sackcloth banner was unfurled in the chill breeze. It had been dyed in the colours of The Horde. A black lobster symbol had been emblazoned on its rich crimson backdrop.

Mudija turned towards the two Tuskarr at the dock, his keen troll ears having apparently heard Noatak’s challenge.

“Who would dare? We would! De’ Furious Fishmongers!” bellowed Mudija loudly, his deep island-accented voice carrying across the bay.




It was a balmy early evening just off the Southern coast of Pandaria. Between the two formidable free standing columns of rock that were known as the Narsong Spires, the sun was setting on an artificial sea base.

Anglers Wharf consisted of a trio of lumber huts, arranged in ascending order of size so that the largest building - the inn, was at the top. The whole structure was linked together by three strong sections of wooden boardwalk and it had been designed to stand on high stilts. These long bamboo poles had been sunk deeply into the seabed to keep its guests high, dry and clear of the terrors of the Narsong Trench below. A loose collection of shipwrecks was acting as an aquarium for the local fauna - there were many crabs, pufferfish and rays, all of which could be viewed easily through the surrounding, translucent waters.

The compact base faced the beaches that extended out from the wilds of Krasarang, separated by just a few islets and sandbars, forming an artificial breakwater between the Southern coast of Pandaria and the vast expanse of the South Seas beyond.

The wharf has been beautifully decorated with floral displays and lanterns and banners. These were mixed in with bright sunshades, coloured in peach and plum, along with a huge array of baskets, fishing lines, nets and poles, which appeared to have no particular ownership.

The dusk sounds of the wild canopy could just be detected in the near distance, but these were drowned out by the clanging sounds of blades striking blades - this otherwise tranquil scene was currently being disturbed by a major brawl that was taking place at the wharf.

A light rain was causing gentle pools of concentric circles to spread out over the surface of the clear blue water and a couple of bloated looking seagulls watched on with interest, from one of the hut’s roofs, as the conflict escalated.

A warband of a dozen saurok was attempting an incursion, and an attempt at repelling them was being led by a handful of local defenders.

The saurok were a lizardine race, known for their scaly natural armour, which was lightly augmented with leathers and mail, keeping them free to use their natural agility, especially as they all had long prehensile tails to balance with. No two saurok were alike and they came in various colours and hues of brown, blue and green with differing traits such as webbed ears and ridged fins across their unnaturally long backs. They barked and hissed commands to each other as they advanced.

The loud clangs of their crude short swords on the stout halberds of a trio of local guards played counterpart to the actions of a distinctive pair of fighters, who seemed to stand apart from the rest of the chaos, as they brought the fight to the reptilian attackers: One was broad and stout, the other slim and lithe.

The former was a pandaren monk, whose deceptively chunky frame concealed a significant amount of heavy muscle, which moved powerfully beneath the thick grey hide of his exposed arms. He was wielding a huge ironbound staff, decorated with hanging jade beads, and using it to skillfully knock his foes aside with powerful swipes. Though his eyes and most of his white furry face were hidden beneath the wide brim of his sturdy conical hat, a grimace that could also have been interpreted as a grin of happiness was clearly visible atop his deep brown and shaggy yet well-groomed beard and moustache.

The tassels of his roped belt matched the crimson of his grubby uniform, a tabard marked with a jet black lobster emblem. He was wearing a grey woollen doublet beneath, which had been secured for combat with buttons of gold and jade. His stout legs were protected with firm leather knee pads, each of which had been emblazoned with the motifs of a paw print. His actual paws were proportionately large and were adorned with some vicious looking metal rings.

He was also brandishing a collection of wooden beer kegs, one of which he smashed down onto the head of a particularly unfortunate attacker, whilst simultaneously using his ample behind to knock another one down off the platform and into the waters of the trench below.

The second figure, though also a pandaren monk, was demonstrating a very different combat style. Similarly furred, as all pandaren are, she was much the faster of the two. She danced and twirled, striking at her foes with surprising power and dictating the pace of the fighting.

Her naturally clawed toes shifted for purchase on the boardwalk as she fought, occasionally kicking out from under her long martial robe, which was coloured in both grey and mauve. A rich brocade of raised golden fabrics had been woven into the designs of her outfit, contrasting with the bright, aquamarine flecked ruffs around her collar and about her hips.

She too owned a long staff, although she had strapped it up and out of the way, freeing up her frighteningly fast paws so that she could pummel her foes furiously.

Her pale white-furred face was spotted with two fierce eyes of amethyst and her sleek auburn hair was streaked with red, and was bound up with a simple band of gold.

