The Basement Chronicles

## Summary

Spoons and Wrylla's adventures all the way through, from their unconventional meeting to their adventures toegther, gradually meeting those who would become their closest friends along the way. This story is ongoing. Content warning for Melvil.

## Characters

* Gideon "Spoons" Spoonser
* Wrylla Reeves
* Melvil Oldham

## The Basement Chronicles

### Part One- The Old Man from Goldshire

Goldshire: place of notoriety for some, a den of sleazy frivolities for others. But for Gideon Spoonser, known simply as ‘Spoons’ to most, Goldshire was home. The heady musk of the Lion’s Pride Inn was too familiar to him to be bothersome, and he had long since come to understand that the beds in this building were usually not used for sleeping. As such, he had spent his four years of residency within the inn curled up in a ball behind the bar. At first Barkeep Dobbins had beaten him away with a broom, but over time he too had grown too used to Spoons’ presence for it to bother him.

  “He’s a bit like a stray dog,” Dobbins would tell customers who looked over warily at the young man sitting alone in the corner. “Just came in one day. He doesn’t really talk or do much, mostly only sleeps here. Sometimes he goes outside to piss in a bush.”

There was definitely truth in the barkeep’s words—Spoons’ life was incredibly bland for a man living in the most famous inn on Azeroth.  It was a fact he was having trouble realising. He could not understand the creeping boredom that made him lethargic and unexplainably sad. Sometimes he would try to strike up a conversation with the barkeep or another of the inn’s staff and found that would often alleviate some of his low mood for a short time—but it would always be temporary.

More recently, Spoons found himself reminiscing about his old home. His family had not been wealthy or important in any way—they were just ordinary Westfall residents with an ordinary little corn farm. His upbringing had been confusingly difficult, for it did not matter what Spoons tried to do to win the affection of his parents or siblings—it would always backfire and get him in trouble. Then, one day, his parents had simply had enough. His father put him in the back of his cart and rode to Goldshire, dropping Spoons off by the flight master and telling him it was time he stopped sapping his family’s resources and make some sort of living for himself. His father had got back in the cart and rode away, and Spoons had not seen him since. Goldshire had been unusually busy that day, so Spoons was shoved and bumped around enough by random folk in unpleasantly heavy armour to make him cry with anxiety. He sobbed to the flight master that he did not know where to go, and the flight master replied that for a few copper he could fly him to Stormwind and Spoons could speak with someone there who might help him, or even seek out King Varian himself. Spoons had liked that idea, but had no money to pay the man. But for once, fortune had been in Spoons’ favour, for the flight master took pity on him. He offered a flight to Stormwind and back for free, asking only that Spoons pay him back when he earned the means. Spoons had accepted his offer, and while he found the flight there very scary and had to close his eyes for its duration, he arrived in Stormwind in one piece.

The city was far bigger than he could have imagined and he spent a good twenty minutes walking in muddled circles before a guard realised he was lost and led him to Stormwind Keep when he mentioned his quest to find King Varian. On the way, Spoons saw all kinds of things— men and women atop beautiful mounts standing around idly before the auction houses; death knights being pelted with rotting fruit by civilians and city protectors alike; a small pug that ran up to him and sniffed his shoes— even a furious-looking man swimming around in the canals flicking water at passers-by.

Spoons’ awe only grew as he was led into Stormwind Keep, finding the place far grander than anyplace he had seen. And there, slouched on the throne with his scarred brow furrowed as he focused on the scroll he was reading, was the man of Spoons’ dreams. He could do nothing but stand and gape at the King, causing him to raise an eyebrow when he felt Spoons’ vapid gaze rest on him for an uncomfortable period of time.

  “Can I help you, citizen?” Varian asked, handing his scroll to a nearby guard and leaning back on the throne. Spoons mistook his weary demeanour for that of a man trying to be aloof and mysterious. Spoons found this very attractive.

  “I-I…” Spoons stammered, taking a moment to remember why he had come all this way in the first place. “M-My parents kicked me out in Goldshire and said I need to make a living, also there’s a man I owe money to now but I don’t have a job and I don’t know how to… I don’t know how…” he trailed off, looking up at Varian helplessly.

