Spotlight: Tarquin

Tarquin ap Danwyrith by *JRinaldi on deviantART

The Pig and Whistle is full of people tonight: A Northern music session is drawing a crowd to the loft, while the back tables are full of smoke and schemers. Bricu is sitting to the right of the head of the table. The chair is empty, of course, and despite the crowd none of the regulars go near it. Bricu waves you over and invites you to have a seat…

Strewth, yeh want ta know ’bout the boss? That’s his chair yeh know. He’ll be in later. Till then…

I first met Tarquin ap Danwyrth when I was King o’Stormwind. I was three sheets ta the wind, stumblin’ down the main thoroughfare o’the Trade Quarter when I heard him yell after some crazy bugger ’bout bein’ some sorta fuckin’ dragon or some such nonsense. I turned ’round–hopin’ ta actually see a dragon–an’ instead I see this lanky wanker o’a bloke, leanin’ up against Pestle’s like he was supportin’ it with his own ego. I can’t remember rightly if he was in twill, but he sure as shite was wearin’ a bloody brilliant hat.

The bloke he was yellin’ at stood rightly Seven Feet tall, but with each shout, the nutter slouched more an more. Now, I knew this nutter. I’d crossed words, an swords, with ‘im in the past. I didn’t feel any sorta loyalty ta ‘im. I didn’t feel any pity either. I wanted ta see if the lanky blonde bloke had stones. So I shouted after ‘im. I said:

“Oi, shut yer mouth yeh great blonde poofda!”

The nutter stood a wee bit taller fer a moment. Me great blonde poofda didn’t miss a beat. He shouted after the nutter–by the light, the nutter shrank a good foot–an’ then shouted after me:

“Shut your bloody mouth you red-haired sheep fucker.”

Please notice, I’m translatin’ his accent fer yeh. Accoridin’ ta Southrons, Northman’s accents sound like one part cotton-mouth, one part gentry an one part drunk, topped off with clipped tones o’a pipe player bein’ pelted by rotten fruit. Personally, I think we speak perfect common–its yeh other bastards that mispronounce words.

Anyway, we’d exchanged our first witty banter by shoutin’ down the streets. I think I shouted that he shouldn’t talk ta his king that way… It doesn’t really matter. We eventually both made route ta the Pig fer a drink. Turns out he knew me “nephew” Uthas, an’ that he ran with a crew from Gilneas: The Greymane Exiles. I don’t remember whose colors I wore at that point. I know I wasn’t drunk enough ta be slummin with the Cats, nor was I with the Heroes… That doesn’t matter either. He told me he’d get me a job here an’ there. I told him his majesty welcomed the work.

Turns out the Oathbreaker–that’s a story fer a different time– was good ta his word. I ran with their crew a few times ta the Molten Core. Once ta the Lair. We did a few odd jobs ’round the world. Never went ta Stratholme t’gether. That was ta painfull fer us both…

Then me nephew went wonky. An’ bloodthristy. He sent assassins ta e’ery big lights damned hero in the known world–Alliance an Horde–an fled ta his camp. That helped shatter the Greymanes. Hell, it shattered a lot o’folk. But we rallied enough ta send me nephew an’ his flock North without their bloody boats. A victory is a victory, even if it leaves ashes in yer mouth.

Once Tarq an’ the remains o’his crew came back south, ta the Pig, they started up with the Riders. I wasn’t at the plannin’ session–or maybe I was an’ I was King o’Stormwind again–but he handed me a piece o’paper incorporatin’ the Black an’ Red. Now last time I signed a contract, I enlisted with Lordaeron’s Army. This time, I signed up with a merc group. I thought it o’er fer a second, demanded ta have a say in what booze we bought fer the Pig, an’ signed me life o’er.

That’s our boss. He’s a quick wit with a plan. I never saw his knife–lest he was workin–but I can assure yeh at least one is in reach at all times. Even when he’s sleepin, he’s got one nearby. He’s a Northman who has done his share o’work fer the Crown–why else do yeh think Shaw has a hard-on fer ‘im?–but now works fer his crew. If yeh want ta see him, he’s upstairs. That session that’s goin’ on? He’s the fiddler. The blonde next ta him–the one singin’–is me sister-in-law. Turns out he’s not a poofda after all…

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