It was at the end of his Twentieth Form.  Buuluchk had a bit of small change left after his Paladin training.  It was not much, but it came to his mind that he might be entitled to some sort of gift, a present to himself.

The Auction House held nothing of real benefit for the pittance he had, so he wandered out toward the gates of the city of Ironforge with his few coppers in hand.  The coins jingled pleasingly, perhaps they are better in my hand than gone for all and good, thought Buuluchk.  Call it a down payment on my future, the wee bit I’ll need for some future purchase.  But Buuluchk did not put them away as he walked out the massive gateway and into the icy air.

“Hey there, paladin.  Might I have a word with you?”

The dirty ragbag was a dwarf, perhaps, but he smelled more like a murlock than a man to Buuluchk.  “Is it a bit of drink you’re needing?  You’d do better to work than beg,” began Buuluchk condescendingly. The dirty man reddened, building toward rage at the slander.

“That was unkind and untrue, I’m a stonemason, and I work hard every day.  Likely harder than the likes of you, an adventurer who knows nothing of what normal men do.” The man turned away and walked on toward the gates.

Buuluchk instantly regretted his harsh words, “See here sir, I’ve wronged you, no doubt.  I apologize.  You must admit you look the part of a beggar, but I had no right to condescend.  I’ve had great good fortune.”  The coins rang in his hand and now he knew what to do with them, “See here, I’m off to make more, I’m well acquainted with work.  I dig metal from the earth and take the pelts of the beasts that fall to me.  Still, I think you can use this far better than me.”  And with that Buuluchk pressed the coins into the mans hand, “There is an inn just inside the gate where you can get a beer and a bath and likely your clothes clean in the bargain.  Go with the gods, friend.”

The man stared down at the coins, but as Buuluchk began to turn, feeling good about the kindness he’d shown, he saw that the man was growing more angry, not less.  “Oh I see, you’ll make me the beggar you’ve accused me of being.”

Buuluchk blinked non-plused as he turned back, “See you friend, I mean you only good.”  One hand went out, opened in friendship, but Buuluchk’s other hand felt for his axe.

The man dug inside his filthy garment and brought out a wrapped package, “You keep calling me friend, but you’d make me a beggar.  Well, be a friend, and for your slander I put a geas on you, that you be a friend to me, to Garglan the Stonemason, and when you learn this thing’s provenance and it’s purpose, you bring word to me, for I work every day and have no time for adventures.  This thing I found at my work preparing a foundation for the bridge I am making.  My curiosity has been on me, I look at it in my tent, I look at it each time I stop my labors, I puzzle, and wonder ’til it drives me half mad.  Be it on you now, slanderous pompous paladin. You figure it out and when you do, if you do, you will tell me.  Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason.” and then with a sneer, “friend.”

With no more word than that Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason marched off down the hill from the gates of Ironforge.

With nothing to say nor anyone to say it to, and now with a mystery in hand, Buuluchk unwrapped the package to see what fate had delivered him.  Fate and Garglan, son of  Harglan, the Stone Mason, Buuluchk thought.

It was heavy and hard, metal for sure, but worked in a way that made it look organic, as if it had grown into the broken form he now held.  It was not whole, of that Buuluchk was certain, though little else. 

Two figures seemed swathed in the organic network of metal, both bodies without heads.  They seemed of the same stuff as the viney coverings, and yet, looking at it, one could easily judge them separate from parts that were clothing, and parts that were something other, and then the parts that seemed to be the flesh of two tall beings.  It was missing much of what looked to be a background that seemed to almost be a language of some kind.  The clothing seemed missing, especially around the heads and shoulders which were largely missing.

All was hinted at and yet baldly obvious when taken as a whole, but as Buuluchk looked closer he was startled to note that it all seemed one in texture and color and material.

“Hey dolt, get out of the gate. Will you stand there all day, you dunderhead.  You’re holding up progress!” shouted a dwarf driving a cart.  Buuluchk had no idea how long he’d stood in the gate, but as soon as he had stepped out of the way of the carter he went back to examining the artifact.  What a curiously marvelous thing, he thought.  What have you brought me Garglan, son of  Harglan.

WOW Fan Fiction

Though I don’t have an account of my own anymore, I do have a good friend who lets me have a few toons on his account.  I have seen two of my creations advance to level 80, the limit at this writing. 

Uhhh, when I say “have seen” I mean that though I created them and played them into their 60s or so I really can’t claim much of what came after that nor the shiny gear they now wear.  Feeling somewhat estranged from Buuluchk and Curuada in their current iteration I have decided to recreate them.  That at least is done, now the weary work of advancement.

BUT as I go I plan to watch where they travel and what they do.  These adventures in a world of someone elses creation might be fodder for the writers craft.  This then is a bit of why Buuluchk, the Dwarf Paladin, is the way that he is. 

A note about the name: In Buuluchk’s clan, the prefix Buis a descriptor applied to eldest sons.  Buuluchk’s mother was Ulu.It is not common for a son to be named for his mother, but there was no choice in his case.  He does not know who his father was and Ulu took that knowledge to her grave. She assured him, in his youth, that he was noble and honorable. Likely to compensate Ulu appended the suffix chk which means honorable, or honored.  This suffix is not normally used in naming a child, rather it is more commonly added to a title or honorary.  Ulu’s reasons are her own, it is assumed that she meant well. 