The King narrowed his eyes. “They kicked you out in *Goldshire?* I… how old are you?”

Spoons took a moment to count with his fingers. “Sixteen, I think.”

  “Well then, Goldshire definitely isn’t a good place for you to be. Maybe I have some openings somewhere a bit… *cleaner*.” Varian took a moment to think. “Are you any good at cooking?”

Spoons shook his head. “No.”

  “No matter, nor am I. Hm, how about tailoring?”

  “What’s that?”

Varian looked at him oddly. “It’s sewing, making clothes. That sort of thing.”

  “Oh!” Spoons exclaimed. “No, I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Leatherworking? So like tailoring but with animal skins.”

  “No.”

  “Uh, blacksmithing perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “Jewelcrafting? Enchanting? Inscription? Anything?”

  “N-No,” Spoons said. He felt overwhelmed by all these questions. “I never learned to do anything, your royalness.”

Varian hummed as he thought. “Perhaps this would be a good time to do some learning, then.” He waved a guard over. “Please take this young man to the cooking trainer, tell him I’ve asked for him to be apprenticed.”

And so Spoons tried his hand at cooking, and burned that hand. Eventually the trainer could take it no more and he was palmed off to the tailoring trainer. Again, accidents happened too regularly to be excused. Spoons was passed from trainer to trainer, trying and failing at everything the city had to offer. Two years went by and poor Spoons was none the wiser—but he was at least a little richer. He now had a few silver pieces to his name, and one day while watching the gryphon riders soar overhead, he remembered his old promise to the flight master of Goldshire.

And that was how he ended up back in the small town. He found the flight master only to discover he did not remember him at all, but the man seemed happy to accept the copper pieces. So happy, in fact, that he invited Spoons to get a drink in the Lion’s Pride Inn. Now an awkward eighteen-year-old, Spoons was admitted entry and allowed to drink at the bar. The flight master passed out quickly after downing an enormous flagon of ale, while Spoons sipped at the bitter drink and wondered how anyone could stomach something so unpleasant. But if everyone was drinking it, maybe he was the odd one out for not enjoying the taste. So out of fear of being outcast, Spoons finished the ale and spent the rest of the night in a drunken haze. When he awoke in the basement of the inn, all of his possessions had been stolen. Panicking, Spoons raced outside to find the flight master, only to find another in his place.

  “Old guy died of liver failure in the Inn last night,” the new flight master explained. “It was a long time coming, really.”

Spoons felt sad, but had not yet realised the implications of his acquaintance’s untimely death. “Can you fly me back to Stormwind? My money got stolen in the Inn, so can I pay you later?”

The new flight master raised an eyebrow at him and laughed. “Oldest trick in the book, kid. I’m not falling for it. Come back when you have the money.”

Spoons had gone back into the Inn with tears in his eyes, hoping to find someone kind who might help him. Sadly, Goldshire had very few kind regulars, and it was a good few months before he had enough copper to make the trip.

But Spoons hesitated to leave. In Goldshire, he couldn’t mess anything up. No one could fire him if he did nothing. That, and he was really scared of this new flight master.

And so, five years passed in Goldshire, with Spoons living in the very same corner, seeing the very same faces day after day.

But there was one face in particular that Spoons seemed to be seeing far more than the rest. It was that of an elderly man by the name of Melvil. He was not much to look at with his sagging skin, largely bald head, rheumy eyes and uncomfortably well-trimmed grey moustache, yet none of this bore any ill effect on his surprising popularity with the Inn’s other patrons. Melvil would come to the bar with any combination of races and genders with their arms looped through his, order a round of drinks for them all and then head up to his bed of choice.

Today, however, was one of the increasingly more common days when Melvil approached the bar alone. He planted himself on a stool and sighed heavily, his moustache ruffling as if caught in a breeze.

  “Rough night on the prowl, huh?” Barkeep Dobbins ventured, eyeing Melvil with mild distaste.

The old man nodded. “Yet another perfect, voluptuous Pandaren beauty spurned my advances. Am I losing my touch?” Melvil paused. He held his wrinkled hands up and examined them forlornly. “Am I finally past my prime?”

