Muzzlecrank had always thought of himself as a people person. Ratchet was a neutral port—goblins as a rule did not take sides in the numerous conflicts that ravaged the land—and as a result, pretty much every type of creature you were like to find in the world came through at some point or other. Elves, dwarves, humans, orcs, trolls, ogres, even the occasional gnome—it was the crossroads of Kalimdor. Muzzlecrank always liked seeing the different interactions, whether it was dwarves shipping construction materials to elves, elves shipping jewelry to humans, orcs shipping crops to elves, humans shipping fish to ogres, or trolls shipping weapons to pretty much anyone.
Lately, though, things had gotten somewhat less pleasant. Especially between the humans and the orcs—which was problematic insofar as the most common patrons of Ratchet were those two races. Ratchet was right at Durotar's southernmost border, and was the nearest port to Theramore as well.
Just last week, he had had to break up a fight between an orc sailor and a human merchant. The former had apparently stepped on the latter's toe and the human took umbrage. Muzzlecrank had been forced to break them up before the orc beat the human into a pulp, which hadn't been any fun at all. Muzzlecrank preferred to get into fights with vagabonds and drunks because they were kind enough not to fight back. Fighting—mad orcs were another kettle of grease entirely, and Muzzlecrank preferred to stay as far away from them as possible.
Fights like that usually meant that he had to draw his net—gun, and every time he did that he ran the risk of someone figuring out that he was really bad at using the stupid thing. Oh sure, he could fire it easily enough—any idiot could do that; just point and pull the trigger, and a compressed air burst sent a net out to snare whatever you were shooting at—but his aim was lousy, and the net always missed the target and usually made a big mess. Luckily, the site of a bruiser pointing a gun with a giant muzzle at you was enough to stop most fights—or at least slow them down long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
Since then, no more actual fights had broken out, but there were a lot more terse words and heated exchanges happening. It had gotten to the point where many of the merchant ships were now coming into Ratchet with armed escorts—the orc vessels with warriors from Orgrimmar, the human ships with soldiers from Northwatch.
Muzzlecrank's beat was the northernmost section of the pier, a section that had twenty berths. As Muzzlecrank wandered down the wooden—planked pier, he saw that fifteen of the twenty docks were filled, but things were mostly quiet. This was a huge relief. The sun shone down on his face, warming him in his mail armor. Perhaps today would be a good day.
After a few minutes, the sun went away. Muzzlecrank glanced up to see that several clouds had rolled in, and it looked likely to rain soon. Muzzlecrank sighed—he hated rain.
As he neared the end of the dock, he saw a human and an orc having an animated conversation. Muzzlecrank didn't like the look of this. Animated conversations between humans and orcs these days tended to end in violence.
He moved in closer. The human's boat was docked right next to the orc's, in the two northernmost berths. Muzzlecrank recognized the orc as Captain Klatt of the Raknor, a merchant who served as the dealer of crops from the farmers in the Razor Hill region. Though he could not remember the human's name, Muzzlecrank knew his ship was a fishing trawler called the Passion's Reward for some odd reason. Muzzlecrank had never understood human naming conventions. Klatt had named the Raknor after his brother, who died fighting the Burning Legion, but he hadn't the first clue what the name Passion's Reward had to do with anything, least of all fishing.
The exchange was a common one. Farming was difficult in the Dustwallow Marshes where humans had settled on Kalimdor, but there was plenty of fishing. Razor Hill, meanwhile, was too far inland for fishing to be practical—so humans often traded their surplus catches for the orcs' surplus crops.
"I will not trade you my finest salmon for this refuse!"
Muzzlecrank sighed. Obviously today trade was not going to go well.
Klatt stomped his foot. "Refuse? You lyin' little twerp—these are our best crops!"
"A sad commentary on your farming," the human said dryly. "That fruit looks as though it was stepped on by an ogre—smells like it, too."
"I ain't gonna stand here and be insulted by a human!"
The human drew himself up to full height, which made him come up to the orc's shoulders. "You're not the one being insulted here. I've brought you my finest catch, and you offer me the bottom of the barrel in exchange."
"Your salmon ain't fit for mulch!"
Too late, Muzzlecrank noticed that the human was armed with what looked like a longsword—while Klatt was weaponless. Assuming the human was skilled in the blade's use, it negated whatever advantage Klatt's size gave him in a fight.
"And your fruit isn't fit for dogs!"
"Coward!"
Muzzlecrank winced at Klatt's words. «Coward» was the biggest insult any orc could deliver.
"Filthy greenskin! I've half a mind to—"
Whatever the human had half a mind to do was lost as Klatt charged him. The human was unable to unsheathe his longsword in time, and the two of them rolled across the dock, Klatt pummeling the human.
Wondering how, precisely, he was supposed to break this up, he was relieved of immediate action by the human's escort. Three guards wearing the plate armor that signified they were part of Lady Proudmoore's forces leapt out of the Passion's Reward and pried Klatt off the captain.
However, Klatt would not be dissuaded by a mere three humans. He punched one in the stomach, grabbed the second, and threw him into the third.
Now the orcs were starting to move off the Raknor to join in the fray. Muzzlecrank realized he had to do something before this got out of hand.
Hefting his net—gun and hoping with all his heart and soul that he wouldn't be called upon to use it, he bellowed, "All right, that's it! Cut it out, and I mean now, or all'a ya are in deep, unnerstan'?"
Klatt, who was about to jump on the human captain, stopped in his tracks. His target, blood gushing from his nose and mouth, cried, "He attacked me!" The human's voice had an odd twang to it that was probably the result of damage to his nose.
"Yeah, well, you deserved it, goin' back on your word like that," Klatt said with a sneer.
"That's no reason to kill a man!"
"I said, cut it out!" Muzzlecrank spoke before Klatt could respond. "Both'a ya are under arrest. You either come peaceable—like or in pieces, makes me no never mind." He looked at both the orc warriors and the human soldiers. "This here's goblin country, an' that means I give the orders here, got it? So that gives ya two choices—help me put these two in the hoosegow till an arbiter can take the case, or get your keisters outta Ratchet. Your choice."
Technically, Muzzlecrank's words were true. He had deliberately deepened his voice in the hope that it would give his words an air of authority. But he also knew that he had no way of stopping any of these people if they decided to ignore him and continue fighting. If he shot the net—gun, he'd just get one of the tether posts covered in a net or something.
To his relief, one of the humans said, "We will do as you wish."
Apparently, the orcs weren't about to be seen to be violating the goblins' sovereignty on Ratchet when the humans were, and so one of the orcs quickly said, "So will we."
As he led Klatt and the bleeding human back to the mainland, Muzzlecrank tried to get his breathing under control before he hyperventilated. He wasn't meant for this kind of stress. He wondered what other job he'd be good at. Being a bruiser had definitely lost its appeal.