It was late, the stars tracing their silent arc above the jagged slopes of Kharanos. Belm paused, at the edge of the porch, where behind him the smithy's fires provided warmth against the cold wintery eve. He stretched, a good strong dwarven stretch, the motion betraying the hint of a yawn. The smile was for the bag of silver hanging from his belt - the smiths were always good for the toss of dice, and tonight the winds of luck had blown his way. All was well in the valleys of Kharanos.

Until he took a step forward, crossing the trail back to his home, his work - the Thunderbrew Tavern.

It was the splash of red that caught his attention first. A definite trail of crimson leading from beyond the bridge, down the empty road, round the walk and right up the stone stairs and straight into his inn. And not just a little trail of blood. The rutting of the snow, the bits of sinew and grease telling of a story of a far larger occurance.

The innkeeper closed his eyes, lowering his face into his palms. When he could finally bear to look up again, there was only one thing that could be said to explain this mysterious carnage.

" ... NELLISYNTHIA!"

Eventually, the little warlock settled down in her room, a small space of stone carved out the Kharanos hills, snuggled within the basement of the Thunderbrew Tavern. It was sparsely furnished, no morethan she needed. A table for doing her sewing on, a chair for sitting, and the neatly made bed for when sleep finally claimed her. Nooked near the big brewery ovens it was always warm and the air scented of hops and barley while from above lurked hints of fresh baked bread and a bubbling stew in the hearthfire.

With a deep sigh she stretched out in the chair, closing her eyes, hugging herself and not able to hide the small smile. Behind her a cobalt shadow hovered, protective, the voidwalker's bracers still showing the stains and marring of their night within the high halls of Blackrock Mountain.

" ... still can't be believing it, Mezzy."

Rolling her head back she looked up to her constant companion, the gnome lass was quiet for a long set of heartbeats, letting its cadence mark the passage of time and thought.

"Oh of course he did. Swords and magics fel and frost, of course its all logical that he fell, finally. Another pawn removed from the game, at least for a little while. But of all of us there, they chose me.

"Me ... the littlest one amoungst them.

"I don't know how I came to be deserving such honor."

Closing her eyes again, the warlock took in a deeper breath. And when they opened again she half turned in her chair, her mouth opening as if to speak. Then closing again without a word spoken. Then opened again, and once again her thoughts caming to a sudden halt with words unsaid. Until she turned enough around to cross her arms on the back of the wooden chair and rest her chin upon them.

"... what is honor?

"Oh Mezzy ... I'm not sure there's a right good answer to that."

Bright eyes narrowed, as the gnome lass slowly chewed upon her lower lip in contemplation.

"Folks talk about it a lot, and they toss about the word about as if it were one of those leather balls the night elfs make. As if it were a tunic to be worn at festival, as if it were a dark iron breastplate to protect them from the slings and spells of those whom would tear them down.

"Some folks speak of a person of honor, as if it were a code of actions to be adhered to, some sort of moral path that sets one above those they meet, friend or enemy. But I have never understood that. Does that mean there is one road that can be walked to be such a better person? I know the Scarlet Crusade would claim such, but I am uncomfortable with the strictness of their way and the cruelty that their chivalric code leaves in its wake.

"Some folks name a person of honor ... but does that make it true? There are those who folks claim to be of high honor, but we have all to well seen the values they claim left on the wayside when they become inconvenient ... controversial ... as if it were something to be shared with some folks and not others.

"Some folks speak of honor on the battlefield. But is that the only place where it can be found? Can not a strong hearted farmer live a life as full of honor as any knight?

"What is honor, Mezzy?"

Eyes closing again, the little warlock considered this quandary. Then she finally took a breath and raised her head.

"Maybe it's like this ..."

Rummaging through her pack the small warlock searched out a yellow crystal, a shard of magic. She set the large brilliant gemstone in her lap. Delicate fingers rested on its smooth surface for a slow heartbeat.

"See this gemstone? It has an innate value, a measure of its worth. Simply within it's inherent nature.

"Now if this gem could talk, it might scream to the stars of that value, proclaim it's own accolades and moral tenacity. But when all the stars finally set and the snows of Kharanos melt in springtime, those claims vanish like fog beneath the hot sun. They mean nothing if they are not reflected in the inherent qualities of the gem. I am sure the one who left me for dead beneath the rotting stones of Ahn'Quiraj would proclaim themselves of much value and honor even though there is a grand crevasse between their words and their actions.

"Just as so folks could speak well of this gem, it's strength and fortitude, its high standing. But if, in truth, no matter how fancy and bright it might shine, if beneath that shine was only fancy crafted paste such claims would be as false as a mocking bird's call.

"Now this value, this worth, is it accepted by all?

"Well an enchanter might say one thing - knowing how important it is to their craft. Others might see it as unessesary, something anachronistic to be left on the wayside and thus of no value to them. And others, such as a merchant, might claim that value as when convenient, a fanciful value when being sold ... and something of no note when being bought.

"All this talk and all this chatter, however, does not change at all the nature of the gem itself, what it is ...

"Or ...

"In the case of a person, like you and me, who they are."

In one hand she raises the gem, to look into its polished surfaces, seeing herself reflected in each perfect facet.

"That's what honor is, Mezzy.

"The measure of a person."

There's a small smile. sad and wistful.

"It's nice when it's recognized but it's not something that can not be set by one's self. It is something we can only recognize within each other, to learn to see someone else and to honor them for what they are.

"And the important difference between us and this gem is that we are in control of that measure. It is each person's choice ... mine ... and yours ... to decide whether one can live with being made of jeweler's paste or do we strive for something more, something more true.

"You can't make that choice for any one else, Mezzy.

"We can only make that choice for ourselves"

" ... NELLISYNTHIA!"

Belm stormed into the commons hall, hands on his hips. Though he could only take one step in, the way barred by the fiercesome visage of a huge draconic head settles across a couple wooden tables and rising to the rafters. The head was berift of body, shorn by swords and magics, still dripping of dragonish blood, only slowly turning from copper scented red to a tarnished brown. The disembodied head stared across the hall, a look of shock and horror and a touch of surprise still caught beneath scaly brows, the yellowed teeth sharp and strong and about as big as the tavern master himself.

"By all the bastard children of Magni Bronzebeard and the Princess of Blackrock Depths, what is this!?!"

At the base of the funereal bust, the lil' gnome warlock turned to face her landlord, still wiping away the bits and pieces of grim and ash from her face. Her eyes went as wide as saucers, and she looked between the dwarf and the head and back to the dwarf ... and then once more between each for good measure.

"Oh ..."

She spoke, as if surprised by the question.

"It's Broodlord Lashlayer's head, Mister Belm."

The moment's silence weighed in this tavern as heavy as Ironforge Mountain.

"I KNOW THAT!" bellowed Belm as he curled his hands into big fists and crossed his arms.

"What I want to know is just what the blazes is it doing IN MY DINING ROOM!"

See it is true ... the events that happen within the World of Warcraft can most certainly be a part of the roleplay environment.

The central portion of the story answered a question upon the Earthen Ring forum. There was a lot of talk back and forth, and from an academic point of view it would have been interesting to match the replies with the generation of those replying - from the baby-boomers to the entitlement generation.

And the fact that the discussion itself was perhaps more revealing than the content of each posting.