The lone figure trudged through the snowy night, shoulders hunched against the wind, eyes tearing up from the cold and narrowed to slits. Its gaze was firmly fixed on a distant illumination, a single source of light in the darkness. Underneath its boots, the frozen sleet gave a hollow crunch with every tired step.

Narath had steered his chartered gryphon into Thelsamar a day and a half before, sacrificing the swift progress a direct landing in Ironforge would have yielded for a more inconspicuous approach. He wanted to be first to the site and if the right sort of person spotted his bearded mug in the capital, they were bound to suspect something. Narath only ever came back to the city when something was up.

Thus, he had gotten a ram from the rental stables and ridden throughout the day and well into the night, arcoss the mountain passes that connected the Loch to Dun Morogh, dropping the poor, overburdened beast off at Veron Amberstill's farm when it threatened to either break down from fatigue or throw him off and eat him. From there, he had continued on foot.

Dawn was already approaching fast and he was weary enough to keel over in the snow and just sleep, sleep and sleep some more - probably never to wake up again. Still, he had his target in his sights now and the fishermen of Brewnall had in all likelihood already gathered round their early morning fire, getting themselves ready for the day's work. A couple of steps later, Narath could hear their voices spanning the distance in the cold, dark night.

He sped up his step.

"Oi! Who goes thar'?"

Narath heard the rustle of people rising to their feet and saw half a dozen shadows pop up against the fire.

"It's t'South Sea booze express come ter bring ye rum, ya mis'rable louts!", he shouted back.

A round of guffaws answered this and he saw a figure approach with a torch in hand. The rest of the fishermen hung back by the fire, some of them probably pointing a gun or two in his direction.

Narath and the torch bearer met up just outside of Brewnall and he vaguely recognized the fisherman's features from an earlier visit.

"Blimey", said the dwarf and lowered his torch. "Yer look like deep-frozen trogg puke wit' a beard, if'n I may say so, guv."

Tired as he was, Narath couldn't help but grin.

"Keep it up an' there's nae a drop o' rum fer ye, fish botherer."

"Bah. Tough talk fer a stick o' ice. C'mon o'er ter t'fire. I want ter see if we can get ya ter melt."

Half a minute later, Narath hunkered down by the fire and closed his eyes for a blink, feeling the warmth prickle across his frozen skin.

"Yer from t'Explorers' League, ar'nt yer?", he heard someone say.

He opened his eyes and nodded.

"Aye."

"Mmh-hmm. Figured it wouldnae take long fer one o' youse ter show up."

"Bet yer arse", Narath said. "We're like flies ter shite, only faster."

The fishermen laughed. Narath wordlessly distributed a couple of flasks, filled with the kind of eye-bursting, throat-stabbing Tanaris rum he knew these fellows would know to appreciate. He watched them drink, grimace, shudder and break into a blissful grin before he continued.

"So. Ah hear yer dragged som'thin' up frae t'deep?"

Indistinct muttering answered this. The torch bearer who had greeted him out on the frozen lake - he had, meanwhile, given his name as Torsten - nodded hesitantly.

"'S nae much though, I warn ya. T'was me what found it when we was hackin' away some o' t'ice ter get our lines out. Damn rock splinter almost broke mah pick. Tha's when we figured it was a wee bit special."

"Not normal rock, then?"

"Nae by a long shot. ‘S always t'same temp'rature, doesnae pick up t'warmth o' t'fire or t'cold o' t'ice. Ye cannae scratch it or-"

"Ya tried ter scratch it?!", Narath interrupted.

"Errr. We didnae ken what it was now, did we? Still dunno, ‘sides from t'speculations."

Torsten sounded a bit defensive so Narath passed him his flask of rum and nodded.

"Go on, lad."

"Aye. Where was I? Ah, yeh, t'shard. Well. ‘S nae big, y'know? Jus' a wee sliver o' rock wit' some etchin' on it what looks like writin' ter me. But as I telt ye: yer cannae even scratch t'darn thing. Bit o' a puzzler."

Narath nodded, trying to contain his excitement. His source, the master at the Kharanos brewery, hadn't mentioned any writing in his message.

"Can yer show me?"

Torsten nodded. Apparently, the fisherman had really been expecting a visit because all it took for him to produce the shard was opening the side compartment of his backpack. He handed it over carefully, apparently having forgotten his earlier tales of indestructibility,.

He was right though, thought Narath, it did feel odd in his hand, neither cold nor warm. The shard was no longer than a hand and no wider than two fingers, which meant that the runes that covered it would be near impossible to make sense of, fragmented as they were. Still, as soon as he laid eyes on them, all his tiredness was forgotten, so similar were they to the tablets and inscriptions the League had studied in Uldaman.

Narath would have to act, and act fast. He couldn't do this alone, under any circumstances. Where a fragment was, maybe the rest of the tablet would be found, too. He'd have to call in support from the lads that he could trust and try to get them to the spot before word spread. He had to...-

"Yer think this is valuable?", Torsten interrupted his musings.

Narath raised his eyes from the shard for a second to look at him.

"Yer'ave no idea, lad. Who else knows ‘bout this?"

Torsten shrugged.

"Only t'brewmaster. Oh, an' Gremlock."

Narath's eyes widened.

"Gremlock Pislnor? T'cook at t'Kharanos inn?"

This earned him a nod.

"Gremlock "Blabbermouth" Pilsnor, eh?"

Torsten looked mildly offended. The rest of the fishermen shot him some accusing glances. This, apparently, was news to them, too.

"Listen now, lads. ‘E's me cousin, yer know? An' ‘e can keep a secret if'n ‘e has ter!"

Narath snorted.

"Yeh. Right."

His time table has just shortened considerably. There were letters to be written and debts to be called in.

"Can ah hold on ter this fer a moment?", he said, holding up the shard.

The fishermen nodded.

"Yer a sound bunch o' toffs, lads", he told them as he rose. "Anyone o' ye's got a ram I can borrow? I need ter get ta Kharanos. Fast."

A few minutes later, he was being shaken up badly by an evil, foul-smelling ram named Bub, trotting across the ice into the rising dawn. He didn't even notice the stir. Narath had dozed off in the saddle.