Moments later a screaming gaggle of gnomes came darting through after him, yelling every imaginable curse, and quite a few Gentyl had never imagined. She could hear Broodin's claws scrabble and sc!### across the flagstone floor in the kitchen to no avail and the scratching noise was followed by a loud crash as he slid through stacks of crates.
"The fel?" Gentyl jumped up and ran to the kitchen after the furious gnomes. Disco's alarm bots that were set to go off any time Gentyl entered the kitchen went off and she was soon surrounded by dozens of flashing red lights and insufferable blaring, beeping, whirring bots. "Damn him to the lowest level of the nethers," she muttered while trying to destroy the offending bots. Twelve pulverized bots later, the remainder decided, wisely, to retreat to the hole in the cabinet door that led to the elevator to Disco's quarters somewhere beneath the tower. Between Disco's dozens of tunnels and Iecias innumerable tunnels, it's a wonder the tower didn't disappear in a cloud of dust, sinking into the earth, never to be seen again. Magic may have been the only thing holding it up. For all she knew, the tower might actually be floating on top of a deceptively thin layer of dirt.
Broodin ran to her and hid behind her as the gnomes closed in on him. One of them grabbed the boot while the others beat him over the head to make him let go. Neither the druid nor the gnome was giving up and the inevitable happened. The boot tore in half sending rhinestones and sequins flying through the air.
"Sepha," the gnome with one sequined boot on his foot and a half of one in his hand. "Destroying priceless fashion is against every law of the land. I demand you destroy that cur immediately!"
Gentyl frowned. "Are cats curs?"
The other gnomes surrounded her and joined in the protest, demanding Broodin's death. Broodin faded from sight, the boot still in his mouth. He sneaked out of the kitchen, but was followed by a trail of sequins and rhinestones that were still falling loose from the mangled boot.
"I'll buy you some new boots and I'll find him some old boots to chew on."
The gnome humphed. "Those are Rolf Lauren boots. It takes months to get a pair made even if you had the money which..." he sniffed in self righteous indignation, "I highly doubt you do."
"I will replace your boot."
"I demand you punish him," another gnome yelled.
"Cut off his tail!"
"I'm not cutting his tail off."
"Then he would be a bobcat."
The gnomes groaned at her pun. "You are so not amusing," one said.
"Cut off his tail and sell him. Get rid of him this instant. Modas buys slaves. Sell him to them."
"I can't do that either."
"Why not?" they chorused, obviously quite in love with the idea of a tailless Broodin being sold to Modas.
"Because then I'd have to wholesale him because he can't be retailed."
They glared at her.
"Sorry. Is that boot really that important?
"It certainly is! We are getting ready to revive the Fashion Police and we simply must look our best. Those boots match my eyes perfectly. Perfectly I say." He stomped a small, bare foot.
"Oh, Light. Not the Fashion Police again."
((So, this is the story. Years ago Pia had two gnome alt guilds. Yes, that's when Gen was collecting gnomes hardcore. We had Gnome Depot, which had the Fashion Police gnomes, and Mozzarella Mafia. The Mafia was, obviously, our little gang of thug gnomes. Gnome Depot just tended to do what gnomes do best, stir up trouble. The group of Fashion Police gnomes walked around Stormwind critiquing fashion and woe be to you if you weren't accessorized properly.
We're going to revive the Fashion Police. Yes they really do give out tickets if you are particularly unfashionable. Be looking for them in a city near you.
Horde, it might be fun if someone started up a goblin group of Fashion Police. It's silly, stupid roleplay, but it's fun and it doesn't take much effort other than just outfitting your char fashionably and bringing a sense of humor.))