The elf leaned on the door-frame a stern look on his face. The man they called “Twill”, named for a type of cloth he wore as an armband in his adventuring days, was tired, and tired of waiting. The human was late, a strange occurrence when you lived in Dalaran, which felt like the middle of the world, most of the time.

“Excuse me.” A woman said, as she stepped out from the bustling crowd, and stood in front of him. The elf’s eyes drifted to a pin on the woman’s mantle, in the shape of a small T shape, which he assumed was supposed to be a hammer.

“Are you her ladyship’s courier?” He asked, looking over her closely.

“Ye-yes.” There was a slight stutter in her voice.

“Hmm. Well, I’ve got her deck here.” The elf’s eyes narrowed, as he passed the eight cards wrapped in simple brown paper to the woman. “Run along then.”

The woman jumped back a foot when he slammed the door behind him. Hustling up the stairs to his studio, he made his way out to his window overlooking the Eventide.

As always, the courtyard was packed with adventurers. He was lucky, when he was younger he had lucked onto a big pile of treasure in the dungeons of Azeroth, allowing him to retire early, and set up shop as a scribe, and keeping him away from the dangers of Northrend.

Maechall sighed,  and grabbed another Darkmoon Special Reserve. It was going to be another long night, in the city that never slept.