Dobbins shrugged and busied himself with cleaning a mug. “Well, you are, like, eighty years old or something. Lived longer than most.”

Melvil clenched his hands into fists and sighed. An unreadable expression passed his face, but he smiled calmly as he looked at the barkeep. “A Stormwind Tawny, if you will.”

As he waited for his drink to be prepared, Melvil’s steady gaze settled on Spoons. He was trying to hide that he’d been listening to their conversation.

  “You there, little fellow who always sits in the corner!” said Melvil, catching Spoons’ attention. “You look young and strong. Would you be up for an adventure?”

Spoons jumped when he was addressed. “I-I, um…  what kind of adventure?” His hesitation did not come from Melvil’s inherent creepiness—for Spoons had mistaken him entirely for a kind old man who must be very nice since he always had so many friends to buy drinks for. It instead came from the vagueness of Melvil’s offer.

  “I need to pop to Northrend to speak with an old friend of mine. It is a long journey, and as enfeebled as I am now I cannot make it alone,” said Melvil. His watery eyes twinkled. “So what say you, friend?”

Spoons’ heart jumped a bit. No one had ever called him “friend” before!

   “Um, okay!” he replied, getting to his feet. “What do I have to do?”

Melvil patted the empty bar stool beside him and smiled. “Take a seat here. I will explain everything over a drink. My treat.”

Dobbins, who had just handed Melvil his Stormwind Tawny, frowned. “I assume you’ll be wanting another of these, then?”

   “Indeed I shall. Now hop to it!”

\*\*\*

The evening passed relatively merrily for Spoons, who considered it to be one of the best days he’d had in a long time. Melvil was strange—Spoons wasn’t sure he liked how the elderly fellow would talk softly and move with a smooth deliberation unbefitting of someone of his age.  It also took a while for him to notice that Melvil made absolutely no sound whatsoever when he moved. Spoons thought he would have made a very good rogue.

They had chatted about all sorts of things—Melvil about the many, many loves of his life and Spoons about his family trouble. Melvil offered a sympathetic ear and words of encouragement, and by the end of the night Spoons truly felt as though he had made a friend. Melvil even rented a room each for them in the Inn so Spoons would have a good night’s sleep before they left for Northrend in the morning.

The sun rose over Elwynn, and Spoons and Melvil left the Inn bright and early. Melvil made to head for the flight master, only to stop when he noticed Spoons had suddenly become uneasy.

  “Is something wrong?” Melvil asked.

Spoons looked away, ashamed. “Its nothing, I’m just… I’m kind of scared of the flight master. He doesn’t like me and I’m worried he’ll shout at me or something if I go near him.”

Melvil chuckled and patted his shoulder. “There is nothing to fear, my dear boy. Come with me, I will show you.”

The older man strode up to the flight master confidently, with Spoons creeping meekly behind and avoiding any eye contact. “Bartlett!” Melvil exclaimed. “I require a gryphon large enough for two passengers, to make the short journey to Stormwind. My legs are not what they used to be.”

The flight master barely gave Melvil a glance, but had a good stare at Spoons. For some reason, the man looked utterly horrified. “…You’re taking *him* with you?” He lowered his voice, taking on an almost pleading tone. “Melvil, come on, doesn’t he seem a bit… you know, young?”

Melvil rolled his eyes. “Oh Bartlett, it is nothing like that, I assure you. I simply need a journeying partner. I am not as capable as I once was.”

The flight master—Bartlett—nodded uneasily. He watched Spoons for a moment longer and went to untie one of his larger gryphons. “A silver piece for the two of you,” he said.

Melvil handed him his payment and mounted the gryphon, motioning for Spoons to do the same. Once they were seated, the great bird took off and flew them the short—yet still rather daunting from Spoons’ perspective—journey to Stormwind.

With the wind roaring as they flew, Spoons had to raise his voice to be heard. “Uh, Melvil? What did that guy mean about me being young?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, my boy,” Melvil replied. He made no effort to raise his own voice, so his reply was as good as lost. Spoons, worrying that he was being ignored, fell silent for the rest of the journey.