“I had thought, Zhugan, my love” said the female, dodging a fast sword strike as she raised her voice to be heard above the sounds of the skirmish, “that we were keeping the number of guests down for our little…celebration!”. She promptly spun, kicking a saurok right in their snout, the force of the blow sending them flying out into thin air, before joining several of his fellow raiders in splashing down into the water below.
“My beloved Sidh,” chortled Zhugan, his substantial bulk stopping a charging couple of raiders in their tracks, before he swatted them away in separate directions with a pair of firm paw swipes. “where would the fun in that be?”

A local angler was attempting to assist the two martial artists, by striking the occasional foe from far range, brandishing a long bamboo fishing pole in his outstretched arms. He had paler white fur, marked with brown patches, wore a simple neutral brown anglers outfit and had his hair bound up in a topknot, leaving his piercing blue eyes free to view the skirmish.

“It’s not surprising that this hideous warband decided to risk a raid,” said Sidh, nodding to their new assistant, “there’s hardly anyone left to defend this wharf anymore. Where did all the locals go, Haito?”

“North…” replied Haito the angler, taking a deep breath, before nervously babbling further, “…new isles have been discovered. New isles means new fish. Pagle and his buddies left as soon as they heard, probably taking the long route via the inns of Dazar’alor and the straits between Kul Tiras and the Broken Isles. I’m so sorry that we haven’t been able to host your event as planned today. Have you two checked your mail lately? I think there was something for you but I got distracted by these raiders, before I could pass it on!”

“Sure Haito,” replied Zhugan casually, “throw it here!”

Haito lobbed a thin scroll over to Zhugan, which bounced off his hat and into the arms of one of the few saurok that were still left standing.

“Down!” shouted Sidh, before spinning around at a dizzying rate of revolution, knocking the remaining saurok aside and allowing her to neatly step in and relieve them of the scroll. “I’ll take that, thank you!”

Sidh unrolled the missive, whilst Zhugan removed the last of the saurok from the wharf ledge with a simple yet brutal backhanded chop. The few saurok that remained conscious appeared to have decided to head back across the nearby shallows to the coast, away from the reach of the monks. A cheer went out from the local defenders, one of whom clapped a grinning Zhugan on the shoulder in triumph.

“Hmmm, it seems we did get mail, but it’s very poorly written,” said Sidh, inspecting the scroll in her paws carefully, “It must be from our delightful troll overlord!”

“You mean ‘Fishmaster’, of course!” guffawed Zhugan, as he flattened out the mildly damaged brim of his reinforced straw hat.

“Yes, that was what I meant.” muttered Sidh to herself, “I can’t really read this very well, the calligraphy is just atrocious!”

“Didn’t we have a scribe?” pondered Zhugan.

“We get through so many of them” answered Sidh, exasperatedly, “they tend to lose their nerve or their patience generally.”

Sidh passed the puzzling parchment back to Haito, who had now managed to join them, with the walkway clear of enemies.

“Can you make any words out?”

“Well, I do read a lot of messages, especially from that particular troll…” explained Haito. “Let me see now…” Haito scrunched up his eyes a little.

“Get your …furry ? faces (-I hope it says faces!) North now, we got dragging islands to (plunder? angle?), and don’t forget to wear your uniforms!”

“Pffft! Our guild colours won’t match my outfit!” scowled Sidh, straightening out her long slate fighting robe.

“I have my spare tabard stowed with my adventuring gear!” puffed up Zhugan proudly. “I may have ripped this outfit a little, during the fighting!” He looked a little mournful as he demonstrated a torn stitch along his midriff.

“I think that may perhaps be rather more to do with the size of your breakfast this morning, dearest!”

“Right, I think that’s those Saurok dealt with!” said Zhugan, swiftly changing the subject, “Shall we help pack up this place and head North? The dragging of islands sounds like fairly tough work to me!”

Sidh glared at Zhugan, as if waiting for him to add something else.

“Straight after lunch, that is…” said Zhugan, carefully, making sure he was saying the right thing.

“Well, Obviously!” Sidh rolled her eyes and smiled.

This one goes out to Sascha and Conny, the heartbeat of our little guild for many years now. Happy Wedding day ya pandaren muppets!


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The Iron Lobster Mark II was an unusual vessel at the best of times, considering that it had been hammered together from spare engine parts, stolen benches and general waste products. Today, the monstrous metal raft was struggling to make landfall, listing to one side whilst its armoured passengers, some of whom were frantically bailing out water, variously pushed or rode it into the shore.

