Orgrimmar, Sunday evening. “Half of this vial,” Doctor Alexander Thrax told me, holding out a dark grey liquid, and the person drinking it would forget the incident troubling me, together with the days around it.
[Editors note: This is the first article from our newest hire, Grofnog Grubhands, enjoy! -Hardhy]
The incident, as I had explained it, was a disagreement over the rules of a card game. An orc called Thud believed I had cheated - In reality we just forgot to coordinate and communicate our interpretations of the rules before engaging in the game. Anyway, he had big muscles, a bad temper and plans to commit physical violence upon me. I regarded this as a medical problem waiting to happen. Thrax, who described his work as powered by the miracles of science, regarded it as a question of dosage.
That was the most alarming purchase I made during the monthly market in the Drag on Sunday, though not the first. The market, said by attendees to take place on the first Sunday of each month, drew a thick crowd into a part of Orgrimmar that several visitors described as usually much quieter. Traders shouted over one another about steel, alchemy, artefacts, spell scrolls and food. Customers formed queues, broke into conversations and occasionally became part of somebody else’s sales demonstration.
I arrived hungry, which is a useful defence against buying a sword before supper.
My first stop was Oodles of Noodles, a Pandaren food cart run that evening by Mei Lien Rainsong. I ordered the wildfowl noodle soup and a Fighting Lager. Rainsong filled a bowl with fresh noodles, covered them in wildfowl broth, then added half an egg and several dumplings. The bowl and lager cost five silver.
It was hot, filling and served without an interrogation. Around me, customers worked through dragon-fire noodles, katsu udon and other bowls while the queue kept moving. One stall can do a great deal for diplomacy when everybody has broth in their mouth.
The first remedy for my looming encounter with Thud came from Milah at Tabbies and Stabbies, a trader making her first sale at a market of this size. She said she had bartered before in Vol’dun, but had not previously worked a gathering like this one.
I asked for an “oh-shit potion”. Milah translated this, correctly, as a healing potion and offered an old caravan recipe intended to help recovery from injury and blood loss. It would not work instantly. When I asked whether it could be drunk during an active beating, she said it might help so long as the orc did not crush my skull while I was drinking it.
That struck me as a fair limitation to disclose before purchase.
Milah first asked three silver for two red phials. Following a brief and entirely proportionate protest from me, she accepted two. The bottles would keep for years if they were not smashed, she said. She could not promise that they would keep me alive, but she did offer one guarantee:
“No worms, guaranteed!”
I bought them. Milah then told me they were her first sale, so I shouted an advertisement to the passing crowd on her behalf. It described the medicine as make-you-feel-better stuff, mentioned the good prices and repeated the worm guarantee. This is not the most refined language ever printed by The Lion’s Roar, but nobody in the Drag could claim the terms were hidden.
I left Milah smiling and went to see who else was not selling worms. A loud advertisement for the Tomb Forge caught my attention, but so did the queue at the Apothecarium. I joined the latter and watched it advance with the speed of a stunned kodo. At one point I reckoned I could buy three swords before reaching the counter, but did not risk losing my place.
Doctor Thrax greeted me shortly before nine and asked how he could help. I explained the dispute with Thud and asked first for a miracle, then for something that might stop the beating altogether. Thrax offered three broad approaches: endure it, fight back or heal afterwards.
I asked whether science could make Thud forget.
Thrax produced the dark grey amnesiac solution and advised giving him half the vial. When I asked for something to dull the pain in case this failed, he added a bright yellow “toughness elixir”, which he said would numb pain and make me sturdier. He referred to the other preparation as poison and charged four gold for the pair.
I ordered two of each. I explained that I am also married.
Thrax charged eight gold. I paid eight and a half, with the extra half intended to ensure he did not mention that I had failed to haggle. He wished me luck with my debt collectors and moved to the next customer. I later heard him identify himself as Doctor Alexander Thrax of the Royal Apothecary Society and a captain of the Phalanx, selling potions, poisons, elixirs and other alchemical goods through his Apothecarium.
No one asked my name, requested a healer’s recommendation or asked whether Thud had consented. Thrax had heard me propose putting the amnesiac into another person’s drink, and his response was to advise a quantity. I cannot confirm the contents or effects of any of the phials, and I did not test them (yet, but if you dislike this article, let me buy you a drink!). The exchange nevertheless occurred openly at a public market, for eight gold, after I had stated the intended use plainly. Orgrimmar as it should be!
By then I had two sensible healing draughts, two alleged memory-erasing preparations, two toughness elixirs and a remaining concern about what would happen if Thud objected before drinking anything. This finally brought me to the Tomb Forge, where Tyra Tombwarden had been advertising good steel, fair prices and custom work.
I first asked about a sword, but decided my marriage had not deteriorated that far. A shield seemed more practical, particularly against a rolling pin. Tombwarden suggested a buckler suited to someone of my stature. I nodded as though there were no difference between this and the magnificent full-sized shield beside it.
The trouble was concealment. Carrying a new buckler around the house might invite questions, so I asked for something resembling the lid of a cooking pot. Tombwarden priced the round steel buckler at two gold and fifty silver. I offered three if she would make it look used.
She took it to the anvil, struck several dents into the steel, then dragged a smaller hammer across it to add scratches. I proposed painting it blue at home. With that, it could pass for a pot lid to anyone who did not inspect the handle, the weight or the goblin crouching behind it.
Tombwarden took the three gold and wished me luck with the marriage. I wobbled away with the buckler while the market continued behind me, still crowded, still shouting and still selling almost any answer a worried customer could name. The red phials in my pocket came with a no-worm guarantee. The grey ones came with instructions for use.