“Five aces!” Torben announced as proud as a farmer presenting their prize winning pig at a harvest festival who simply *knew* they would bring home the blue ribbon. The cards were slapped down upon the rickety table amidst the dank elegance of what was the Underbelly of Dalaran’s finest, and be sheer coincidence only…tavern? Inn? Watering hole? Even by the loosest standards of what passed as any of the former this establishment failed to reach the bar of any of them, no matter how low such a bar had been brought.
Did it matter that there were only four aces total in a deck of cards? Of course not. Did it matter that the back of this mysterious fifth ace failed to match the color of *every* other card in play? Sheer happenstance, of course. Such things happened all the time, surely. If any fuss was to be made Torben would make the most likely of excuses for such a thing. The drawing of an ace from his sleeve as the nova of magic transported Dalaran…somewhere or other. Khaz Some’whereo’such. Never. It must’ve been some residual instability in the nexi of arcane energies causing fluctuations in space and time itself. Thus, leading to Torben possessing five aces.
No protest could be made from the trio of dumbfounded faces that surrounded Torben at the table, no steel could be drawn in protest over any such allegations of cheating as they so often were down here. Not when the very base of the city shook with such force that pebbles and loosened sand from the bedrock above vibrated, coming down upon the pile of coins, Torben’s soon to be winnings, in a cascade that left the gold suffering the indignity of being coated in debris.
What in the wide, wonderful world of Azeroth could have been the source of such a disturbance? What perfect timing it was that the barkeep at the counter uttered such a keen inquiry. “What are those Mages up to now…” The barkeep questioned, setting down the mug he was polishing, as all barkeeps did when they made such questions.
“NERBIANS!” Came a shout from further within the network of sewer pipes that made up the Underbelly, followed by the sounds of struggle. Gunshots, the clash of steel on something solid, flashes of magic cascading from further ahead in displays so brilliant they put fireworks to shame.
Stares of disbelief were shared all around the table, now not from the dazzling mystery of the five Aces that Torben had played, and most certainly used to win, the game of cards at the table. Ahhhh, but how swiftly disbelief turned to shock as the very brickwork of the tunnels began to shift, then erupt, as Nerbians poured forth from…somewhere.
How was Torben supposed to know? What was he, an Arachnologist? Of course not! All he knew is that they must have been here for one reason and one reason only. The gold.
How plain it was in the way they chittered and shrieked, scrambling forth onto the planks of the Underbelly’s finest establishment, the glint of greed in their numerous eyes. They were coming here to deprive Torben of his ill-begotten riches from this final hand of the card game!
Alas, no matter how many legs they had and pockets they had on their pants, not a single one of them would be lined with coin if Torben had anything to say about it. Torben stood over the table and in one fluid, practiced motion drew forth the flintlock pistol tucked into his belt and fired at the nearest Nerbian, scattering their dreams of wealth, and chunky spider juices or whatever they had in their skulls (again, he was not an Arachnologist) through the air.
“Washed straight down the waterspout.”
What shock it was, to Torben at least, that things were still *spinning* out of control, as chaos was weaved around him. Why had that single Nerbian, foiled in it’s plans to interrupt the game of cards, not stemmed the tide of Nerbians that continued to pour forth?
Torben could see the scattered defenders of the Underbelly becoming swiftly overwhelmed, despite the fierce resistance these vagabonds and scoundrels offered, the blades of the Uncrowned spun into webs and imprisoned. It didn’t take a Marshal to access where things were going. This battle had turned against them.
In such times there was but one thing to do.
“Every man for himself!” Went up the cry from one of the patrons of the Underbelly, and with the practiced precision of cats being let out of a bag, everyone sought to scatter. To escape. To flee.
Not Torben, who stood with the still smoking pistol in hand. He would not flee. He would not abandon the UNderbelly to it’s fate of invasion and armed robbery by these eight-legged monsters.
Torben poured his winnings, pebbles, dust, coins and all into the knapsack at his feet, a number of the playing cards falling inside as well. The chaos of the exodus of the Underbelly gave him that precious time. Time to throw the sack over his shoulder, turn…and witness a sight so heinous that it could have chilled the core of a fire elemental.
The depravity. The horror. The crime was so perverse that it went beyond words in any known language to explain.
There were Nerubians…pilfering from the treasure hoard of the Underbelly. The collected wealth that all of the Uncrowned had earned through good and honest robbery. Yet these spiders sought to steal from thieves. It was something that could not be allowed to pass, no matter how readily Torben put his own life and limb at risk.
Pouring the last of the contents from the table, the few remaining playing cards and a handful of coppers into his hat, and placing it upon his head, Torben charged, with steel in hand.
Two Nerubains could never hope to stand between Torben and the hoard of gold behind them, so it was that his cutlass danced through them like a shears through silk, ichor pouring forth from missing appendages as the would-be thieves were dispatched.
There was little time, even Torben knew that. Not all of the treasure could be spared from what was an apparent invasion of Nerubians. His previous suspicions that this were nothing more than a robbery were beginning to unravel by the sheer number of them, and the fact that none of them, not a one, were wearing pants and thus, lacked pockets to pilfer anything inside them.
At least Torben could save some of the treasure, and keep it in his personal safe keeping, of course. There could be nobody better trusted than him to be the caretaker of such wealth.
So caretake he did, shoveling handfuls of jewels, a plethora of priceless treasures, and one namely, odd looking coin with the face of a skull on one side and twin blades on the other that he just felt compelled to take, into the knapsack until it threatened to burst at the seams.
It wasn’t the press of Nerubians that inspired Torben to finally beat that hasty retreat down the escape tunnel, ohhhh no. It was the sound of something far, far more insidious coming. The voice of a monarchist with a bad haircut coming from the other side of the Underbelly.
One wonderfully executed escape later.
Torben stood upon the banks of…well, who could truly say, watching what appeared to be a massive swell of inky magic consume the floating city-state in a mass…and then erupting with such a violence it made Torben’s puffy, ichor stained swashbuckler shirt billow.
A single tear rolled down his cheek as he stared up at the immensity of the loss. All that treasure. Gone.