A solid thump from along the craft’s side, as it collided with a sharp rock, indicated the crew’s arrival. A couple of pandaren monks, a slim goblin, a heavy-set tauren and a veteran troll disembarked in descending order of graceful motion.

A weather-blasted pole displaying the remains of a rich red banner, crudely marked with a black lobster motif, indicated that these were the Furious Fishmongers, a guild of ill repute in many parts of Azeroth.

The tallest fishmonger was the tauren warrior, Tunril, who loomed out of the shallows like a colossal statue, whilst he tied off his ship’s hawser on a sturdy looking reef block.

“Well,” grumbled the first monk, wringing the hem of her sodden robe out as she sloshed to the shore, “How we made it through that storm to get here, I will never know!”

“Plenty of folks weren’t quite so lucky, Sidh,” added the second, who was called Zhugan. He stretched out a strong furry arm to indicate the scores of broken masts and pieces of rigging that were scattered across the shingles around them, the evidence of storms past.

The entire beach was covered in big swathes of coral and seaweed. In the far distance, the battlements of a huge stone fortification dominated the fast moving cloud banks that made up the skyline, looming over the jagged, rocky coastline below.

“Daco, are you certain this is the place known as the Dragon Isles?” asked Sidh suspiciously.

“Definitely,” asserted Dacomos, who was the goblin scout of the crew. He was frowning over a small handheld compass of his own devising. “Well, maybe,” he added, shaking his instrument in puzzlement.

“Let’s head inland and up ta’ higher ground, get de’ lay of ‘de land,” barked Mudija, the troll, waving his troop ahead.

The bickering party advanced up the rocky shore path, abandoning their stricken craft for the time being.

Several simple pitch torches had been driven into the land, and these seemed to be leading them onwards and upwards. The abandoned camps of the people who had previously made this journey had been repurposed here, making basic huts and fire pits among the kelp-lined rockpools.

Just as they were making some progress through the detritus of the beach head, a group of six strange amphibious creatures waddled up to them, shaking primitive spears and vocalising their displeasure in an unpleasant array of gurgles and howls:


Their rotund, squat bodies were covered with sticky skin, hued in various tones of blue and green. They had strange fins and wobbly head crests and some of them bore natural skin patches in vivid reds and yellows, which lent them a gaudy appearance.

They had disproportionately large, protruding eyes and their wide maws were filled alarmingly with rows of sharp-looking teeth. Their feet were webbed and wide, to give a padding sound as they ran out from wherever they had been hiding.

“Murlocs!” tutted Mudija, stepping back to invoke elemental magic. The air crackled with electricity and as the old shaman extended his blue arms, a bolt of conjured lightning flashed from his extended hands, connecting the majority of the murlocs and blasting them, causing them to fall to the ground in a fairly smoky and expired mess. A couple of nearby would-be reinforcements fled to the rocks above.

The fishmongers continued up and around a corner, heading east and entering a dark hollow, lined with brambles, which protected its denizens from the elements.

A round of tell-tale grunting from within revealed a warband of Quillboar, the sharp dorsal hairs that lent them their name sticking out in crazy directions along their broad backs. Notorious for their bad tempers, these pig-people had long dirty tusks and round pointed snouts. They were clothed in leather armour and dirty robes, their warty hides painted for battle in a selection of chalked colours.

“We don’t really got time for ‘dis.” muttered Mudija, turning to look at his associate, Dacomos.

The goblin rogue quickly unsheathed his blades, before somehow vanishing from sight, concealed in the shadows of the hollow. The first quillboar spotted the fishmongers and attempted to raise the alarm but the crafty goblin had stunned him before he could do so. Next thing, two more quillboar were stabbed to death before the party even entered the cave, their shrill, high-pitched screams marking their demise.

“Shall we, Mudi?” grinned Dacomos, cleaning his blades and thumbing over his shoulder to indicate the path through the brambles ahead.

The remaining Quillboar allowed the party to pass through their territory, several of them pretending to be asleep outside their ramshackle straw stations.

As they emerged from the Quillboars’ hollow, their path led them uphill before opening up to reveal not just a clearing, but a large plain, at the centre of which was a hulking stone tower.

In the distance, the vast stone castle they had glimpsed from the beach could be seen more clearly, lurking beside an even larger mountain, which was the source of several waterfalls. The keep had many barricade defences and clan flags set up around it. The bellows and cries of a large number of giant lungs were emanating from the general area, and drums of alarm were being beaten.

