Payback for Hire

Lakeshire, Redridge Mountains:

"Bailiff Conacher, I said start moving these people out of here!" Magistrate Wilfred Solomon said, his ruddy complexion reddening even further.

Conacher, a dark-haired man with a thin mustache and dressed in the blue and white plate-mail armor of the Stormwind army nodded and waved to two other soldiers. They joined him in forming a line in front of the jostling, angry crowd filling the space in front of the podium where Solomon stood.

The soldiers tried to move forward against the throng of bodies, Conacher speaking in a soothing tone. "Citizens, please move back," he prodded. "Proceed towards the doors in a calm and orderly manner. The town hall is now closed."

"What about my son?" a woman wailed desperately from the crowd. "He's been missing for three days. Please, he's the only family I have left. You have to find him!"

"Gnolls attacked my farm a third time this month," yelled a burly farmer with a thick, black goatee sprouting from his chin. "My stables were pilfered and the horses carried off! What are you and our lauded town garrison doing about the gnolls, Solomon?"

A voice came from the back of the crowd, "What of the dragon attacks against the outlying villages? Is Lakeshire going to be next? What are you doing to protect us?"

Solomon raised his voice above the din of the crowd. "Citizens of Redridge, the town hall is now closed! I can hear no more petitions, inquiries, or grievances today. Please, people. Move along now. The town hall is closed."

A wiry young man with tousled blonde hair pushed his way to the front of the crowd and marched towards the podium. Conacher immediately thrust himself in front of the man to block his path. The young man shoved against Conacher, yelling at Solomon over his shoulder, "How can you just stand up there and send us all away? You're abandoning the people of Redridge!"

Solomon adjusted his monocle in his eye and wiped the sweat off his balding head with a ragged handkerchief. He tried to keep his voice even. "Sir, I am not abandoning anyone. We are simply...tabling these issues for tomorrow's agenda, alright?"

"Enough tabling!" the young man snarled. "You 'table' these issues every day! And what progress have you made? None! It's so typical that the aristocracy cares so little for the plight of the common people."

Solomon cursed inwardly. Where were the troops from Stormwind, Westfall, or Duskwood he'd asked for months ago? With the army returned from the long fight in Northrend and hostilities with the Horde in a lull, could they spare not a single battalion? Where were Watch Captain Parker and the professional help he was supposed to be bringing back with him?

He eyed the young man with growing irritation "I assure you, sir, I care deeply about every man, woman, and child--" An object came flying from the crowd and hit Solomon in the face. His eyes snapped shut as he felt the thing splatter against his cheek, wet and foul-smelling. Reaching up, he wiped the rotten fruit from his face, blinking as he pulled his hand away and slopped the stuff onto the wooden floor at his feet. He clenched his fists and his smooth forehead reddened like a shiny apple. "Conacher! Get these people out of here!" he bellowed.

With a combination of cajoling, threatening, and shoving, Conacher and his men drove the crowd back until they were able to pull the heavy town hall doors closed. They came together with a thud of merciful finality.

Slumping into a chair, Solomon dragged his handkerchief across his face in an attempt to wipe off the remainder of the splattered fruit. It came away soaked.

A servant hurried over to him with a fresh one and began to dab his face with it. "Let me guess...tomato?" Solomon asked.

"Smells like banana, sir," the servant said.