When they arrived in Stormwind, Spoons was a little surprised to find the city almost completely unchanged. The streets were still clean yet busy; the same market stalls were open to sell their wares; and the strange fellow who appeared to live in the canals was now standing on one of the bridges in an oddly aggressive and territorial stance. Melvil’s route did not cross his, something Spoons was very thankful for.

They reached the harbour as their ship docked. Melvil sat down on a crate and stretched while Spoons peered over the edge into the sloshing, dark water below.

  “Have you ever been on a boat before, Spoons?” Melvil asked.

Spoons shook his head. “No, never. I hear that people can sometimes feel seasick on boats, though. Is that going to happen to me?”

Melvil shrugged. “Probably not. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

When the ship set off, Spoons immediately vomited off its edge.

\*\*\*

What was already a difficult journey with sharp turns around the Maelstrom and terribly choppy waters was worsened for the ship’s passengers by Spoons’ never-ending seasickness. It was a miracle that Spoons had any fluid left in him by the time they reached Valiance Keep. Melvil helped him hobble down the pontoon to land, and Spoons turned to enter the nearest inn, only for Melvil to catch his arm and shake his head.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have time to stop there. We’re close to our destination though, do not worry.”

Spoons had to suppress a whine, very much wanting to lie down. “I feel really sick and dizzy,” he mumbled, swaying a bit.

Melvil held him steady. “I know, Spoons, I know. It’s not far, I promise you. Wait here a moment, just here by the pontoon. Perhaps do not look at the water too much.”

Too exhausted to argue, Spoons did as he was told. Luckily Melvil was true to his word and returned a few minutes later. He pulled an end of rope along with him, the other end fastened to the hull of a very small rowing boat bobbing about in the water beneath. He helped Spoons climb down into it first before hopping in himself and taking hold of one set of oars. He nodded at Spoons to follow suit.

  “I’m too old and feeble to row us there by myself,” he explained. “I need your help with this.”

Spoons shivered and slipped his hands out of his shirt sleeves to take the oars. He felt sick and weak, and the biting cold of the Borean Tundra was not making things any better. “Wh-Where are we g-going?” he said through chattering teeth.

  “You’ll see,” was Melvil’s only reply. He began to row, frowning at Spoons until he rowed too.

It was around this moment that Spoons started to have serious doubts about following Melvil all the way out here to the middle of nowhere. Already Valiance Keep was invisible behind the thick fog that roiled over the surface of the icy water. All that could be seen was ocean and glaciers from horizon to horizon. Spoons shivered, trying to focus on the patterns his ghosting breath made as he breathed instead of meeting Melvil’s unrelenting gaze. Part of Spoons felt like crying right now—he had no idea where he was, he was tired and cold, and the only person in his vicinity was a weird old man he’d met in Goldshire. Not really the best of situations.

While he might have wanted to cry, he simply could not for the cold was too great. Frost prickled at the corners of his eyes, instantly freezing any tears that would leak from him.

So caught up was he in his misery that Spoons almost did not notice when Melvil stopped their boat at the foot of an icy mountain. Spoons looked at it in confusion, not liking the triumph on Melvil’s face.

  “Here we are!” Melvil exclaimed, confirming Spoons’ fears.

  “…H-Here?” he stammered, looking at the sheer cliff face and thick ice. “Why did you want to come here?”

Instead of replying, Melvil stood up and started to remove the outer layers of his clothing. Spoons, immediately panicking, lurched back and made the boat rock. “What are you doing?!”

Melvil stumbled and frowned. “Please don’t jolt the boat, Spoons. And all I’m doing is removing some clothing so I can swim a little easier. I suggest you do the same.”

  “I—*swim?”*

  “Well, of course! It’s the only way to get to the underwater cave,” Melvil replied.

For some reason that answer quelled a lot of Spoons’ fears. They were going to a secret cave! Now that sounded a lot more like an adventure. Perhaps there would be treasure inside, or this elusive “old friend” Melvil had mentioned before. Some sort of wizard, perhaps? Spoons did not know.

Fuelled by excitement, Spoons removed his boots and shirt and followed Melvil into the bitter depths below… momentarily forgetting he could not swim. But Melvil took him by the wrist and glided with surprising grace down to an opening in the icy rock, pulling them both into a chilly air pocket. Within was snow, ice, a rocky tablet and some pillars and what looked to be some murloc eggs. Spoons looked around, utterly freezing but remaining enthusiastic.