“Ogres.” snorted Tunril, planting his feet firmly apart, before reaching behind him and flipping out a pair of great axes.

Sidh and Zhugan took up matching combat stances as a score of ogres ran towards them, their heavy limbs making thunder on the ground as they got closer. These enormous blue-skinned humanoids possessed huge frames that dwarfed even Tunril. Some wore combat armour and a few were clad in the robes of sorcerers, but they all bore the same clan symbol, a single horned golden eye on a distressed purple background, somewhere upon their clothing.

Mudija frowned. “Not sure these ogres are up for a fight today,” he mused, as the ogres ran haphazardly past the fishmongers.

“Hmmph,” sulked Tunril, begrudgingly stepping aside to allow the fleeing ogres more room, though not before deliberately tripping one unfortunate passer-by who collapsed face-first to the ground. Dacomos and Mudija narrowly avoided getting trampled in the process.

The fallen cyclopean ogre was one of the magic-users, and his single eye was opened wide in pain as he rolled over and attempted to stand. He instinctively moved his fingers in order to cast a spell before he noticed Tunril’s encouraging expression and then thought better of it.

“What is happening here?” asked Mudija gruffly, looking around and about at the great exodus of ogres in bemusement.

“We run. Ritual is done. Our dragon is dead. So is our boss!” cried the fallen ogre sorcerer, shaking his head in sorrow. “Unpossible!”

“Your….dragon?” asked Sidh. “Dragon, singular?”

“Yes. We made dragon with magic.”
“Where are all the others? This is supposed to be the Dragon Isles, yes?”

The ogre shook his head in confusion. “This not Dragon Isles, this Exile’s Reach!”

“You idiot, Daco,” shouted Sidh angrily, turning to glare at the unfortunate goblin, ”You’ve taken us to the wrong place!”

“Possibly…” admitted Dacomos begrudgingly, with a churlish grimace.

“Give me that gadget,” she said, deftly swiping the goblin’s compass from his hands and inspecting it carefully, turning herself in place to mark her location.

“You’ve put the points on backwards! Clearly you’ve taken us South as well as East! If Zhugan and I had known, we could have met you all on the way, but instead you’ve taken us back in the other direction!” she ranted. “So now we are stranded without any supplies on some forsaken and murloc-plagued islet!”

“There’s iron here,” mused Zhugan, “Do you think we could use these, Mister Tun?”

Tunril and Zhugan had recovered some great metal chains from the ogres, who seemed to have been using it for fencing or general haulage tasks. Tunril gave the large links an enthusiastic kick with one of his great hooves. They barely moved.

“Do-able.” said Tunril, nodding at a beaming Zhugan.

At this point, it came to be that there was a great sonorous humming noise that filled the air, coming from the coast behind them.

“Now whut?” grumbled Mudija, turning and raising his tusked head to the skies.

A huge zeppelin gunship was rumbling slowly through the sky towards the castle, accompanied
by a phalanx of windriders, their armoured gryphon mounts sailing through the sky with ease. A truly impressive vehicle, this gigantic troop carrier and general purpose warship was constructed from a naval airship, suspended under two gigantic gas chambers, which were all connected together by long iron gantries. It was so vast that the guards and soldiers that were aboard it, appeared to be tiny, when viewed from the ground below.

“Ha! It’s The Horde!” announced Dacomos excitedly, jumping on to a rock and waving at the incoming air sortie. “They can give us a ride out of here!”

“Wait,” warned Mudija, attempting to quell the excited goblin and drag him back down to the ground. “We’re not exactly the most popular guild in Orgrimmar right now.”

“Why ever not?” asked Dacomos, in puzzlement.

“Well, off the top of my head,” said Sidh, “there’s the rotten water barrels you didn’t change last week, that stank out The Drag…”

“Oh, and also the collapsed wall of the auction house from the dance party fish stall that we broke!” added Zhugan.

“…And that trouble with the elves,“ continued Sidh.

Tunril smirked a little at that comment, in contrast to his usual dour and unreadable demeanour.

“Yeah, ‘dey ain’t gonna help us get outta here,” agreed Mudija, “Shame, that gunship could haul half this island up and away…,” he pondered wistfully.

There was a pause as the party seemed lost in the contemplation of their unfortunate predicament.

“So, those chains, got a lot of them have they?” asked Mudija.

Tunril and Zhugan both nodded.

Mudija broke out into an evil grin between his long tusks and his deep red hat brim. “How long would it take us to drag the Lobster up from the beach anyways?” he asked.

