Stormwind City, late Tuesday evening.

There are, in my experience, a number of ways a dissatisfied reader may express their displeasure with a newspaper.

Some write letters. Some cancel subscriptions. Some loudly explain - usually at great length and in the middle of the street - that the press has “lost its way” before revealing that they have only read the headline. Tsk.

Then there are the Togglecogs.

Shortly after midnight, outside Stormwind City Hall, I was approached by a male gnome, who appeared to be in a state of considerable agitation over recent coverage concerning his family (the recent article about the bombings at the Shady Lady I assume). Pointing directly at me, he shouted:

“YOU PUT THE TOGGLECOGS IN A BAD LIGHT WITH YOUR PAPERS!”

When I asked, with what I still consider admirable restraint, “Did I?”, the situation escalated.

Rather than clarifying which particular sentence, paragraph, implication, allegation, description, metaphor, or entirely fair observation had caused offence, he instead produced dynamite, lit it, and launched himself towards me.

In the short span of time available, instinct and arcane training took over. I raised a magical barrier around myself and, I should add, around the nearby tree. Some readers may question this priority. Those readers have clearly never had to explain to Stormwind municipal authorities why a perfectly innocent tree had been reduced to splinters during a murder-by-suicide-gnome-family grievance.

Moments later, the explosive detonated.

The Togglecog was killed instantly. His final words, as reported at the scene (by me if there were doubts), were:

“FOR THE TOGGLECOGS.”

I was thrown back against the tree by the force of the blast, but survived with what appeared at first to be no more than shock, dizziness, and a painful blow to the head. The tree also survived - one must celebrate small victories when they present themselves.

Several bystanders approached the scene, attempting to determine what had happened and whether anyone besides the bomber had been injured. Jerrin Wells of the King’s Guard Battalion was among those who checked on me, asking whether I was “okay-ish”, which under the circumstances was perhaps the most precise medical category available.

I was, at that moment, sitting in a planter among soil, plant debris, flowers, and pieces of what had very recently been an angry gnome.

“Ew,” I noted at the time, in the calm and balanced tone readers expect from this publication. “There is gnome all over.”

The remains of the Togglecog was scattered across the point of detonation. One witness, upon inspecting the scene more closely, promptly gagged and had to step away to vomit. This was understandable. There are certain sights for which no amount of civic resilience, battlefield experience, or exposure to Stormwind nightlife can truly prepare a person.

Questions quickly turned to motive. Wells summarised the situation with admirable efficiency:

“Togglecog unhappy with your writing tried to kill you the way they knew best.”

I confirmed that this did appear to be the substance of the matter. The gnome had openly accused The Lion’s Roar of placing the Togglecogs “in a bad light” and immediately followed that accusation by attempting to murder the newspaper’s editor (aka me!) through explosive self-destruction.

This may not, strictly speaking, improve the family’s public image. Then again, in some circles it may.

Nor is this the first time that matters connected to the Togglecogs have ended in detonation. Wells recalled a previous incident in which he had, by his own account, grabbed an explosive gnome “like a football”, carried him towards the harbour, and kicked him skyward before the unfortunate individual detonated in what was described as “flesh fireworks.” He further noted that another previous case had involved what was apparently a plant creature rigged to explode.

At this point, one begins to wonder whether the Togglecog family tree is less a tree and more a fuse.

Another bystander asked whether this was a common occurrence. The answer, uncomfortably, is a yes.

Medical attention was offered at the scene. A half-elf in religious clothes examined the injury to my head and applied healing, mending the damage and warning me to remain cautious for signs of concussion.

This reporter accepted the treatment gratefully and, in a rare demonstration of solemn cooperation with medical authority, even removed his hat.

The advice was simple: seek further aid if any lingering effects appeared, as brain injuries may be serious. I agreed. After all, I need my brain. It is where most of the adjectives are kept.

Wells, meanwhile, contacted someone to request that the area be cleaned. Given the state of the street, this was not a minor matter. The phrase “crime scene” does not quite capture the particular logistical challenge posed by an assailant who has turned himself into both evidence and surface coating.

For now, this reporter is alive, the tree is intact, and the street outside City Hall has once again borne witness to the kind of incident that makes one consider whether “being a journalist” should come with hazard pay, blast insurance, and a small shovel.

The Lion’s Roar will continue to report.

Preferably from a slightly greater distance from gnomes carrying dynamite. If possible.