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Level 25. The Defias Brotherhood is an evil group of assassins, thieves, and pirates that are hostile to the Alliance. They dwell in the rural areas of the Kingdom of Stormwind, mostly that of Elwynn and Westfall — both of them are areas not easily protected by the Army. [more]

Once again, I've leveled up. I suppose I should feel some measure of accomplishment. I don't. But whatever. The real reason I'm posting this is to let you know I'm still here, and to see who really cares. I haven't posted a blog in ages, and I don't use the forums much, but I still log in here every day to see what's up.

So, comment if you care to. Give me some ideas for new blogs. Or don't. Whatever. I just got off work; it's too early in the morning for thinking.

I do have a rant/opinion article I wrote on offensive language a while back. I might post that if anyone's interested in the discussion.

Once upon a time there was a castle. You might imagine it in the High Mountains, surrounded by molten lava and steaming volcanoes. Inside of it there is a frightened princess and, holding her at bay, a fire-breathing dragon. You can only guess the princess is blonde and ditsy. She awaits the rescue of a daring prince - dashing, with long hair and blue eyes. You know this because you've read the stories.

But this isn't a story, and this castle was nothing of the sort. In truth, it wasn't even a castle. It was a single tower on a grassy hill in the Prairie Lands. And there were no fire-breathing dragons here. Everyone knows dragons don't exist and that, if they did, they wouldn't breathe fire.

What was in this castle was happy and young and very much afraid of the dark. It had pale skin and a freckled face, a nose on which rested a thick pair of spectacles. It wasn't dashing. And its eyes were green under a head of shortly-cropped red hair. Can you guess what it was?

His name was Newt, and he was the Prince of Mythworld. He was scared of women and had every intention to stay in his tower for the rest of his life.

- - - - -

Lana arrived in the Central Domain at high noon. There was already a crowd gathering in the Main Square. Over the noise and shuffling of the courtyard, she caught sight of a slim figure stepping up to the podium. It was a dainty thing, its hair blonde and - no doubt - eyes blue. Lana knew the type. It was the Princess.

Well, at least, the woman who intended to be princess. Lana had heard rumors. This woman - whom Lana knew as Shelly - was said to be from the Eastern Domain, the daughter of an aging king. Her older brother was happily married and planned to take over the King's Domain within the next few years. That left Shelly in the background as a royal family member. And, from what Lana could gather, Shelly wasn't the background type.

Lana pushed her way to the front of the crowd as the princess began to speak. With little surprise, she noticed the crowd was made up entirely of men. Young men in particular, though the occasional withered old coot could be seen gawking at the princess's unashamedly low-cut dress. Lana herself found the apparel rather distasteful. As she reached the front of the crowd, she gave one of the old men a mean glance. He looked ashamed for a moment. Then he went back to gawking.

Lana reached the podium and stood in a semicircle with the men, her arms crossed. The crowd around her edged away nervously. It was rare to see a woman at a gathering like this. They probably assumed her to be an angry housewife, come to drag her husband back home right and proper. Or perhaps they'd heard rumors as well. Rumors of a certain female bounty hunter more dangerous than anything myth or folklore could dream up.

The princess herself seemed even more surprised. "Well, I wasn't expecting a lady here!" she said cheerily. "Come to fetch your man?"

Lana's expression was blank. "No," she said. "I'm a little more competent than that. I keep my men in line. Actually, I've come to fetch yours."

This earned a general chuckle from the crowd. Still, Lana could see the men were on edge. Shelly wasn't exactly the type of woman you publicly insulted. Then again . . . neither was Lana.

"So you have," Shelly said, forcing a smile. "That is, after all, why we're here, isn't it?"

The crowd relaxed visibly. There was a smattering of Yes's and Aye's, and - from one gawking old man - a Nay.

Shelly leaned over the podium to retrieve a scroll. Several men in the crowd also leaned forward, though it could be said to have been for entirely different reasons. The princess gave Lana a spiteful smile as she raised the writ for the crowd to see.

"I have here a writ of condolence," she began. "I'm sure you have heard by now of the Central King's recent death?" The crowd nodded. "We are all sorrowful of his loss, to be sure. Saelos was a good man, and the Central Kingdom has been overshadowed with grief since his departure." She paused a moment to let this sink in. "However, there is still hope. I trust you are all aware of Saelos's son, Newton?"

The crowd nodded again. By this point Lana was growing impatient. The sun wasn't likely to burn her deeply tanned skin, but she was beginning to sweat. Bounty hunter or no, she was still a lady. Besides, she mused, I could go for a cold beer right now.

In the background of Lana's thoughts, the princess droned on. "It hurts me to think he might be out there somewhere, unknowing of his father's death. He was a good lad. I met him once, before he ran away. I think it would be wise if - "

"Oh, shut up already," Lana spat, her patience gone. "We all know Newt rightfully holds the title of king, and we all know he's mentally instable. A beautiful woman like you ought to be able to swindle him into a marriage, eh? Snatch up the Queen title before it's too late? Why don't you just say it?"

There was one of those long, awkward pauses when everyone knows the truth was spoken but doesn't want to admit it. Then, in a perfectly innocent tone, Shelly spoke. "Why, I would do nothing of the sort!" she exclaimed. "I am simply funding a search party to rescue the poor, bewildered Newton and return him to his father's domain. Consider it a favor from the East. Nothing more."

Lana was about to protest when a middle-aged man stepped out of the circle to stand in front of the princess. He twisted a cap nervously in his hands. "My lady," he began. "I don't mean to pry, but . . . exactly how much funding are we talking here?"

There was another murmur from the crowd, and heads perked up in anticipation.

"I'm glad you asked, kind sir," Shelly said gently. "The first team to deliver Newton safely to m - the Central Domain - shall receive one hundred shambles. Golden shambles."