“Ooh, ooh!” interjected Dacomos, hopping on the spot in delight, “There’s all those shiny ship parts back down there too!”

Zhugan flexed his furred biceps. “We could get it all up here in a few minutes, no problem.”

Tunril rolled his eyes as he began to realise what his crafty fishmaster had in mind.

“Wait, you don’t……” squirmed Sidh, as the dawn of the idea broke over her. “You want to heave our giant excuse for a boat, all the way up the coast, past the murlocs, through the quillboar and then somehow connect it to that zeppelin with those giant chains, without the Horde even noticing?” she exclaimed incredulously. “Only a bunch of complete idiots would even consider such a wild idea!”

The Furious Fishmongers all looked at each other for a few moments.

“We’ll get right on it, boss!” piped up Dacomos, as Sidh covered her face with a fuzzy palm.

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*Tale 4 has been delayed; aiming to post it soon ™ *


TALE 4 is still a bit of a mess. Coming “soon”. I blame the Alliance.




Dawn had long since risen over the natural harbours of the Waking Shores. As the grey and misty skies cleared, they revealed much activity and life in the primal landscape beneath them.

Several artificial yet equally imposing titan-wrought structures lent character and age to the many mountains of the surrounding area. A headless guardian here, an ornate watch tower there; the occasional lit brazier provided evidence of a dutiful local population.

Rivers of molten earth flowed down from the surrounding high cliffs, to merge with the coastal waterways below.

The acrid smell of sulphur was present, as too were the cries of the local fauna. Some were obvious, like the flights of screeching primal drakes that lined the rocky canopies and overhangs around the bay. Others were less so, such as the croaks of a quintet of bloated and scaly hornswog, grumbling to one another from the top of a stone hillock, that protruded from the shallows.

Opposite to this rock, and facing north easterly out into the bay, a pair of long tauren* were sat together on a low natural stone platform, their broad hooves laid out flat in front of them. One of the duo was noticeably larger than the other, and both of them were sporting crimson warpaint across their tawny faces and limbs.

The larger tauren was hauling in a red kite, which had been decorated to resemble a miniature dragon, its outstretched wings helping it to hang better in the wind. The broad curled antlers on his head marked him out to be a member of the highmountain tribe.

His companion was slighter by tauren standards, yet still imposingly tall. She was resting her legs on a plump purple cushion as she absent-mindedly angled in the bay before her, using an ornate and stout fishing pole.

Big wooden barrels and crates of every kind were dotted about the rocky bay around them, clearly signs that this was the landing point for a major expedition. Weapons, crafting materials, catering and building supplies were stacked in every available nook and cranny, and these were matched with artisans, adventurers and soldiers of all races and sizes.

“Looks like the Dragonscale Expedition is upping its involvement, Jaffe” said the lady tauren, tugging at her line to test for any significant catches.

“More boats, but generally later than expected, Mora.” agreed Jaffe.

Jaffe nodded over to where a huge fully-rigged frigate was docked opposite them, unloading the best merchandise and goods that elves, dwarfs, humans, gnomes and the draenei could produce. A busy encampment at the opposite shore was full of activity as the Alliance were demonstrating their teamwork to all and sundry.

A long booming horn note signalled a newcomer to the proceedings - the Horde had arrived. A massive gunship drifted sluggishly down from the sky and into the water, moving with surprising grace, like a whale shark crafted from iron and steel, coming to rest perfectly against a basic dock at the shore which lay adjacent to the highmountain anglers.

“I can see why it was late,” said Mora, setting aside her fishing rod for a moment, in order to point at the rear of the vehicle. A significant pile of junkyard waste appeared to be caught up with the aft part of the hull. Girders and planks protruded at the edge of nets along with what looked to be the remains of a mast, likely from a much smaller vessel.

Orcs, blood elves, forsaken and more tauren, along with goblins and pandaren were disembarking, mostly unloading goods and making ready for quests unknown.

A couple of crew broke off from the main passengers, to inspect the damage at the back of their transport. One of them retrieved a balled up and bedraggled red rag of torn cloth from the waterline. As the waterlogged banner was partially unrolled, a black lobster claw could just about be made out at its edge. An animated and somewhat heated discussion broke out amongst the crewmembers.

Meanwhile, nearly everybody had failed to notice an additional party of adventurers who were also leaving the vessel behind them, a party that consisted of a troll and a tauren, along with a pair of pandaren and a goblin. The five newcomers were mostly wearing gear that was blood red in colour, looking like a suspiciously good match for the sunken banner that had been discovered amongst the debris behind them.

