Beli was watching a ship load up at a dock at Menethil Harbor — the rumor was the Explorers’ League was sailing for Northrend — and keeping an eye on Ringo’s cousin Bethaine as she rocked baby Bael in her arms when the murlocs invaded.

“Invaded” might be too strong a word. They came racing down the street, saw Beli and Bethaine and began to caper and dance, warbling unintelligibly, as murlocs do.

The fabric patches and eyes that kept dangling out of their sockets, attached only by yarn, however — those were new.

“OK, OK, enough with the damned dancing,” Beli snapped. “Who’s in there?”

There was a roar of dwarvish laughter, and a figure in a murloc costume spoke in her husband’s voice as he pointed. Their adopted murloc child, Murky, clung to his ankle, cooing with pleasure.

“That’s Mozzbi, there’s Clou. The tall one is Fyrie. The wrinkly ones are Voca and Gnooki.”

Muffled greetings in Gnomish issued from the chest of the two wrinkliest murlocs — apparently the costumes were only available in one size.

“Who’s the other one?” Beli asked, forcing herself not to roll her eyes at this particular game.

“What other one?” Ringo said, blankly, and not in the pretending-I-forgot way husbands typically do.

“That’s six: Ringo, Mozzbi, Clou, Fyrie, Voca, Gnooki. Six and a half, if you count Murky.”

Murky squeaked with pleasure at being included this way.

“Right,” Ringo nodded, inside his costume, one eye popping out of the socket again.

“There’s seven murlocs here, though,” Beli said, slowly reaching for her hammer.

The costumed murlocs turned as one and the seventh member of their group squawked with horror, his eyes swiveling in terror from one to another and they notably did not pop out of their sockets.

“Get away from my baby, you fishy bastard!” Beli roared, lifting her hammer.

She raced after the murloc, chasing him out of town and back into the Bluegill Marsh, Ringo’s booming laughter echoing in her ears.