War was here. Everyone knew it, everyone was a part of it in some way whether they wanted to be or not, and the same could be said for Quick. No one could live in peace anymore.
Quick never had a chance to live in peace, not entirely. Not since he started working the line of work he was in. The recent times have been the closest he’d been to peaceful in a long time, though, and he was craving the cut the knot loose and fully embrace a more mundane life. A faction war was a good place to get himself to that peace, though it wouldn’t come easily.
In the weeks of turmoil while the winds of war started to stir, Quick made all the preparations he needed. He wrote his will and tucked it into his journal, leaving that along with a few other various things in his hide away room in Orgrimmar. He knew even if he didn’t have the best relationship with his creditor he would at least be given the proper respect for his wishes to be fulfilled should he pass. His garden in Eversong had been plucked dry, the flowers spread about the area he made in his own little neck of the woods. The boxes of cigars he had never got around to selling once his business became lazy were sold in bulk to a goblin trader who was offering a good as a deal as he’d get from any goblin in Azeroth. Finally, he wrote a letter and folded it ever so carefully so that it would fit at the bottom of his coin purse, with a name and location for the letter to be delivered.
All of his business was sorted so that if he happened to make a mistake too grave, his final words would be delivered, his gold would be distributed in the way he wished, and there would be no trace of his existence aside from those things and his body. If he didn’t fall, he had no intentions of being indebted by the end of the war.
Teldrassil burned. Lordaeron sieged. Stories of the blight were told on every street. He took his place in the background as usual. Doing something in the shadows for whomever paid him first and with the largest sack of chest of coins. The forces that were set in motion were too big for him to stop or change, the only thing he could do was roll between the crashing waves and pluck the earnings he could from the wreckage. There was no Horde. There was no Alliance. There was him, his payment, his safety, and the thought of the few people on Azeroth who made him want to be entirely free.
Now though, the war was moving to the islands. The contracts were all in a foreign land, surrounded by ocean, and the easiest way for him to get there was on a ship. He’d been a stowaway once before, he could do it again. In the dead of the night he boarded the next war supply cargo ship heading for Zandalar and drank himself into a drunken coma. His choices were booze or dread, and he was more than happy to booze himself up for the journey.
Since arriving, his limbs had not stopped. A new land to learn, new cultures to adapt to, new enemies, new threats, new ways to find a profit. He hated to admit it, but this was where he shined. Contract after contract accepted and completed. With everyone who would normally put a stop to the deeds taking place at war, Quick flourished in the background without prejudice. If it paid, he was accepting the terms and jobs. The change over back into the life of non stop moving, violence, deceit, and unknown was taking its toll on him. Just a few days into the hustle and bustle and he had to take a day to relax and take in the environment of the strange island. With all the blood, all the tears, the grime, the grit, the steel and flame, he could not bring an ounce of himself to appreciate the land. That terrified him. With a bottle of bourbon, a small campfire in a small cave he found for himself, he pulled out his comm and a pad of parchment to get his thoughts together. It was going to be a long war.
