Get the Desktop App for Battle.net Now
- All your games in 1 place
- Log in once
- Automatic game updates
It always snowed in Kun-lai. Cold, windy and grey, yet never bleak. It seemed everything in Pandaria was fairly enriching, whether is was rain, sun or snow. This was what ran through Sals' mind, as he trekked up the Burlap trail to the Temple of the White Tiger.
The Temple was a marvel of stone, finely crafted and maintained over the centuries by the Pandaren. He pulled his fur cloak over himself, never having liked the cold, as he approached the main gate. Two Pandaren monks peered down at him as he passed, but otherwise left him be. The Temple was open to anyone seeking guidance, training or wisdom in their lives.
Having made it up the stairs, which seemed to take forever, the Trade Baron grumbled. He would've just droven his mechano-hog up the stairs, but apparently the Pandaren took offense to this, and was told not to again. For the fifth time. Seeing as this visit was important, he listened.
Once up top, Sals looked at the collection of shrines, terraces and stone houses that made up the Temple proper. He strode past a burning pit, as several Pandaren discussed with a few passing Grommles. Making his way into a stone house, he pushed past the thick leather curtain that acted as a door and found a seat deep inside. Before him sat his latest companion, Lorewalker Quan.
The venerable Pandaren sported a thick scar down his face, yet seemed to be constantly smiling, as if life never struck at him. He always told Sals he received the scar as a child, when he was attacked by a group of Hozen, but didn't seem to discuss much of his past with the goblin. Instead, he seemed eager for knowledge of the rest of Azeroth, of Outland and more. Sals removed his coat, revealing his leather business suit, made to repel the cold weather. He sighed, pulling out a large cigar, but thought better of it, stuffing it back into one of his many hidden pockets. Quan, grinning, pulled a kettle off the fire pit between the two, pouring out steaming hot tea.
"Thanks, it's cold out ther'." The Trade Baron eagerly took his cup, sipping the tea and relaxing. Quan watched him with interest.
"Trade Baron, you seem ten-" He began, before Sals cut him off.
"Salsbury, please. I'm not here on official duties." He leaned back, removing his top hat and placing it beside him. Every now and then, he stared at the hat, a strange look of dread and desperation on his face.
"Right, forgiveness. Salsbury. But you seem tense. You have been meditating, like I told you to?"
"Nah, I's can' seem ta focus. Every secon' ther's a sqwack from my radio, an' someone wan's somethin'."
"Yet this doesn't trouble you here, in the mountains. I've seen this device of yours, it works perfectly fine in the vacuum of space, let alone the mountains. So what troubles you? What distracts you so?"
Sals sighed, sipping more tea. He didn't really want to go into it, but seemed like he had little choice. Quan waited patiently, his robes neatly piled around his sitting form.
"Well....youse know o' tha' Horde an' Alliance, an' this war they's doin'."
"Yes, you are with the Horde, I believe, right?"
"Ya, well, somewha'. I's been tryin' ta make profit, an' care fer those I's...well, care fer. But since Theramore, since tha' escalations, it's been gittin' hard. I's had ta throw more o' my weight behin' tha' Horde, since tha' Alliance start'd attackin' my trade ships. But...."
He took another sip, as Quan waited once more. Sals didn't continue for several minutes, organizing his thoughts. Quan spoke up first.
"I see. You are troubled by this war. I imagine you have friends in the Alliance?"
"Wha'? No! I's don' deal wit em, in fac', I's git annoy'd by their overreactions. Everythin' tha' happens, hell, even this curren' war, was cause tha' Alliance have been pig head'd racis's tha' can' conceive o' a world tha' doesn' bow ta their design. I'm annoy'd though, because tha' Horde is no longer betta'. They's once were, but now, they's blindly launch emselves at tha' Alliance, an' take wha' lan' they's can."
Quan listened to the goblin, nodding solemnly.
"What do you plan to do about this then? If it troubles you so."
"Me? Why me? I's jus' make profit of o' these schmucks. Hell, I's ain' invest'd."
"Yes, perhaps. But your friends are, are they not?"
Sals paused, caught in the words. He thought of his fight with Nethal, not a week before. Absently, he moved to grab his hat, but flinched. Quan watched him like a hawk."What is in that hat?"
"That hat," He pointed at the top hat. "You reach for it, yet flinch. I noticed you doing this many times while here."
"Oh, this hat! Er,....it's jus' a hat. Nothin'...nothin' special with it."
"I see..." Quan raised an eyebrow, but said no more. The two continued to discuss topics on Pandaren fare, and Sals seemed to relax for the rest of the evening.
We're WANTED! That's right, the BMC has been tipped off to the Kor'kron, and chased out of Horde cities. But we will not stand for this. We will rise again.
In addition to our usual attempts to make money and profit, we are looking to undermine the kor'kron subtly. Just shadowy meetings and secret missions, but nontheless, we intend to slowly build up a resistance to the current Regime.
Well, as it stands, Booty Bay is now our headquarters. A den of scum and villainy, it's a dangerous place. Thieves abound, pirates and cutthroats stalk the back alleys and sea ways, and we now reside there, bringing in deals for items you can't get anywhere else, or offering support to situations that require a delicate touch.
Not all of us uild, and remains to be awesome.are known to work for the Blackmarket Cartel. Our name is wanted, but our people, walk among you.
Threats of violence. We take these seriously and will alert the proper authorities.
Posts containing personal information about other players. This includes physical addresses, e-mail addresses, phone numbers, and inappropriate photos and/or videos.
Harassing or discriminatory language. This will not be tolerated.