Depressed Poet Society

The unpleasant aroma of sour ale lingers around a near-catatonic dwarf lying haphazardly across the cot of his jail cell. One could mistake him for a corpse if not for the occasional belch or thrash in his drunken slumber. Covered in lesions, bruises, and callouses across his arms, chest, and face, it’s obvious the dwarf is nothing if not a prolific brawler. The stinging stench of his ale-soaked beard coupled with the myriad wounds, fresh and old swarming across his body, does far more than simply insinuate the reason as to his current incarceration. A cacophonous clang of an iron-tipped cudgel rapping against the bars of Dumac’s cell startles the dwarf awake and in the blink of an eye he’s on his feet, albeit unsteadily, standing in what appears to be an approximation of a southpaw stance, soon lowering his guard in realization he has no immediate, easily accessible target to thrash beyond recognition. “Last time, Meadgut,” the jailer says matter-of-factly, still lightly dragging the head of her cudgel across the bars separating Dumac and herself. A twang of frustrated disdain colors her words. She’s long past trying to stay cordial with the degenerate drunkard before her.

With a guttural, revolting belch and a hearty stretch, Dumac replies as he rolls his neck around to work kinks in the tendons and muscles, “Weren’t my fault this time, boss. Swear by the nut hairs on Magni’s big, bronze, balls.” Dumac drags the word ‘bronze’ out with a mocking reverence, to which the jailer replies with smashing the head of her weapon full-force into the bars. The ear-piercing screech of metal against metal causes Dumac to cringe backwards, cupping his ears as he lets out a frustrated flurry of curses and slurs levied at his tormenter. “Last. Time,” the jailer reiterates, harshly, the look in her eye betraying the want she has within her to crack Dumac across the jaw and see how easily he can spout obscenities about herself and her King with a shattered mandible. She mulls the thought over for a moment before rolling her eyes and letting out a sigh, coming to the exasperating realization Dumac could have his tongue cut out and he’d simply draw pictures depicting his rancid, ne’er-do-well thoughts. Rummaging in a satchel hanging at her side, she procures a rolled parchment, stamped shut with the seal of Ironforge, and shoves it through the bars, walking away without another word. Dumac spits in her general direction before she turns a corner. As soon as she’s out of sight, a grin splits his face. He always liked her, not that it mattered. He knew she’d have nothing to do with him. Still, he always hated being jailed a little less when she was on shift. He lets out another stretch, taking his skull in both his hands before wrenching it sideways, finally working out the kink in his neck with a resounding, sickening pop. The relief is palpable. At last resolving that annoyance, he crouches down, scooping up the stamped scroll, opening it up to read its contents…

“…Well, shit.”

RE: The Issue of Caradin, Dumac

It has been determined that no amount of incarceration, manual labor, therapy, or magic exists that can re-adjust the malcontent colloquially known as Meadgut’s violent, antisocial, antithetical to the ideals of Ironforge’s mannerisms, disposition, and conduction as a citizen of our great city. Although the majority of the parole board has espoused their sentiments to the contrary, wishing to simply execute Dumac Caradin and be done with his antics, most recently the permanent injury of at least three Mountaineers on leave in a tavern brawl, at the recommendation of a one ‘Lieutenant Dagiel’, the Ironforge Department of Corrections has elected a less permanent, more experimental approach to the problem of Meadgut Caradin. This message doubles as a letter of conscription for a one Dumac ‘Meadgut’ Caradin to immediately report to Coldridge Valley in order to begin his long and arduous journey of solving the issue of his predictable and repeated recidivism. If Caradin is simply incapable of containing his violent, base nature, he can at least put that to use in the service of Ironforge and our allies in the Alliance. Henceforth, and until it is abundantly clear that Caradin can at least imitate the model of a good Ironforge citizen, he is to travel our lands seeking out any and all in need of defense or aid, however big or small their tasks may be. If Caradin is to die, disappear, or otherwise seemingly abandon the parameters of this edict on his journey of desistance, his name will forever be synonymous with what it means to be so unlike what the dwarves of Ironforge strive to be, individually and cohesively as a proud and upstanding nation.

To ensure Caradin understands, acutely, that his release from prison is not simply an abnormal form of parole with zero consequences, he is to regularly report to Lieutenant Dagiel with notarized proof of his accomplishments in aiding Ironforge and the Alliance. If Caradin refuses to comply, consciously or otherwise, to this mandate, he will be considered an enemy of the state and be dealt with accordingly. If this is not a profusely clear statement, Dumac Caradin, you will be hunted, captured, and brought back to Ironforge, in chains or a casket, to face the judgement of your people.

Thank you for reading. Good luck.