Cult of the Malformed Fork Posts

I hired help. I had grown weary of my search, the far corners of Creation held no clue as to his whereabouts. Only through a tenuous link to his being was I certain he remained living.

In Orgrimmar I crossed paths with a goblin keen to offer me any number of questionable services. I declined all of them save one. I parted ways with fifty gold and magically imparted a description of Squire to my hireling.

While the goblin, Soosh or Sush I cannot recall, left on my imparted Quest, I retired to one of the newer drinking establishments.

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Feralas, while pretty, was a bust. I moved onward. North into Desolace. I didn’t stop there, a cursory glance from the air told me everything I needed to know. Squire wouldn’t have come here, the grey sandy plain hid no secrets and certainly offered no adventure to a small orc boy such as Squire.

North of Desolace lay Night Elf territory. Alliance dogs prowled the forests and mountains ever vigilant. A territory I didn’t care to visit. I invoked the magicks necessary and removed myself to the Swamp of Sorrows. Days passed as I drank myself into a stupor while I considered the options.

A passing goblin merchant mentioned seeing an orc boy wandering north, beyond the Badlands. So I took to carpet and rode north. Over the swamp’s thick miasma and creeping foliage. On the coastline, at the edge of the swamp I passed Bogpaddle. A goblin ‘village’ teeming with business and activity. On the shoreline just outside town I spied a party. Mental note was made to visit this venue once i’d found Squire. He always was one for a good party.

North into Badlands, along the mountainous cliffs that faced the sea, I rode. Wind whipped my face and lashed my body, chastising me for my search. My thoughts darkened with the weather and I fought to remain focused before the oncoming melancholy I was feeling.

I rode north along the coastline. I didn’t need to venture inland to the Badlands. If I thought Squire wasn’t in Desolance for it’s barrenness, then I could be assured he wasn’t in the Badlands. A dry bowl-shaped valley teeming with hostile wildlife and ogres. Kargath was the only refuge to one such as myself and Squire was smart enough to know better than venturing someplace so dangerous.

So I rode North, into the Hinterlands..

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I wandered amongst Feralas for some time. I was quite drunk on Cherry Grog so it’s difficult to say just how long. Days.. hours. Time itself blurred in front of me as though I were moving abnormally quickly through a painfully slowed world.

In that time I searched high and low. I’d given up my search, but not until after visiting the Ogre’s who call Dire Maul their home. Their leader, an understanding gentleman, suggested that he had seen no mention of a ‘small orc boy named Squire’. I made sure to describe his delicate hands and his immaculate appearance, the manner in which he bravely takes down my dictation.

“Nope. No see orc boy. Plenty orc. Kill few.”

I thanked the Ogre King, shared some of my Cherry Grog. We commented on it’s rich flavor for some time before I succumbed to the booze.

Hours or days.. I cannot tell. I awoke and resumed my search. It was apparent Squire wasn’t in Feralas. I know for a fact that Squire is terrified of Ogres and most things bigger than him and he has hay-fever. Feralas was teeming with plants and animals far bigger than even myself and not one of them being hypo-allergenic.

No, Feralas was a bust. I moved on.

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I searched for days. Well, just over 12 hours. I couldn’t find the little bastard anywhere. Squire was missing.

My journey took me to Gadgetzan, recently an oceanfront property thanks to Deathwings’ manifestation and general unpleasantness. While I couldn’t locate my faithful companion, I did happen upon some friendly goblins who traded coin for information. One suggested I check the local ruins, Zul’Farrak, and the other suggested they’d seen him heading south towards Uldum.

Taking their suggestion, I headed West. Near the edge of Tanaris, nestled into the mountains along the bowl-shaped hole we call Un’Goro crater lay Zul’Farrak. It’s dry, it’s unpleasant and most importantly, it’s full of insane troll cultists all paying continuued homage to ancient deities.

They were no help.

I happened upon a fellow elf. A warlock calling herself Simonna. She graciously accompanied me through the ruins as I turned over various stones and unearthed several graves. She was most helpful in keeping me company and spent much of the time checking each corpse for clues.

In the end, her bag was full of ‘not clues’ and practically bulging with uselessness. It didn’t matter, I was there for one thing only and he wasn’t present.

Having sated my curiosity, we rode South on a rocket of goblin design. Our keen eyes scanned the horizon and sandy dunes for sign of my loyal assistant, Squire, to no avail.

At her request, I dropped her off near an encampment of pirates she suggested might know more.

They weren’t any help either.

And once again she checked the bodies for clues as I sated my frustration. And again, her bag seemed bulging at the seams with ‘not clues’.

I bid her good day and departed on my finely woven carpet, heading West. A nearby encampment of goblins failed to provide direction yet escaped my annoyance with finely crafted Cherry Grog. I thanked them, bought some grog and headed North.

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