  “Is this where we’ll find your friend?” Spoons said, hopping about to keep warm.

Melvil hesitated at that, but nodded. He climbed onto the stone tablet in the centre of the cave and lied back on it. “There is an old friend coming to see me here. They may be a little late, though.”

  “That’s okay, this place is really cool!” Spoons said. He examined one of the broken pillars with interest. “Where do you think this came from? Some kind of lost city or something?”

Melvil mumbled in reply, sliding his eyes closed. “I am too old to have the time to think about things like that, my young friend,” he said. “Too old… too old for Goldshire, too old for the Pandaren women…”

Spoons looked up, a little worried by the sudden change in Melvil’s tone. “Um, are you alright?”

A thin smile stretched Melvil’s creased lips. “My old friend… they are almost here…”

The panic from before returned instantly, and Spoons rushed to Melvil’s side. “Who is this friend? What are you talking about?”

Melvil chuckled feebly and took a long breath. “My dear friend death comes at last to claim me. It has been… an adventure.” Melvil coughed, his head lolling to the side. The rise and fall of his chest slowed. “Thank you, Spoons… thank you.”

And with a weary sigh, Melvil was gone.

\*\*\*

Spoons blinked, unable to process what had just happened. Melvil no longer breathed or moved. Hoping that this was some sort of trick, Spoons poked him, but there was of course no response. He shared this cave now with a dead man. This isolated cave beneath freezing waters.

The icy tears returned and Spoons bit down on his knuckle to keep from breaking out into loud, terrified sobs. He was stuck down here. He reached into his pocket, knowing already his hearthstone would not be there but hoping to try nonetheless. It would be in its usual spot under the bar in Goldshire to gather dust, as Spoons usually had no reason to use it.

The cold bit into him, chilling him to his very bones. If he stayed in this cave much longer, he’d be joining Melvil in death. Spoons made the decision to leave the cave to chance the water. Although he could not swim, if he could at least reach the boat he’d have a shot at survival. His shirt was dry and waiting for him, along with the majority of Melvil’s clothes… assuming the boat had not drifted away.

It was a risk he would have to take. Spoons held his breath and eased back into the water, using nooks and crannies in the rocky wall as handholds to pull himself out of the cave and propel towards the surface. It took several attempts and Spoons was fast running out of air, but in a great stroke of luck he pushed himself to the surface, clambering onto a jutting rock at the cliff edge. The boat was nearby, but slowly drifting further and further out into the water. He could try to swim towards it, but the idea of getting back into the scary water was not one Spoons wanted to entertain again. He would need a way to hook the boat and pull it in.

Copying an idea he had once seen his father use when trying to retrieve a stray ear of corn from beneath his tractor, Spoons peeled off his sodden belt and trousers. He fastened the belt around one of the trouser legs, adding a degree of weight to it. He got to his feet, the non-belted leg in hand, and struck out with the trousers. The belted end landed over the edge of the boat, and with extreme care Spoons was able to bring it in closer, closer…

Only for a stray wave to capsize the thing as it reached him. Spoons’ shirt and shoes, along with all of Melvil’s possessions, sank to the bottom of the sea. Spoons was too cold to cry about his loss just yet and flipped the boat back over, jumping into it before it could float away again. He thanked whatever gods there were that the oars were attached, taking hold of a pair and sailing for all he was worth. The cold, the thin puddle he was forced to sit in and the fact that he was sailing alone made the job incredibly difficult. Spoons suspected many times that he was going around in circles. He began to lose hope again, looking around in desperation at the desolate wintry waterscape for any sign of land.

But there was none.

Spoons was not sure how much time passed before he finally gave up. He let go of the oars, did his best to cover himself with his cold, damp trousers, and sobbed himself into a dreamless, exhausted sleep. He would die here in this boat, half naked and reeking of vomit. He would never see his family again, or King Varian, or do anything worthwhile with his life. Failure on the first adventure he ever went on.

Nothing but failure.

Nothing but cold.

### Part Two: Saved By A Stranger

Spoons felt warmth envelop him like a hug. He smelled cocoa and coffee beans, pinewood and snow. Spoon decided he liked whatever dream this was.

