There are moments when you stumble into a scene so quintessentially Kul Tiran that your quill almost dips itself in the ink out of sheer instinct.
A grey sky. A gallows square. A bucket of spoiled tomatoes.
And in the center of it all—Philip Madloff, Vice Chairman of the Royal Bank of Stormwind, neck deep in public disgrace and fruit juice.
It was Thursday.
I had just finished my fourth lukewarm cup of Boralus street tea when I noticed the crowd. Not your usual fishmonger mob or revolutionary poets this time. No, this was something special.
Justice, the crowd cried—or possibly just “more cabbage!”
Lieutenant Commander Connor Pickens of the Proudmoore Admiralty was already on the scene, guiding Madloff with practiced hands into the unforgiving embrace of the stocks. With all the flair of a man who’s strapped a few too many to this particular wooden accessory, he explained the charges.
Witness intimidation. Twice. In a murder case.
One of the victims? A gnome, allegedly held up against a wall and berated for doing what most folks consider civic duty: talking to the guards.
The other? A coroner, paid for “sensitive information.” What kind of sensitive information, you ask? Oh, just the kind that helps a murderer fake her death with a swapped corpse. You know. The usual.
According to Pickens, the whole affair began when a suspect fled Stormwind—accused of murdering a crown agent—and ended up scrubbing dishes in Boralus. Then another maid turned up dead. One cremation, one switched identity, and a scandal later, and the only person not behind bars was Mr. Madloff… until now.
“Ignorance is not a defence,” said Pickens, his voice sharp as a naval sabre. “He aided a fugitive through intimidation and bribery. His actions muddied the case.”
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I asked him why he did it, to which Madloff—blinking through tomato pulp and a splatter of unidentifiable melon—insisted, “I was forced! But none of these murlocs seem to grasp it.”
One could argue a few things here. That perhaps “murlocs” was not the best term to endear oneself to a local crowd. That stocks in Boralus are more accurate than lie detectors. Or that being pelted with cabbages is the kind of justice Stormwind’s courtrooms just can’t compete with.
I gave him a chance to explain himself, but he declined, at least for now.
Captain Brineburn himself made an appearance, leaning heavily on a still-healing leg, eyeing Madloff as one might eye week-old herring.
While fruit pelted the banker it was revealed by Pickens that Stormwind’s own authorities had—brace yourself—cremated the switched corpse, making any chance of determining cause of death go up in literal smoke.
What did Madloff get? A stint in the stocks, some lashes, a hundred hours of community service, and a reputation now stickier than Boralus dock sludge.
As the fruit barrage intensified, I asked him one last question:
“Why did you do it, Mister Madloff?”
His answer: “It doesn’t matter...”
But it
does matter. Because for all the talk of justice, of wrongs and rights, and bureaucrats with better suits than morals, there’s something deeply theatrical—if not cathartic—about seeing a banker in the stocks getting beaned by a cabbage.