Wizard's Mark Communication
A simple, yet incredibly convenient, method of spell communication that can be utilized by anyone with even a rudimentary grasp of arcane principles. The only real difference, and a rather significant one at that, is that the effective communication distance scales directly with the spellcaster's raw, unadulterated magical level. So, basically, the more powerful you are, the more you can annoy people from afar.
That night, under the cloak of a moonless sky, Duke, with the practiced ease of a seasoned spy (or a very good actor), pretended to embark on a crucial inspection of the shipbuilding progress down at Stormwind Harbor. This elaborate charade allowed him to casually, almost nonchalantly, slip away and rendezvous at a rocky beach near the harbor. The jagged, ancient rocks, worn smooth by countless tides, concealed everything with remarkable efficiency; even if a small army of very confused goblins were hidden here, they would not be easily spotted by the naked eye.
"Come out," Duke said lightly, his voice barely a whisper against the gentle lapping of the waves, yet it carried an undeniable authority, like a cosmic whisper.
From the shadowy depths of the rocks, a shimmering green form emerged. "Master," Zjara saluted Duke, her four arms folding gracefully over her shoulders, a picture of humble, serpentine obedience. She looked less like a fearsome Naga chieftain and more like a very elegant, very green, very respectful butler.
"What's wrong, Zjara?" Duke inquired, his tone betraying no surprise at her sudden, dramatic appearance.
Zjara, ever efficient, went straight to the point, bypassing all pleasantries. "The Grayscale Clan is here, Master. They have already crossed the treacherous Reef Sea off Stranglethorn Vale and will reach the sea off Dagger Ridge, in the southernmost part of Westfall, by tomorrow's dawn. I have already instructed the old blind murloc, that perpetually grumpy, one-eyed brute entrenched in the southwest of the wilderness and guarding the Westfall Lighthouse, to evacuate with his people. It is expected that they will arrive at our new camp when the sun rises the day after tomorrow morning."
Duke nodded, his chin raised slightly, a regal gesture. He knew the tactical implications. At the same magical level, a Naga could easily take on ten Murlocs, probably while juggling flaming fish. It wasn't just a matter of raw combat power, but also the natural, instinctual pressure of creatures at the absolute top of the food chain on their lower, less fortunate brethren. This meant that Murlocs, when facing a Naga, could only exert a pathetic 50% of their already questionable 100% combat power. To rashly let the murlocs fight back would be foolish, and Duke was not in the business of stupidity, unless it was someone else's.
"You did a great job, Zjara," Duke complimented, a rare, genuine note of approval in his voice.
Zjara bowed deeply, her serpentine body undulating gracefully, a silent acknowledgment of his praise. Then, a hint of pride in her voice, she added: "Also, congratulations on your recent promotion, Master. As soon as I arrived near Stormwind City, I could feel the surging, almost overwhelming magic power radiating from the Master in the mark. It was like a very large, very powerful, very angry lighthouse of arcane energy."
Duke was slightly stunned, then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "Follow me, Zjara," he said, his voice imbued with a hint of promise, "and you won't regret it. Now, go back first. I'll make a suitably dramatic appearance when the time comes."
Zjara nodded, bowed again, her four arms crossing over her chest in a gesture of profound respect. Then, with a graceful twist, she turned around, swaying her long snake tail, and her shimmering green figure sank silently into the waves of the sea, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared.
Duke looked at Zjara's disappearing back meaningfully. This female Naga, he mused, must have kept something in reserve. She might have been injured before, which caused her strength to temporarily decline. Now that she had recovered a lot, her strength had also recovered a lot, making her a far more formidable ally. But it just so happened that Duke's magic circuit was taking shape, making him even more formidable. The timing was, as always, impeccable.
Duke didn't care about Zjara's little thoughts, her hidden reserves of power. Firstly, his incredibly potent magical mark could tell him Zjara's true strengths and weaknesses with unnerving precision. Secondly, and more importantly, as long as Zjara couldn't afford the catastrophic price of betrayal, she would always remain loyal, bound by a magical leash and the sheer, overwhelming power of Duke's presence.
Turning back, Duke, with a spring in his step, went to find Makaro, ready to put the next phase of his grand, slightly unhinged plan into motion.
The next morning, before the first hint of dawn had even dared to paint the sky, the fishermen were already bustling about the docks, their faces grim with the prospect of another day wrestling with the unforgiving sea.
The dock, usually a cacophony of creaking ropes and salty curses, welcomed a truly distinguished guest: the wizard Edmund Duke. Following Duke, like a very well-armed, very loyal entourage, were a dozen mercenaries, including the burly, perpetually bewildered Makaro.
There was a rickety platform next to the weathered report board at the dock, usually used for announcing important events, like the arrival of a new shipment of particularly pungent fish. Today, Duke, in his pristine blue and white wizard robe, stood upon it. His robe was so dazzling, so utterly out of place amidst the grime and salt, that many fishermen didn't even dare to look Duke directly in the eye, fearing they might spontaneously combust from sheer wizardly brilliance.
Makaro and his men were all dressed in neat, brand-new leather armor, gleaming faintly in the pre-dawn gloom. Daggers were tied securely around their waists, and leggings protected their shins, a typical, if slightly overdressed, naval attire. They looked less like mercenaries and more like a very enthusiastic, very well-funded theatrical troupe.
Duke nodded slightly, a subtle signal. Makaro, taking his cue, stepped forward, his voice booming across the dock, hoarse from years of shouting over crashing waves. "Now - attention, all you salty dogs! The owner of the legendary Pearl Road, a distinguished member of the Stormwind Royal Wizard Corps, the one and only Wizard Edmund Duke, has a big, slightly dangerous, and incredibly lucrative business proposition for you!"