  “I think he’s coming to. Hey, can you hear me?”

Whose voice was that, Spoons wondered. It definitely was not his. He guessed it belonged to a woman.

He felt a hand on his, patting, squeezing. Spoons squeezed it back. The voice seemed to like that.

  “Ah, a sign of life! Lets see if another hot water bottle will help you along.”

Spoons heard rustles of movement and felt a nice patch of weight and warmth on his chest. It sloshed a bit as he breathed. He moved his hands to place on this nice sloshy warm thing. They were sore and stiff, and the gentle heat helped to soothe the pain.

  “More movement!” the voice exclaimed. “You’re doing really good. Can you open your eyes for me?”

Now there was something warm and soft on his cheek. A hand, Spoons supposed. It helped him to regain awareness of what little feeling he had in his face. He knew where his cheek was. He moved his lips about—there was his mouth. A long breath of fragrant air helped him locate his nose. He twitched his eyes, now seeing the gentle redness of the light behind closed eyelids. To pull them open was a valiant effort, but after a couple of tries he managed it.

At first, he did not register what he was seeing. His vision was blurred and it was a conscious struggle to focus it. The image of his surroundings swam into view; he was tucked up in bed in an inn, and a warm and cosy one at that. A healthy fire crackled in the brazier, bathing the building in dancing yellow light.

And there, sitting carefully on Spoons’ bed with her hand on his cheek, was a young woman. She was clad in leather and fur and seemed small in stature, with a pale face, somewhat wide-set hazel eyes and a prominent gap between her front teeth. Her hair was red and tied into a messy bun atop her head. She smiled when she saw Spoons recognise her presence and retracted her hand.

  “You did it,” she said, seeming relieved. “Not going to lie, I sort of thought you were a goner when we found you washed up half-naked on Riplash Strand. It’s a miracle the kvaldir didn’t get to you first.”

Spoons listened, a little confused. He fidgeted beneath his blankets as he gradually regained feeling in the rest of his body. He was now aware he was wearing warm linen pyjamas. “…I’m alive?” he wondered aloud.

The woman took it for a legitimate question and nodded, patting his arm. “Yep. A little worse for wear by the looks of things, but definitely alive. You hungry? Maybe a nice rich soup will help.”

Spoons opened his mouth to reply but his stomach rumbled first. The woman laughed.

  “Guess that’s settled.” She moved to stand up but paused, looking down at Spoons. “Oops, sorry, I always forget to introductions. I’m Wrylla; I’m a hunter from the Eastern Kingdoms. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I-I’m Spoons,” Spoons croaked, realising his mistake a second too late. “Oh, um, Spoons is actually a nickname. My name’s Gideon, but my surname is Spoonser so people just call me Spoons mostly…”

Wrylla smiled. “Spoons is a decent nickname, very memorable. So then, Spoons, if you want to just keep yourself comfy over here I’ll buy you some soup and maybe something hot and sweet to drink if you like the sound of that.”

Spoons nodded vigorously. “That sounds really good! Thank you very much for being so nice to me, I… I don’t really have much to repay you with though.”

  “That’s absolutely fine, I’m not expecting any kind of payment,” Wrylla said. “I mean, I am curious to know what happened to you here if you remember and are comfortable with sharing.”

  “I *think* I remember,” Spoons said. “ And I’m okay with talking about it.”

Wrylla smiled. “Then that can be the payment. Sit tight, Spoons. I won’t be long.”

She stood and headed to the inn’s kitchen, and Spoons laid his head back down on the pillow, thoughts racing. Everything seemed so surreal right now. The trip here with Melvil, the events in the cave and then escaping it. And how he was safe and warm, and a nice lady was offering help. Part of Spoons felt he should be suspicious of her, especially because of what had just happened with Melvil. Spoons had been far too trusting-- but there had been moments of doubt. If only he’d abandoned their “adventure” when the flight master had acted so oddly around Melvil. Spoons opted to trust Wrylla until there might be a moment of doubt-- and if that happened, he would not make the same mistake twice. Maybe. Hopefully.

Spoons just really hoped he would be able to trust her.

\*\*