(58) - Lightbringer

Griffonclaw wore no armor, nor his usual panoply of weapons, when he visited Booty Bay; there was still a large price on his head, offered by the Venture Mining Company, no questions asked. Dark leather boots, grey cotton trousers, and a plain blue tunic replaced his armor, and just a plain serviceable steel shortsword hung at his side. A plain brown hooded cloak mantled his shoulders and hid his face from common scrutiny - he appeared at best to be a middlingly-prosperous merchant, which was his intent.

He stopped at one of the lower levels of the city, built over the waters of the bay; many of the buildings in Booty Bay had been built in conjunction with the wharves and docks, becoming integral to the structural integrity of the goblin trading town. The lower levels were the least prestigious; it was from these lower docks that the fishing smacks left each morning, heading up and own the coastal waters, bringing their catches. Many of the buildings had guarderobe outlets, the raw sewage mixing with the salty waters near the piers; the stench alone would have made the lower levels less desirable, but the depressed rents had made these levels attractive to certain types of businesses, whose processes produced undesirable fumes - undesirable only in comparison to fresh air, in any case.

He knocked thrice, kneeling next to the low door. A sliding panel in the door opened, and bloodshot red eyes observed the paladin from within briefly, before closing again. Sounds of the locks and latches being undone were heard, and finally, the door opened, the goblin behind the door beckoning Griffonclaw in.

"Master Springvale!" the goblin cried, "Thrice welcome, oh generous and worthy partner! What brings you out of Thelsamar?" Griffonclaw had assumed an alter-ego for several long-term investments, using his mother's surname and his birth-name; technically correct, if long out of use.

"Master Gvilken, it is always good to see you! Things go well, then?" Griffonclaw inquired.

The goblin chuckled. "Business is as good as it ever was, I suppose; your contacts with the Stormwind Academy and the Cathedral of Light have been good for us. Our problem is one of supply, not demand; we can't produce enough fine paper fast enough for their scribes. I hope that is one reason why you have come...?"

"Indeed it is... I have brought you a draft so that we may expand our production. I have additional customers waiting in the wings, both for the paper, and for the bound books of which we spoke." Griffonclaw took a sealed envelope from his pocket, and handed it to the Gvilken. "This should let us lease the next-door building, and buy more raw materials."

A light almost as bright as the sun lit the goblin's face at the prospect. "By the Holy Profit, I had my doubts about you as a partner, but you have proven to be an Asset Unlooked-For!" Nothing was worse to a goblin than an opportunity that went unexploited, especially as the only impediment was the lack of capital.

Griffonclaw and Gvilken had met through what Gvilken had assumed was an accident of fate; one day, a week before his creditors were to close in and take his business from him, Griffonclaw, in his guise as Master Springvale, had made an offer to become Gvilken's minority partner, providing funds to buy up the debts from his creditors and to find Gvilken more customers. Gvilken had been suspicious, but had really had no choice; his family had been paper-makers and book-binders since the first discovery that you could press reeds together to make papyrus. Paper was the glue that held goblin society together; their way of life required contracts and record-keeping, account books and ledgers, envelopes and stationary. Commerce consumed paper like goblins consumed beer. Gvilken had been the latest of his generation, and was a master of his craft; but like most Master Craftsmen, he was at the mercy of accountants and legal advocates - it didn't take much diddling of the books or finagling of contracts before an independant business would find its debts rising, and have to seek the protection of one of the cartels or conglomerate companies, who would gladly save the business - for a controlling interest. Griffonclaw's agents had discovered such an assault by the Venture Company, and Griffonclaw had decided to intercede - anonymously, as a "silent" partner.

Gvilken gave Griffonclaw the usual tour, as he always did when Griffonclaw visited, explaining the processes to him as they passed from room to room. Griffonclaw privately thought that the ritual was to show Griffonclaw that his continual re-investment of his share of the profit was sound, and that the supplemental funds he was investing well-spent.

"We make our paper from linen; we put them in a slight acid bath, and leave them to rot for five days" Gvilken began, walking Griffonclaw past the six large vats that lived on the bottom level; one was empty, and would be filled with the linen cloth, rags, and other fibres, depending on what the desired texture. Gvilken produced several different grades of paper, from the fine, soft, paper sold for use in privies to the hard-surfaced paper used for contracts.

"This beast is our stamping mill!" the craftsman explained proudly as they mounted the stairs to the next level. "We put the rotting rags into the mill, which crushes it into pulp... then we send it to the heating vat." The vat room was horrendously hot, and the two goblin workers wore nothing but lionclothes. "My son, Mishvik, is the vatman! He fills the moulds..." Gvilken indicated one of several wooden frames with a fine rectangular wire sieve, "... and fits the deckle!" Gvilken indicated the removable wooden rim which could be fitted on to the mould, making a tray with a raised edge. "The pulp drains, leaving a layer matted fibers on the mould. Then Mishvik gives it to Glorkam, who is the coucher!" Gvilken's daughter was clad in little more than a lioncloth, with her breasts modestly covered. "She rolls the paper onto a piece of wool felt, and stacks it, along with many others - we call the pile of wet paper between the layers a 'post' - into the screw press, over there." The goblin pointed to a huge contraption with gearing, and a large wheel. "When its ready, we all pull on the wheel until its as tight as we can make it."

He kept Griffonclaw moving, up another staircase. "When the post is dry, we separate the post, stacking the paper into another press, and do it again, and again. Then we take it to the drying loft, where drying the paper in groups keeps it from wrinkling."

"When its dry" he continued, bringing Griffonclaw into the final workshop, "we size it, dipping it into resins - which resins depend on what the intended use is, of course - to prevent the paper from absorbing too much! Then we burnish it, polishing the surface smooth with a fine stone; this closes the pores of the paper so that the ink won't bleed."

Gvilkin pointed to the final device, a blade press. "Then we stack it in there, and cut it down to a uniform size before we bundle it together for shipping! With the money you're providing, we'll be able to increase our production by double, and have enough room to put in a small bindery!"

Griffonclaw smiled - binding the paper into a leather book was almost as time-consuming as making the paper itself. The large sheets were gathered in pairs of leaves called biofolia; these were stacked four biofolia deep, called a quire, and these were sown together to a binding. Covers for the binding were often of wood covered with leather, with the binding sewed to the leather backing. It was a labor-intensive process that the Academy and Cathedral would welcome not having to do anymore, and allow them to focus on scholarship rather than craftsmanship.

And of course, the more supply, the easier it would be to spread education and learning - in many ways, Azeroth was shrouded in the darkness of ignorance. The more books in the world, the cheaper they'd become, and the easier it would be to bring the Light of Knowledge to all corners of the world.

And Griffonclaw was a Lightbringer, after all...