A general gasp ripped through the crowd. To the poor men gathered in the courtyard, a hundred shambles was enough to buy the world. Lana, however, was not impressed. "That's it?" she asked. "A hundred measly shambles? That's pocket change for a girl like you!"

The princess froze. "I thought it was a generous sum," she said carefully.

"Not generous enough. For all we know, our very lives are at stake on this 'rescue' mission. Try again."

The princess looked worried. Several men in the crowd began raising their voices in demand of more money. A hundred golden shambles may have been more than they'd ever seen in their lives, but they weren't about to get shimmed on a deal. As the dairy farmer in the back of the crowd would have said, "Milk 'er for all she's worth."

"I . . . see," Shelly said. "I'm at a bit of a loss here. I don't normally do these things. How much, then, would you suggest?"

"A thousand golden shambles," said Lana, without pausing

Everyone in the square froze. Even the old man in the front was startled out of his reverie. It was more money than even Lana had seen, and to the poor men in the square, it was a sum beyond comprehension. Only a fool or a ditsy, blonde princess would accept a sum like that.

Lucky for Lana, she was dealing with the latter.

"It's a bit high," she said, her face gone pale. But she'd asked, hadn't she? There was no turning back now. Catching sight of Lana's wicked smile, the princess sighed. "But it's all in the interest of the Central Domain, is it not? Very well. One thousand golden shambles to the first team to bring m - this domain - its king. You may begin your search as soon as you'd like."

Within a minute, the square was empty. A few hats lay strewn across the cobblestones. Someone had even dropped their purse in the excitement, and Lana pocketed it happily. Then, realizing she was not alone, she approached the withered old man near the podium, who watched quietly as the princess pranced away.

"Excuse me," said Lana.

The old man jumped. "Marge? I swear, I - " He froze midsentence when he realized where he was. "Er . . . yes?

"I'm looking for an Inn. The Moldy Tankard. You know where to find it?"

"Moldy Tankard," he said thoughtfully. "No. I don't believe I do."

Good, thought Lana. Some things never change.

- - - -

The Moldy Tankard Inn was exactly as Lana remembered. There was a sign above the weatherworn door that may once have held a name. That name was gone now, but the thick layer of mold that covered it was all that needed to be said.

Lana sat at a wooden table inside, gray with age and, of course, molding up the legs. Behind the overgrown bar top, a heavyset innkeeper pulled cool beer out of a barrel. You can probably imagine what the barrel looked like. Of course, you may have needed assistance from the unreadable signpost to be sure.

Two women accompanied Lana's somber table. The first was a podgy woman, middle-aged with dancing eyes and a cheerful manner. She sipped excitedly at her wine while the company waited for Lana's beer. The second woman was of the kind you knew could only be named Martha, but was in fact a Margaret. She was a pious woman with distaste for - and a strong opinion of - the inappropriate.

" . . . absolutely inacceptable," Margaret was saying. "This is no place for a lady of my stature. I will leave at once." She stood and made as if to leave.

"Sit down, Margaret." Lana's voice was iron. "I have a preposition to make. One that could . . . increase your stature, you might say."

Margaret paused. Prudent though she was, she was not a woman to pass up an opportunity. Besides, Lana had known the woman for many years. Margaret liked to be difficult. When she moved to sit once again - her posture prim - Lana was not surprised.

Bethany, the only other woman at the table, smiled. "That's better, dear." She raised her glass in fervor. "Care for a sip?"

Margaret gave the woman a cold stare.

Bethany chuckled. "Suit yourself," she said. "One of these days I'm going to catch you off guard. Just wait."

The women sat in silence as the innkeeper came around the bar. He approached the table and plunked a full tankard in front of Lana. Margaret eyed it with distaste, but said nothing. After a long drag - downing nearly a quarter of the glass - Lana sighed. It had been a long time since she'd tasted fine beer, and the innkeeper at the Moldy Tankard brewed some of the best.

Bethany shuffled in her seat, her glass empty. After a slight pause, she pulled Lana's mug over and took a drag. She shrugged at Margaret's glance. "So," she said. "I assume we're not here for old time's sake. What's on your mind, Lana?"

"Well," Lana began, "you might say it is for old time's sake."

Bethany raised an eyebrow. Margaret didn't move, but Lana thought she caught a slight glimmer in the old woman's eyes. They both knew what Lana was getting at.

"I have an assignment," she said. "For the Sisterhood."

"I knew it!" Bethany exclaimed, suddenly bursting with excitement. "I knew you couldn't retire after that last deal. But why now? Why not years ago? I mean, it's not like you're Margaret. Now there's a woman to - "

"Bethany?" Margaret interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Oh. Sorry."

Lana coughed slightly. "Listen," she said. "I know how you feel about the Sisterhood, Margaret. And I know I promised you I'd never ask you to anything again after . . . well, you know. But. . . ." She trailed off, not knowing where to go from there.

A moment of silence passed. Somewhere behind the bar, the innkeeper began whistling a drinking song as old as rock and time. It was called, rather fittingly, "Drinking Song." It was one of those songs made to fit just about any verse and rhyme, an endless tune both easy to carry and hard to forget.

"He loved that song," Margaret said darkly. Then she shook her head. "But there's no sense dwelling on the past. Let's hear it. What are you offering?"

"A thousand shambles," Lana said. "Even split."

And that, really, was all that needed to be said. Though all three ladies were set for retirement - as far as finances go, anyway - that much gold was impossible to pass up. Besides, Lana knew Bethany. She wasn't the knitting type. Neither was Margaret, although she often liked to look the part.

In the end, it came down to their roots. The memories of the past spurred the outcome of the future. Once again, the truth was spoken. Bounty hunters never retire. Even if they are women.