"Ferelden."

The young mage nodded, smiling as if she were explaining this to a small child. Giro did not appreciate the comparison.

"I'm in… Ferelden. And that's in… Thedas."

Another nod.

Thedas. Where in the cog was Thedas? Nowhere in Azeroth, that was damn sure. Somehow, somewhere, he was certain this was Pnubris' fault. Blasted paladin.

"So there isn't a flight master here, I'm guessing."

"A what?"

Giro sighed. Well, that answered that question. "No gryphons?"

"Griffins?" the mage replied, looking excited and more than a little nostalgic. "Grey Wardens used to fly on griffins, but they all died out a long time ago."

So he ended up somewhere even more backwards than Orgrimmar. Excellent. He tugged on his beard, frowning. If they didn't have gryphons, how did people get around? Surely they weren't all using ground mounts still. How very six years ago.

He glanced around, but didn't see so much as a single horse or tiger tethered anywhere. "If you can't fly, what do you use for mounts?"

She stared at him as if he'd started speaking in Gnomish, and he wondered idly if he had. "Mounts? You mean horses? We don't have many of those in Ferelden. Too… Orlesian."

Orlesian. Was that a curse? It sure sounded like one. He filed that away for future use. So no horses. Good great sweating kobolds did they walk everywhere? It was his neophyte days all over again!

Giro fiddled with his thumbs as he wondered as to the best way to delicately phrase his next question. "So… er… from my wondrous treatment thus far, I'm guessing there aren't any… how do I put this… gnomes here? In Ferelden?"

She shook her head, as if telling him he was the only representative of his entire race present on a continent wasn't a big deal, and shrugged. "Nope. The closest thing I know of would be the dwarves, and they pretty much stay underground in Orzammar."

Orzammar? Did she mean Orgimmar? Dwarves are living in an orc city? What the cog?

Wait. Dwarves!

"There are dwarves?" Giro was all but bouncing. Dwarves were stonemasons! Surely they were more civilized than this backwater community that has a strange vulnerability to shadow bolts. "At least something about this place is similar."

Now she seemed amused. "I don't think there are any surface dwarves in camp right now."

Surface dwarves? Were there… different kinds of dwarf, here? Maybe things weren't so similar after all. Giro frowned. What other kind of dwarves were there? Bearded dwarves? Fat dwarves? Purple dwarves? Dwarves Without a Sense of Humor? How did she justify classifying a race by where they lived? That was like calling High-King Mekkatorque a "Gear-fetish gnome." You know. Because he'd stood in between those two gears for all those years. Just… standing. Yeah.

"So no gryphons." A nod. "No horses." Another nod. "And apparently everyone here has a mage-phobia, and can't tell the difference between a warlock and a sparkly man in a dress." A frown, but a third nod, accompanied by a disapproving stare worthy of Pnubris Lighthammer himself. "Fan. Cogging. Tastic." He ran a hand over his face and pulled on his beard. He was going to lose all the hair in it if something didn't go right for once. "Hm. So. Don't suppose you could, I don't know, let me out of this damn cage before I drop a Seed of Corruption on your ass?"

"You're going to plant a tree on my… ass?"

Giro put his head in his hands and sighed. This was going to be a long day.

This human had a very impressive beard. Giro was a bit jealous of it, actually. Sure his beard was big and poofy and nice to pull on when he's irritated, but he couldn't pull off something of that magnitude. A dwarf would kill for a beard like that. The little magelett who'd been interrogating / enlightening him for the past half hour had finally had enough of his threats and gone off and brought back Mr. Beard of Doom.

Giro supposed the man had a name, but he'd been too busy staring at the beard to really hear it. Humans with beards usually just looked ridiculous. But come on… this guy? This wasn't even fair.

"The guards are saying you used magic to slay one of the soldiers posted at the gates," Mr. Beard prompted. "A single spell. Not many mages I've met could claim to be able to do the same."

For the love of everything that has ever run on wheels I am NOT A MAGE. "Warlock."

"Pardon?" Mr. Beard frowned. At least, Giro thought he did. It was hard to tell. Because of the beard.

"Warlock. Not mage. Warlock. War. Lock. Warlock. There's a difference."

Mr. Beard nodded, as if he gave a damn, and Giro appreciated the gesture, however patronizing. "Right… warlock. My apologies. Solona tells me you claim to be from beyond Thedas?"

From beyond Thedas. Well that was a nice sugar-coated way of saying "royally screwed."

"You could say that, yes. And I have to admit, so far I am not impressed with you people's hospitality. If a foreigner came to Ironforge, we would have set him up in an inn and given him room and board, not locked him in a damn cage and dangled him about like some kind of freak show exhibit fit for the Darkmoon Faire!" Giro sucked in a breath and glared from beneath bushy white brows at Mr. Beard. "I am about one more midget mage comment away from burning this place to the damn ground. Sir."

"Most foreigners do not make a habit of killing our soldiers," Mr. Beard pointed out in that damn calm tone of voice that made Giro feel like an idiot. Giro had always hated that voice. He hated it when Pnubris used it, he hated it when his father used it, and he certainly hated it when Bushy Beard here used it.

"Most cities don't hire guards that can be taken out with an apprentice level Shadow Bolt," Giro shot back. "Now are you going to let me out of this cage or what?"

Mr. Beard stroked his Beard of Awesomeness. Giro imagined he got +5 Epic from having it equipped. "I'll speak with Knight-Captain Roeger, see if I can't work something out. Sit tight, Ser Whirgear."

Ser Whirgear? What is this, primary school? "Sit tight? Oh. Yeah, sure. Not that I can, you know, go anywhere else. Because of the cage."

Mr. Beard sighed, and it was impressive. He managed to convey exasperation, fondness, irritation, and amusement in a single breath. Giro wished he knew how to do that.

"Solona, go fetch Alistair. His Templar training might be of some use if Roeger agrees to release our small friend here."

"Small friend? Come up here and say that to my face, Mr. Beard!"

Solona pretended he hadn't spoken. "Yes, Duncan."

Duncan. So THAT'S Mr. Beard's name. I think I'll keep calling him Mr. Beard, though. He doesn't look like a Duncan.

'Duncan,' AKA Mr. Beard, paused and stared at Giro with an arched brow. "Pardon?"

"Hmm?"

"Did you call me Mr. Beard?"

"Of course not. That would be ridiculous."

Mr. Beard kept his eyebrow raised as he walked away, and Giro snickered at his back. Humans.

A/N: So was I the only one who when they first heard someone mention "Orzammar," I immediately thought of Orgrimmar? There's only a three letter difference. One is full of people living in squalor with incredibly short tempers who believe in-fighting and murdering each other is good politics, and the other is full of orcs. Wait...

A/N/N: I decided to go ahead and tack on "Ch. 5" onto the end of this, since they were both so short. Remember: Mr. Beard is watching you. Alwaaaaysss waaaatchhhinnngg...