We are the Furious Fishmongers!
After many years of angling together, with a fair amount of idiocy and mishap along the way, we are generally open for recruitment on Defias Brotherhood again.
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:
CONTAINS MILD SPOILERS FOR THE WAR WITHIN
TALES OF THE FURIOUS FISHMONGERS: ALGARIAN EDITION
ONE: LANDFALL.
In the lee of a storm locked mountain, five anglers of varying height were lined up along a tranquil shore. They were sporting a good collection of fur, horns, pointed ears and tusks between them. All of them were wearing the same red and black tabard.
Nobody seemed to be catching anything.
“Water’s too shallow here,” rumbled the largest of the crew, a Tauren warrior. Part angler, part walking armoury, his fishing pole was strapped to a large axe.
“You’re right Tunril,” said one of the monks, a portly male Pandaren, “This has started poorly, reminding me of our failed venture in the Dragon Isles!”
“Don’t blame me, Zhugan!” said the third angler indignantly, “How was I supposed to know the local Tuskarr had the entire fish market covered?” He was a green-skinned goblin, clad in a set of black leather armour, his features obscured by a jaunty pirate hat.
“It was your information we were acting on, Dacomos” said the second monk, another Pandaren, this one a female. She was wearing a robe which had been drawn in at her furry brown ankles to allow her to wade out into the water.
“Are you questioning my methods of gathering information?” demanded Dacomos.
“No,” said the final angler, a colourfully tattooed, warty blue troll, whose white hair was escaping from beneath the broad brim of his crimson hat. “We are questioning ya’ actual intelligence!”
“Pah!” said Dacomos, wandering off to sulk. I’ll show you Mudija, he thought. Stupid old troll ‘Fishmaster’. One day soon, this whole operation is going to be mine.
“Pretty peaceful here, mind you,” Mudija said, thoughtfully. “You two scouted pretty good again. How did you find this place, Sidh?”
“Visions of light aside, let’s just agree that we Pandaren make far better sailors than the dreadful combined navies of the Horde and the Alliance.” replied the female monk, “Every other year they seem to miss another island!”
“Once our first catches come in, we should have the market to ourselves,” said Mudija. “Long as nobody else beats us to it!”
There was a brief uncomfortable silence as the assembled fisherfolk contemplated past failures. Then that silence was replaced by a deep sense of unease. They all felt it at the same moment, a shift in reality around them. Something big and magical was happening.
The guild looked up as one and a city materialised in the sky above them. This was Dalaran, the airborne home of the Kirin Tor sorcerers, wielders of the violet eye.
“Great,” snarled Mudija, “Every time!”
There was a peal of magical thunder and a large group of people appeared on the rocky shore behind them, enveloped in a hemisphere of violet energy.
“Look, Mudi!” said Dacomos gleefully, “Customers!”
The energy field vanished with a pop. They turned to look at the newcomers, who looked exhausted and scared. There were representatives of every race of Azeroth. They were grim faced and exhausted. Some of them simply collapsed on the ground as soon as the barrier was down.
“Something is wrong,” said Sidh, her voice radiating concern.
They looked up again, in search of more information. There appeared to be a number of dark creatures circling the floating city, were they bats?
The entire city was shaking and its famous floating islands were dropping towards the ocean, as if they had lost their magical anchors.
“Drop your gear,” shouted Mudija, “Get to cover!”
The guild did as they were told and dived behind some rocks.
A vast globe of void energy expanded to swallow the city from its core. There was a moment of silence before the entire city simply imploded, sending chunks of Dalaran plunging to the world below, ripping new leylines up into the shore. Fires were smouldering, smoke was rising. Sections of fallen masonry and shards of stained glass littered the coast. Arcane golems roamed around the scattered remnants of the city, attempting to patrol a city that was no longer there.
“Look at all this shiny stuff! Think of the resale value!” said Dacomos, inspecting the smoking debris, “Ooh, a wizard’s cloak!”
“Never mind that!” said Sidh, “There’s someone trapped under the rubble on the beach. We have to help them, come on!”
An armoured figure was partially buried under some heavy stone debris. A pointed golden plate helm with a white skull motif lay nearby on the beach, possibly having fallen off during the destruction of the city.
“Tun” called Sidh, “Help us! You’re the best of us at throwing heavy stone objects. We can’t free this one without you!”
Tunril duly waded into the water and lifted the required stones with a grunt.
“I think it’s an elf,” exclaimed Sidh, “but he isn’t breathing!”
The pale skinned elf had a pair of blue shining eyes that started to glow as he recovered.
