Nerrok slumped heavily into his desk chair in his office in The Slow Blade, the last of the week's business signed off on. The shop was empty; even Kareth had taken off for the night, extinguishing most of the braziers on his way out, save for the one in this room. The stack of paper he'd had to look through was a least two feet high, not a millimeter shorter.
“They should invent a pen...Shaped like a handgun. Maybe then it wouldn't feel so weird holding one this long...”, he snarled, sitting up in his chair just long enough to pour himself another glass of room-temperature bourbon. The expensive sipping whiskey felt good as it burned its way down his throat, while he again slumped into his chair, running a hand through his sharply-trimmed beard.
His eyes slid over the surface of his desk; it was cluttered, though neat enough in his own little way: none of the bullets, daggers and gun parts were resting on important paperwork to get them greasey, for example. His gaze fell on a small, open notepad, the one he'd scribbled notes on when speaking with Kormok and Shame after the wedding crowd had dispersed earlier this evening. It narrowed as it focused in on the names he'd recorded...Trying to imagine what faces went along with them. He grunted, and took another sip from his glass. Those details would come to light soon enough, he wagered.
He recalled the wedding he'd attended: It was a small, pleasant, beautiful ceremony. Almost everyone there seemed happy, and if they didn't, well, it wasn't really his business to find out why. He was glad he got to clear the air with the groom...He'd had a run-in with Mr. Snakewrithe a few nights ago and things didn't really end on amicable terms. Rough nights and important questions left unanswered made Nerrok's fuse particularly short and the Forsaken was in the wrong place at the wrong time, when it had burned out. He accepted the offered apology, though, thank goodness, and the couple seemed to enjoy their present on behalf of the company. For someone that only drank once in a blue moon, Krelle had pretty good taste in booze, Nerrok had to admit.
Thinking further on the wedding, it amazed him how pretty a place Silverpine could be despite the fact the territory was being continually disputed, war and strife commonplace amongst the trees. Not there, though. Not then. For that hour or so, however long the ceremony lasted, everything was right in the forest. Pity it couldn't last, he thought, growling quietly as he took another sip.
He always worried, when Krelle went over there, because of the violence. The Tears were a capable lot, and he genuinely enjoyed most of their company, which was a rare thing for him...but no one can expect every contingency. He wanted to slap himself for letting that slip in front of Kormok and Shame. She might look young but she'd proven again and again she was smart and tough as she needed to be to get by just fine. Years ago when he'd first signed the papers with her, perhaps that worry was justified, but probably not anymore. Like he'd said earlier in the evening, Krelle had more than one shadow. Nerrok's eyes widened as a simple, effective solution dawned on him: Get back into the forge and craft Reims a badass dagger with which to stab more people, more often, more lethally. It was the least he could do for the guy after looking after Krelle so diligently, for so long.
Nerrok drained the rest of his bourbon and stuffed the cork back into the bottle with a satisfied smack of his lips, sitting up straight in his chair. A hand scooped up the notepad on his desk, pocketing it. He'd have to get this info over to Vonnacht and his boys on the other side of the fence. They'd probably have better luck beating the bushes than anyone Horde-side could. He stood up and made his way toward the door, slinging his rifle hurriedly over one shoulder. If he hussled he could catch the zep to Thunder Bluff and get there in time to give Ajeera a smack on the bum and tuck A'Rok in for the night. He was just about to pour a jug of water onto the brazier in his office before he stopped, a sudden realization hitting him as he felt lighter than he should have. He set the jug down and walked back to his desk, eyeing scattered assortment of small-arms ammunition lying on its thick, pockmarked wooden surface.
It didn't take him long to find it; he reached down and plucked a single rifle round from the bunch, bringing it up to his face to examine it closely. It looked older, and dirtier, than the other bullets on the desk. Stained with time, and caked with murderous intent, this single bullet had traveled with him many places, over many years. It had been with him through the Dark Portal, and to the frozen wastes of Northrend. He'd fired hundreds of thousands of bullets, at hundreds of thousands of faces, but he'd saved this one. He turned it in his fingers until he could see the 5-letter word he'd etched into it long ago: “Booth”, though half of the T and most of the H were missing. He mused on how silly etching anything into a bullet was...It'd screw up how it was supposed to travel along the rifling inside of a gun's barrel, and throw your accuracy to shit. Though if he ever got the opportunity to use this one, he wagered, accuracy wouldn't really be an issue. You didn't have to aim when the barrel was inside your target's mouth.
He carried the bullet with him as he again went to extinguish the brazier. As a Tiger Master he often had to decide which problems to keep and which ones to throw away...which ones to handle himself and which ones to delegate, for the simple fact there were so damned many of them. Things needed to get done. Goods had to be delivered. People had to get payed. Fools had to get smoked. That wasn't an option here, though.
“I think I'll hold on to this one...”, he murmured, pocketing the bullet as he closed the shop door.