"Slightly dangerous?" a fisherman muttered, exchanging nervous glances with his neighbor. "Big business?" another whispered, his eyes widening with greed. "Looking for us fishermen?" a third scoffed, utterly bewildered.
The fishermen were all a little stunned, but also, undeniably, a little excited. The cargo ships of the Pearl Road, laden with glittering wealth, were entering and leaving the port almost every day, right under their very noses. At first, those who were hired were all novices, desperate souls who had no boats to go out to sea, and even less hope. But now? Those lucky bastards were being paid twice as much as ordinary sailors, just for sailing a short, two-day round-trip on the Pearl Road, and they were all paid upfront, in gold!
There were no attacks from murlocs, no menacing Nagas, no terrifying sea beasts. They were able to earn a salary that was envied by every other fisherman in peace and quiet, practically a vacation! They were often scolded by their long-suffering families for not catching up with the good times and making their first pot of gold in the Pearl Road.
The more relatively peaceful the times are, the easier it is to stimulate the adventurous, often foolish, gene in the human body. The fishermen's eyes almost popped out of their sockets when they saw the two burly mercenaries beside Makaro carrying up a large, wooden box, overflowing with gleaming gold coins. It was a sight that would make a dragon weep with envy.
There were surprises and joys, all mixed into a chaotic, gold-fueled frenzy.
What was surprising was that the fishermen's usual meager wages were definitely not worth the unit of gold coins. They usually dealt in coppers and silvers, if they were lucky.
The good news, however, was that this was definitely a big deal. A very, very big, very, very golden deal.
Makaro, sensing the palpable shift in the crowd's mood, continued shouting in a hoarse voice, his words now imbued with a theatrical flair: "Don't worry, you landlubbers! Sir Edmund is not asking you to do any nefarious pirate business! Now, listen closely! A group of very angry, very scaly Nagas are about to attack your warehouse, which is currently floating in the sea! Sir, in his infinite wisdom, wants to sink your old, leaky fishing boats to a designated place and catch those damn Nagas in one fell swoop, like very large, very angry fish! In return, you will be compensated with a brand new fishing boat of the same size, or you can directly buy it with 500 gold coins! Every fisherman who ventures into the shipwreck zone will be compensated with two gold coins! And if they unfortunately die, it will be a glorious 10 gold coins for their families! Everyone can get the gold coins before sailing! No funny business!"
At this time, the shirtless, perpetually grumpy old man Jackson, the dock's resident shipwright, lumbered onto the stage, his belly jiggling with each step. "Listen up, you lot!" he bellowed, his voice like grinding gears. "Sir Edmund has placed an additional order for forty boats from me! All the money for the shipbuilding has been paid in advance, in gold! You can get any fishing boat you want from me! Even that fancy one with the extra mast!"
Old Jackson's words, backed by the undeniable jingle of actual gold, were more convincing than those of an outsider like Makaro. He was a man of his word, and his word was backed by cold, hard cash.
One fisherman, his eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and dawning greed, was tempted. He asked in a trembling voice, as if afraid the words would vanish into thin air, "We just need to sink the old fishing boat to a designated place and swim away, and we can get a new boat and the reward? That's it? No fighting giant squid?"
"Yes! That's it!" Makaro roared, his face splitting into a grin. "Sir Edmund will personally take care of those damned Nagas, probably by turning them into very expensive, very dead sushi! And our mercenary group will sit on the ship at the back, sipping tea and picking everyone up and bringing them back to Storm Harbor! Okay, now Sir Edmund needs 10 fishing boats! Who's coming?! Don't be shy, there's gold in it for you!"
When there is a big reward, there will always be brave men. Or, in this case, very greedy, slightly desperate men.
On average, a fisherman could earn two or three silver coins from a single trip out to sea. And was there no risk when going out to sea? Fishermen these days were always in danger, constantly wrestling with the elements and whatever monstrous horrors lurked beneath the waves. Even near the coast, there were still huge sharks, menacing mermen, and all kinds of unspeakable sea monsters just waiting for a snack.
So let alone 10 gold coins for a death benefit, even 1 gold coin for a risky venture would be worth a lot to these desperate souls. It was practically winning the lottery.
"I!" a voice shouted, followed by a chorus of eager cries.
"My boat! My boat! I've wanted to replace that broken, leaky boat for a long time! It practically sinks on its own anyway!" another yelled, pushing his way to the front.
Zjara, meanwhile, was blissfully unaware of the chaotic, gold-fueled recruitment drive happening in Stormwind City.
The female Naga leader only knew that she was in very, very big trouble. The kind of trouble that involved a lot of angry Nagas and a distinct lack of escape routes.
With Duke's support, she had managed to gather half of the murloc clans in the Westfall as her subordinates, a smelly, but surprisingly numerous army. Now, half of the shallow bay was filled with those noisy, perpetually agitated murlocs, more than two thousand of them, their beady eyes darting nervously.
At first glance, such an amazing number was enough to capture a human town, probably by sheer overwhelming stench. But Zjara knew very well that unless Duke was here, personally radiating his terrifying, multi-handed power, these fishmen were just a bunch of weaklings who could only fight when the wind was favorable, and even then, they'd probably trip over their own fins.
A male Naga, a hulking brute with a long, jagged scar on the left side of his face extending from his forehead to the corner of his mouth, and even a blind left eye, came over, holding a huge trident with a blade wider than a human body. He looked like he'd been in a few too many bar brawls.
"High Priest," the scarred Naga rasped, his voice like grinding coral, "here comes the latest news. Grayscale has nearly 400 Nagas coming this time, and he has also led more than 3,000 murlocs. We..."
"That's enough," Zjara interrupted, her voice tight with a mixture of fear and grim determination. She knew the numbers. And the numbers were not in their favor.