“Death Knight, my love,” said Zhugan, “Probably doesn’t need to.”
The ground around them was rumbling with increasing ferocity. This felt wrong. The city was already down. Now what?
A multitude of huge insectoid creatures erupted out of the earth, reinforcing those that were already circling above. They towered over people, with multiple eyes and mandibles, their numbers exacerbated by the sheer number of limbs that they brought to the fray. Arachnoid creatures of all sizes and shapes, casters wearing hoods that almost looked humanoid and some bulky warriors in heavy chitin armour, they all looked ready for battle.
“Nerubians.” muttered Tunril, swinging two great axes to literally cut an advancing hulk off at the knees. It flapped its remaining limbs in the air before falling in front of him, and he crushed its head with a firm stomp of his leading hoof.
“I hate Nerubians!” Mudija shouted, as he summoned raw electrical energy to shield himself from them.
“And Elves!” said Dacomos, who was using his daggers to carve up an overconfident nerubian soldier, who had strayed too far from the vanguard.
“And Paladins!” chipped in Zhugan, who was twirling an iron staff to keep his foes at bay.
“You hate everybody!” said Sidh, temporarily stowing her maces while she and Zhugan helped the elven Death Knight to his feet.
“Thank you for freeing me.” said the Death Knight politely. His hollow tones didn’t really clarify his true degree of gratitude. He retrieved a long metallic polearm from the shore, before gesturing towards the nerubian forces that surrounded the rocky beachhead. “Allow me to assist you with this rabble.”
Amongst the survivors from Dalaran was an Orcish veteran, sizing up the advancing forces in the sights of his long gun. When he spotted Mudija amongst those gathered on the shore, he pushed his way over to him.
“The Furious Fishmongers!” exclaimed the new arrival, clearly recognising the black crawfish motif on the old troll’s tabard, “I didn’t notice you in the city, are you here to help?”
The hunter frowned as he peered beyond the anglers and noticed a large iron platform of some kind, wedged into the rocks. Broken crates and untidy fishing nets were bobbing around it in the surf.
“You were already here,” he muttered. “Why is it you Fishmonkeys are never where you’re supposed to be?”
“Shut your yapping, Angorr!” barked Mudija, blasting a nerubian in its chittering face with a torrent of hot conjured lava, “You know we’re only here for the fish!”
Just as a gigantic tank of a stagshell was pushing the gathered defenders backwards, a sortie of stormrooks descended on the archipelago, their squat armoured riders blasting the monstrosity with volleys of azure lightning.
“Ooh, that was handy!” said Dacomos, admiring the excessive use of firepower.
The tide was quickly turned and the battle decided. The nerubians retreated back under the ground, to wherever they had come from.
“Let’s hope they stay down there,” said Tunril, looking uneasy, “We stay here, where we can see some sky!”
“Yeah,” said Mudija, “The last thing we need is to end up fighting in some desperate last stand, deep within Azeroth, fighting against an army of freaks who got too many legs!”
The five furious fishmongers stood together, mostly enjoying the calm after the battle, although Tunril looked more like he was sulking, now that it was all over.
The recently rescued death knight stood alongside them. Behind his skull mask, his icy blue eyes glowed fiercely, analysing the site of their victory.
Unbeknownst to those present, a second elf was magically watching the proceedings from many leagues away, beyond the Maelstrom, in the Broken Isles.
A much older male with long platinum hair, his flawless dark skin marked him as one of an ancient race, known as the Nightborne.
His fine golden robes were made from an expensive fabric, accented in red. He was sipping arcwine from a slender goblet - an exclusive blend that didn’t leave the confines of his opulent estate within Suramar City.
The elder placed his cup down, took hold of his scrying orb with both hands and trained his clear white eyes upon the visions within, attempting to view everything that his agent could see.
Beyond the immediate shore, to the north east, he could make out a massive stone tower that had been built atop a cliff, topped off with a huge tree. In the far distance, there were many grey mountains that appeared to have been rounded off somehow, as if they had been designed that way, rather than gone through the natural processes of erosion.
“So this is Khaz Algar,” said the elven mage, addressing his emissary in a voice that only he could hear, “Follow these Fishmongers, Xalaen. Represent the House Archonnoir.”
The Isle of Dorn, how interesting, he thought, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his armchair. I wonder what will happen next?
Feel free to dig around across the EU forums for older tales - they’re probably around somewhere!
Thanks to the usual suspects for the flagrant abuse of their characters.
This tale is dedicated to Marmot, long time friend and occasional member of the guild.
May your adventures long be associated with the smell of fish.
Mudi.