The Honorable Son of Ulu

It was not considered a horrible character flaw in a dwarf, tending to a fierce temper, but Buuluchk was at the end of his patience.  He was at training in arms.  Often it was a great opportunity for him to release the tension of a day spent learning the niceties of spirit, and devotion to deity, the more difficult part by far of what is demanded of a dwarf paladin in the service of light, in Buuluchk’s opinion.

In truth, his difficulty in sitting through lecture after lecture, his inability to sit and meditate on the excellency of the light, his fidgeting and fiddling when he aught to be listening and learning had very nearly seen him tossed out of the order all together.  This training for the business of war was solace.  Rather normally it was, but today he was paired with the glib tongued Laudbrue.

“Honored son of the woman. . .”  Laudbrue hurled his insults with his attacks. ”Honored son . . .    . . . of Ulu.”  And he laughed his petty laugh and acted as if he were teaching Buuluchk, as if he were his master, as if, for Buuluchk, this exercise wasn’t shield training so that he must withold blows because the master-at-arms had ordered it.

Laudbrue was older than Buuluchk by a year and a bit more, but more importantly he had been Buuluchk’s nemesis since childhood.  Hatred was an apt description of Buuluchk’s feelings toward Laudbrue and Laudbrue, for his part, had always been contemptuous of Buuluchk.  Who can say why it was, but it was indeed.

“What dangles by your side honored son?  Is it an arm, is that a weapon?” Laudbrue bashed Buuluchk’s shield with his mace and smirked, “Look all you! The honored son of a turtle.” This time Laudbrue carelessly leaped into the air in an attempt to strike Buuluchk an even harder blow.

“Quiet there you two.  Stop your playing and stick to work!”  Said the master-at-arms.  Ah the wrongness of Buuluchk being charged though silent while this pustulence dances and preens and flaps his vile mouth.

Thump, bang, clatter, shift and faint, but withhold, all the while the smirking Laudbrue cat-calls and mocks loudly enough to have fellow paladins snickering.  “Are you too weak Buuluchk?  I would have thought that your weapon arm was fit enough, you haven’t used it.”  There was a chorus of snickering laughs all around them, Buuluchk’s face burned as red as his beard.  Laudbrue dropped his guard as the master was busy giving instruction far off, “gods be good Buuluchk, you are pathetic.  Can’t you fight?” he snickered, “Well, son of the woman?”

“I could crush you. . .”, hissed Buuluchk.

“OH, crush me will you? Witness, see how he says so behind his shield.” Laudbrue dropped his hands completely to the side. “Admit, you don’t dare strike a real dwarf.”

“Come on Bullocks,” Laudbrue waved his shield at Buuluchk, “Have a go if you are a man at all.”

“I’d strike you, bastar. . .” He began a curse he couldn’t finish and a ripple of titters went out among his fellows.  Laudbrue struck a wallop that rang off his shield.  I could have destroyed him as if he were still standing without guard, thought Buuluchk, but the Master-at-arms says I must not.

“Me bastard?” Laudbrue laughed evilly.  “I?  The son of Bruall?” Laudbrue swung his mace wildly overhand.

The blow rattled Buuluchk’s teeth and made his arm ache, ” . . . you act one,” He said, “better to act or to be?”

Laudbrue’s eyes narrowed, “Who is your father then honored son of Ulu?” Laudbrue put all his strength into another bone-crushing over-hand smash, “Do you know, son of the woman? Do you?”

Laudbrue seemed unhinged, berserk, he rushed at Buuluchk, raining blows carelessly, battering away at his shield while Buuluchk gave ground. He laughed and taunted even more than he struck. 

“Fight turtle!” He swung and swung. “See?  He won’t fight, he can’t fight, he is a woman’s son and no man at all.”  Paladins around them were sparing an eye for the brawl, or an ear, some had stopped their training altogether to watch. Laudbrue’s attacks became ever more unbalanced, reckless, and erratic, but Buuluchk was tiring, both of the attack and the insults.  “Honored son? HAH! son of a whore.” 

Laudbrue reared back, preparing a devastating blow.  Buuluchk saw that Laudbrue used his shield as nothing but a counter-weight.  “I’ll show you your worth,” Laudbrue spit and charged, he leaped to add that momentum to his blow, his shield forgotten. 

But Buuluchk was not there.  He crouched, his leg muscles bunching for what he knew must come next.  He thrust, legs, shoulder and arm coming inside Laudbrue’s blow and drove his shield into his tormentor’s face.  Teeth and jaw shattered with a satisfying crunch.

*  *  *

The water roused him as much for the sting as it ran down his tortured back as for the coldness in his face.  “Come now boy, you have to be awake for them all.”  The trainer said almost kindly, “Just two more Buuluchk.”

The pain was exquisite.  His back was raw agony, but it seemed crueler to be woken from the pleasant memory of what had brought this beating than the pain that would pass.  Buuluchk chuckled a little and then in as clear a voice as he could muster said, “Well then, I can’t remember past twenty-seven.  I think you’ll have to give me three.”

For that, if nothing else, Buuluchk was remembered in the halls of Iron Forge.