"Ahah!"

The shout of triumph, so close to his ear, shocked Bartolomei out of his sun-soaked reverie.  Reflexes kicked in and he leaped to his feet, whipping his mace up to block the attack... before he remembered that it was a fishing pole, not a mace, he held.  He was in Stormwind, safe.  And the laughing creature wasn't some Angerfang orc, it was...

"Uncles Baurles!  Light blind you, you idiot!  What do you mean, sneaking up on me like that?  I could have killed you!"

Lord Baurles Wishock, one of the King's counsellors, snorted.  "You'll forgive me if I don't feel too threatened by that weapon."

"Yes, but if I'd been armed..."

"But, but, but.  You're just mad because I finally found you out."  The balding man's round face glowed with merriment.  "Yes, I found you out, my oh-so-serious nephew.  Mr. All-Work-No-Play.  Never has time for a drink with his poor old uncle, oh no.  And I turn around and what do you do?  Go fishing.  Finally decided to take a break from saving the world, did you?"

A look of intense indignation flickered across Bartolomei's face, as if his uncle had accused him of abusing small, furry animals rather than taking a vacation.  Drawing himself up with as much dignity as he could muster (given his current "weapon") he said, "I am not taking a break.  I am, at this very moment, working on a very important quest.  I... I know it doesn't look like it, but I'm... um... trying to kill a necromancer."

"A necromancer?  Really?"  Baurles peered down into the canal's clear water.  "That's a new one on me.  I know there's supposed to be a crocolisk in the sewers, but I never heard about any necromancer down there.  Where's the chap hiding?"

"He's not here, uncle.  He's in Duskwood."

"Duskwood?  Hell of a long cast from Stormwind.  Oh, and what sort of fly do you use to catch a necromancer, anyways?"

A crimson blush began to creep up the paladin's cheeks.  "I'm not fishing for the necromancer.  I'm... I'm...  Look, I've learned that this man has woven spells around his soul.  Ones so powerful that most weapons cannot harm him.  So if I want to kill him, I have to have a weapon made from a special, rare metal:  Lightforge ore."

For the first time his uncle seemed genuinely interested.  "Rare you say?  And some of it got dropped in the sewers?  Is it valuable?"

"It's not here.  It's in Menethil Harbor, in a sunken elvish galleon."

Baurles' burst of laughter sent several pigeons winging their way into the sky.  "Light bless you, boy.  Good thing you're a paladin and not a bard, because you'd starve if you had to survive by your tales!  Now start again, and tell the story sensibly.  If the necromancer is in Duskwood and the ore is in Menethil Harbor, why are you fishing in Stormwind?"

"Because the ore's on the bottom of Menethil Harbor.  I need a potion of water breathing to get to it.  And they're made from fish."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just buy one?"

"It would."  Bartolomei's eyes began to glitter with anger.  "But after the recent round of 'tithes' the Church demanded, I don't have two coppers to rub together.  So here I sit, wasting hour upon hour, trying to make a potion of my own."

The counsellor frowned into the bucket of little sunfish at his nephew's feet.  "I didn't know you could make water-breathing potions out of brilliant smallfish."

"You can't.  You need oily blackmouths.  But these are all I'm catching.  Well, these and some ugly bottom-feeders.  I haven't gotten a single blackmouth all day."  Those first stirrings of annoyance melted away, and his shoulders slumped.  "I guess I'm rather terrible at fishing..."

"Bartolomei?  You do realize, don't you, that blackmouths live in salt-water, not fresh?"  The look of crestfallen dismay on the paladin's face confirmed that no, he hadn't known this fact.  "Hmm.  Well...  Let's head over to the Slaughtered Lamb, shall we?  You look like you could use a drink now."

For a long moment, Bartolomei simply stared at the tiny fish circling in his pail.  Then slowly, like a rusty golem coming to life, he bent down and tossed them back into the canals.  "No.  I... I don't have time.  I've got to get to Menethil Harbor.  I've wasted an entire day and..."

"And the world's still here," Baurles chided him gently.  "It survived.  You spent a pleasant day fishing.  You had a good time.  And nothing terrible happened."

"You're wrong.  Thousands of terrible things happened this morning.  The townspeople of Darkshire were attacked by undead abominations.  Orcs ambushed travellers on the borders of Lakeshire.  Dwarvish soldier died, trying to hold the Dark Dwarves back at Dun Modr.  And what did I do while this happened?  I fished."  He spat the last word, his handsome face twisted with disgust.

"You can't solve all the world's problems."  

"I can solve some of them.  A lot of them, if I don't waste my time."

It was the same impasse they hit every time they argued, and Baurles could tell he wasn't making any more headway than he ever did.  But he couldn't stop himself from trying to make the boy see sense.  "Human beings need rest.  They need pleasure.  They need to 'waste' time."  Bartolomei was ignoring him now, packing up his belongings and preparing to leave.  His uncle switched tacks, hoping that a more religious argument might catch the paladin's attention.  "Look, doesn't the Church teach that joy is our connection to the Light?  If you never slow down long enough to be happy, what's that going to do to your soul?"

"Feelings, uncle.  Feelings are our connection to the Light and the world.  And happiness is just one of them.  I have plenty of feelings."  The guilt in his eyes was silent proof of that.

"But..."

"No buts."  Bartolomei gave his uncle a sad, distracted smile.  "I can still make it to Menethil Harbor before dark if I hurry.  And then we'll see if oily blackmouths feed at night."

(Back to story index)