Melchisedech
01-07-2008, 02:27 PM
"Careful, lummox!" Melchisedech rapped the orc smartly in the small of the back with his staff. "If I have to re-order this slab, I'll have you carrying it from Orgrimmar on your back, without the benefit of a zeppelin!"
The priest seethed as the bevvy of orcs, trolls, and Tauren schlepped, dropped, bungled, and slid the slabs of marble down the creaky steps into the basement of the Tarren Mill Chapel, worrying over every corner cracked unceremoniously against every beam, step, wall, or doorframe imaginable.
The only thing these idiots haven't hit is one another. He grimaced as yet another crack appeared in his doorframe. I'll be fortunate if even a third of these slabs are usable.
And yet, as the last was placed and mortared over the rough dirt floor of the cellar, he was reluctantly forced to admit that he would only have to work around a single aberration. He paid the foreman, and even handed him a few extra coins for the trouble, though he doubted the laborers would see so much as a hint of a copper. Not his problem.
As the sun set, he lit several lanterns, hanging them from rusty hooks in the rafters. It would serve nicely. Already, the room had an air of solemnity. He plucked chalk from his pouch, marking lightly where ritualistic designs would be inlaid in silver and gold, by the finest craftsmen money could buy.
He smiled, until he patted his money pouch, found its supplies rapidly dwindling. He scowled, plucking a tally from one of his hastily assembled bookshelves. The notice from the Cartel indicated that his bank accounts were running dangerously slim. He needed more money.
He sat in his rickety chair, tapping his filed talons on the edge of the table. Where could he find finances in short order? When he was alive, he'd never had these problems. Money was literally flung at him, his needs and desires provided either free or at reduced cost by those adoring masses who thronged around his every movement.
His eyes widened, and he smiled. When I was alive. His finances must still be in accounts in Stormwind. The Lordaeron accounts were surely annihilated, and those that survived would have been destroyed by unscrupulous bankers who sought to line their own pockets.
But Stormwind...
He snatched quill, inkpot, and parchment from the table, began hastily scribbling a letter. It had been so long since he saw his parents. Surely they must miss their son...
The priest seethed as the bevvy of orcs, trolls, and Tauren schlepped, dropped, bungled, and slid the slabs of marble down the creaky steps into the basement of the Tarren Mill Chapel, worrying over every corner cracked unceremoniously against every beam, step, wall, or doorframe imaginable.
The only thing these idiots haven't hit is one another. He grimaced as yet another crack appeared in his doorframe. I'll be fortunate if even a third of these slabs are usable.
And yet, as the last was placed and mortared over the rough dirt floor of the cellar, he was reluctantly forced to admit that he would only have to work around a single aberration. He paid the foreman, and even handed him a few extra coins for the trouble, though he doubted the laborers would see so much as a hint of a copper. Not his problem.
As the sun set, he lit several lanterns, hanging them from rusty hooks in the rafters. It would serve nicely. Already, the room had an air of solemnity. He plucked chalk from his pouch, marking lightly where ritualistic designs would be inlaid in silver and gold, by the finest craftsmen money could buy.
He smiled, until he patted his money pouch, found its supplies rapidly dwindling. He scowled, plucking a tally from one of his hastily assembled bookshelves. The notice from the Cartel indicated that his bank accounts were running dangerously slim. He needed more money.
He sat in his rickety chair, tapping his filed talons on the edge of the table. Where could he find finances in short order? When he was alive, he'd never had these problems. Money was literally flung at him, his needs and desires provided either free or at reduced cost by those adoring masses who thronged around his every movement.
His eyes widened, and he smiled. When I was alive. His finances must still be in accounts in Stormwind. The Lordaeron accounts were surely annihilated, and those that survived would have been destroyed by unscrupulous bankers who sought to line their own pockets.
But Stormwind...
He snatched quill, inkpot, and parchment from the table, began hastily scribbling a letter. It had been so long since he saw his parents. Surely they must miss their son...