The Assassination of Gogól Irondawn, by the coward Quinian Timmens.

The extra braziers outside Ironforge Great Library had been since long lit. A steady stream of people were coming in through its big main entrance. The Ironforge Senate was about to begin.
Sturdy, dirty, stout, bawdy, hardy, smutty- snot-nosed and corrupt, all were the types of dwarves and non-dwarves that made up the crowd of the senate’s public session. Note that most of the senators themselves weren't better in any way.
With the absence of High Chancellor Dragonback, Anrim Stouthammer stepped up to fill his role, trying in vain to maintain order in the room, everyone trying to make themselves heard over the others. The other senators included Frejva Gump of the Stouthammers, Lord Blackforge the Bean Counter and a Dark Iron senator-on-trial that will not be mentioned by name.
As usual, the great Senator-Marshal Irondawn, great hero of the working class of Ironforge, was abscent. Saluted by all the commoners from smith to tanner, the fat politician that cared for the people and nation above all. Feared by all foe.
Just as Senator Anrim announced the beginning of the session, a roaring laughter was audible, that caused the masses go quiet in an instant, and a dwarf dressed in a green army jacket, twirling a majestic walrus moustache slowly paced down the stairs to the senatorial floor, waving off a friend he was apparently talking with a moment ago.

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“What an’ honour ye’ make us Gogól by –finally- deciding ye’ ‘ave time fer’ us.” The Bean counter said as to begin the session. “Simple servants o’ Ironforge..” He was swiftly silenced by another of Gogól's fatherly laughter, his impresive belly heaving up and down as he nodded and waved at Cyrik before lighting his cigar “Aren’t I ‘ere now Lord Cyrik, isn’t I?” Senator-Marshal's distaste for the nobility was deeproting and well known by those close to him. “Do go on Stouthammer, dun' mind me'” said Gogól, leaning against the table, already looking vaguely bored. Anrim continued with rolling eyes, but kept being professional. And so the Senate begun at its regular pace, with each senator checking what news their seat had to bring up. A long and, to everyone, boring wait started for whatever they were interested in, be it ale, taxes or news from the front.
In other words, it was the usual waiting game.
Senator Irondawn was noticably barely awake for most of the session, his head bobbing as he struggled to keep his eyes open, tapping some ash off his second cigar, mumbling rude comments to any of the senators he found fitting to talk to.
Finally, after a dreadful amount of time, it was the senate's turn to let any of the visitors approach the senatorial floor with whatever requests or questions they wish to say.
Ale taxes being a hot topic, as usual. Some foreign ambassadors, and of course that wrteched Ioanna of the Chapter of Holy Anethion, escorted by some of her loyal lapdogs. Religious nutjobs, the whole lot of them. Save us from evil, and hold you’r trembeling children close, son don’t get caught on the wrong side when Anethion daringly enters the mountain of Irondawn, even universes collide.
Some said they had been invited by the old, scheming Senator-Marshal, but most just laughed at this silly joke, why would a proud dwarf of Ironforge ever associate himself with people like that.
Soon a dranei approached the floor, being granted the turn to speak, debating about a possible aid from her people, to help out with the Menethil disaster.
It was discussed and politly neglected, dwarves don’t need help.
Irondawn was probally asleep, his head leaned heavily in his hand and his eyes closed, breathing heavily.

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave.

The first spark that lit up the dark came from across the room, the former so elegant dranei ambassador had begun screaming, her dress having caught fire. Guards rushing to the scene trying to understand what was happening.
Some say they swear they saw a gloomy gnome rush from the scene at that point, but still to this day nothing but rumors.
The mountain was shaking when the first round went off. Panic.
The mountain trembled as the second round was shot into the Senator-Marshal's chest.
A man, tall and thin, of an enviable height, known to be quite handsome in a certin angle, in a certain light, held the two flintlockes, the barrels still smoking, threateningly at the crowd which quickly parted. “Krickle!” Yelled the assassin as he dashed towards the exit that had disappeared amongst the public, with the guards being stuck somewhere in between..

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So here he was at last. The convert alcoholic. The pious warmonger. Could not dance a half measure, could he? Give him the wine and he'd drain the dregs and toss the empty bottle at the world. There goes Gogól, shuffling from the world. His dribble fresh upon the books, looking upon a pinhead and see angels dancing.
Well? Do you like me now?


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<3

<3 Indeed.

Honour goes to Elzbag the Shink for starting the fire.