“Hmmph. ‘Furious Fishmongers’, no wonder.” tutted Jaffe, under his breath.

The five fishmongers smoothly and steadily made progress away from the boat, without drawing too much attention, before they turned away from the main activities to approach Jaffe and Mora.

“Greetings, fellow anglers!” said the larger of the two pandaren, a stout fellow, who sported a conical hat over his bulky, leather geared body.

“Hullo,” said Mora, noncommittally. “Can we help?”

“I certainly hope so,” said one of his companions. This was another pandaren, though she was shorter and slighter, clad in a free-flowing robe, a simple ironbound staff strapped across her back. “Can we assume that we have now arrived at the Dragon Isles?” she asked.

“You have.” said Mora, noting with some amusement the sense of relief that seemed to pass amongst the party of new arrivals as she said this. “What is your business here?”

“Same as yours!” cut in the goblin, his features slightly hidden by an oversized black bucket hat. His simple armour was also black and his over-sized feet were clad in blocky boots. “We’re here for the fish. Got any good tips for us?”

“Well,” said Mora, ignoring the goblin’s clear lack of manners, “I’m certain there is plenty enough to go around. If you’re really after the local track though, I’d head up to the embassy and ask around up there.” As she said this, Mora raised an arm behind her, and upwards.

The fishmongers raised their heads as one to look up at a set of gigantic towers and walls that stood out from the cliffs above them, nearly equal in stature to the mountainous surrounding terrain.

The troll of the party bore tufts of white hair that marked him out to be an elder of some kind. He seemed to be taking in the surroundings and making plans for himself using a crude ledger and some charcoal.

His immense Tauren companion stood guard nearby, gazing approvingly and thoughtfully out over the new landscape, checking and organising his axes and the straps on the remainder of his gear as he did so.

“Quite the expedition, eh?” said Jaffe, keen not to be left out of discussions. “Who would have thought the Horde and the Alliance would ever work together on something like this, eh?” he said, pointing across the bay to where the Kul Tiran frigate was making ready to depart, likely heading back to Boralus for more willing adventurers and essential supplies.

The troll and tauren exchanged glances. The troll grinned unpleasantly from under the brim of his crimson hat and the Tauren rolled his eyes and snorted steam out into the clear air around the party.

“Yeah, always a great team, those two,” chuckled the troll snidely, “Let’s go, ya mongrels.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up,” said the goblin, bluntly. “We’re gonna head up and see this embassy, like you said. Cheers!”

“Yes, happy angling!” said the first pandaren monk, beaming beatifically as the mismatched group strode on and off up the path, leaving Jaffe and Mora behind.

The fishmongers spread out and made their way through the busy encampment, as they figured out their best route up to reach their next destination. Tents and fires were spotted between crates and tables and anvils, along with staves and alchemical instruments, makeshift wheelbarrows and carts. Although this camp wasn’t particularly organised, it had clearly been here for weeks, lending it a busy vibe, in spite of its transience.

As the group passed through the camp, a few guards from the ship had finally started to ask around, seeking answers for the wreckage that had finally been untethered from their prize gunship.

One of the more enterprising guards, a burly green orc, had managed to pull the crimson banner remnants from the water. He unfurled it fully for another orc, who seemed to be his superior, revealing the black crawdad emblem to her.

“Great. Those idiots. Just what we needed!” exclaimed the captain, as she took in this new information.

“We going up after them?” asked the first orc, as he threw the tatty banner back on to the beach with disdain.

“We have more important matters to attend to. Besides, they’ll get their share of adventure here,” snarled the Captain, turning quickly to glare at the busy encampment beyond her, “What goes around, comes around!”

The Furious Fishmongers had passed beyond the landing camp and had now disappeared from view, up and around a corner, behind some stony outcroppings.

*The Cloudwalkers were the first people I really noticed upon my arrival at the Waking Shores in the game. A good indication of plenty of good fishing to be had!


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Potentially the story ends here, for now. Best Wishes Defias et al…

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Think this is pretty much all for now. Hope you all enjoyed these tales. I’m planning to move on to some non-Warcraft projects after the Summer. Feel free to nudge any Furious Fishmongers that you may see, and have yourselves a great time on the Dragon Isles and beyond!

Best Wishes,*

‘Mad Mudi’ Mudija
Fishmaster and Founder of the Furious Fishmongers
Champion of the Horde (Retired)

*Even if you’re an elf. Well, mostly good wishes anyway…

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