"I can if they're takin' it away from us," the captain said.
The merchant nodded. "You know, they're not from here. They came from some other world, and the Burning Legion brought 'em here."
The first mate muttered, "Maybe they oughta go back where they came."
"Makes you wonder what Lady Proudmoore was thinking," Margoz said.
Erik frowned. At those words, the tavern suddenly got rather quiet. Lots of people had been muttering assent or disagreement, either with the sentiments expressed or the people expressing them.
But as soon as Margoz mentioned Jaina Proudmoore—worse, mentioned her in a disparaging manner—the place got quiet.
Too quiet. In the three years Erik had been a tavern owner, he learned that there were two times when you expected a fight to break out: when the place got too loud, and when it got too quiet. And the latter times usually brought on the really nasty fights.
Another soldier stood up next to the first one—this one was wider in the shoulders, and he didn't talk much, but when he did, it was in a booming voice that made the demon skull behind the bar rattle on its mount. "Don't nobody talk bad 'bout Lady Proudmoore 'less he wants to be livin' without teeth."
Swallowing audibly, Margoz quickly said, "I would never dream of speaking of our leader in anything but reverent tones, good sir, I promise." He gulped down more of the corn whiskey than it was advisable to drink in one sip, which caused his eyes to greatly widen. He shook his head a few times.
"Lady Proudmoore's been very good to us," the merchant said. "After we drove back the Burning Legion, she made us into a community. Your complaints are fair, Margoz, but none of it can be laid at the lady's feet. I've met a few wizards in my day, and most of 'em aren't fit to be scrapings off my sandals. But the lady's a good one, and you'll find no support for disparagements of her."
"It was never my intent to disparage, good sir," Margoz said, still sounding a bit shaky from his ill—advised gulp of corn whiskey. "But one must wonder why no trade agreements have been made to obtain this superior wood that these fine gentlemen have mentioned." He looked thoughtful for a second. "Perhaps she has tried, but the orcs would not permit it."
The captain swallowed a gulp of his ale, then said, "Perhaps them orcs told her to leave Northwatch."
"We should leave Northwatch," the merchant said. "The Barrens are neutral territory, that was agreed to from the beginning."
The soldier stiffened. "You're crazy if you think we're givin' that up."
Margoz said, "That is where the orcs fought Admiral Proudmoore."
"Yes, an embarrassment. As fine a leader as Lady Proudmoore is, that's how much of an idiot her father was." The merchant shook his head. "That entire sordid incident should be put out of our heads. But it won't be as long as—"
The captain interrupted. "If'n you ask me, we need to expand beyond Northwatch."
Sounding annoyed—though whether at the interruption or the sentiment, Erik neither knew nor cared—the merchant said, "Are you mad?"
"Are you? The orcs're squeezin' us out! They're all over the blessed continent, and we've got Theramore. It's been three year since the Burning Legion was sent off. Don't we deserve better than to be lower class in our own land—to be confined to one cesspool of a city—state?"
"Theramore is as fine a city as you will see in human lands." The soldier spoke the words with a defensive pride, only to continue in a more resigned tone. "But it is true that the orcs have greater territory. That is why Northwatch is essential—it allows us to maintain a defense beyond the walls of Theramore."
"Besides," the first mate said with a laugh into his ale mug, "the orcs don't like us there. That's reason enough to keep it, y' ask me."
"Nobody asked you," the merchant said snidely.
The other man at the bar—Erik had wandered down—bar a bit, and now saw that it was that bookkeeper who worked the docks—said, "Maybe someone should. The orcs act as if they own Kalimdor, and we're just visiting. But this is our home, too, and it's time we acted like it. Orcs aren't humans, aren't even from this world. What right do they have to dictate how we live our lives?"
"They have the right to live their lives, don't they?" the merchant asked.
Nodding, the soldier said, "I'd say they earned that when they fought the Burning Legion. Weren't for them…" He gulped down the remainder of his wine, then slid the mug toward Erik. "Get me an ale."
Erik hesitated. He had already started reaching for the grog bottle. This soldier had been coming into the Demonsbane ever since Erik opened the place, and he'd never drunk anything save grog.
But that three—year—long patronage had earned him the right not to be questioned. Besides, as long as he was paying, he could drink soapy water for all Erik cared.
"Fact is," the captain said, "this is our world, by right of birth. Them orcs are just guests in our home, and it's high time they started actin' like it!"
The conversation went on from there. Erik served a few more drinks, tossed a few mugs into the basin to be cleaned later, and only after he gave the merchant another ale did he realize that Margoz, who started the whole conversation, had left.
He hadn't even left a tip. Erik shook his head in disgust, the fisherman's name already falling out of his head.
But he'd remember the face. And probably spit in the bastard's drink next time he came in—having only one drink and then starting trouble. Erik hated troublemakers like that in his place. Just hated it.
More people started complaining about the orcs. One person—the bruiser next to the soldier—slammed his ale mug on the bar so hard that it spattered his drink on the demon skull. Sighing, Erik grabbed a rag and wiped it off.
There was a time when Margoz would have been too scared to walk the darkened streets of Theramore alone.
True, crime was not a major concern in so closed a community as Theramore—everyone knew most everyone else, and if they didn't, they knew someone else who did—so criminal acts were rare enough. Those that were committed were generally punished quickly and brutally by Lady Proudmoore's soldiers.
Still, Margoz had always been small and weak, and the big and strong tended to prey on the small and weak, so Margoz generally avoided walking around alone at night. You never knew what big and strong person was lurking to show how big and strong he was by beating up on a lesser target. Many times, Margoz had been that target. He soon learned that it was best to do what they said and make them happy in order to avoid the violence.
But Margoz no longer had that fear. Or any other kind of fear. Now he had a patron. True, Margoz had to do his bidding, also, but this time the reward was power and wealth. In the old days, the reward was not being beaten within an inch of his life. Maybe it was exchanging one type of gut—crippling fear for another, but Margoz thought this was working out better for him.
A salty breeze wafted through the air, blowing in off the port. Margoz inhaled deeply, the scent of the water invigorating him. He spoke at least partly true in the Demonsbane: he was a fisherman, though never a particularly successful one. However, he did not fight against the Burning Legion as he claimed, but instead came here after they'd been driven back. He'd hoped to have more opportunities here than he'd had at Kul Tiras. It wasn't his fault that the nets were substandard—they were all he could afford, but tell the dock authority that and see where it got you.
Where it got him, mostly, was beaten up.
So he came to Kalimdor, following the rush of people hoping to provide services for the humans who lived there under Lady Proudmoore. But Margoz hadn't been the only fisherman to ply his trade, nor was he anywhere near the best.