“So, Yogg-Saron’s dead? We’re finally done with all of that?”

“Aye, fer the tenth time, Widge, ” Beli Flinthammer said, marching up the ramp and out of Ulduar. “And stop bouncin’ around.”

“Aye, we’ll be pourin’ us some tall cold ones soon enough,” Ringo Flinthammer said, licking his chops in anticipation as he packed up Rusty. “Ah’m thinkin’ a nice Loch Modan Lager to start with …”

“Yes, but the Argent Tournament …” Widge Gearloose trailed off.

“Widge,” Beli sighed, “We explained this to ya before: The tournament’s just a plot of Yogg-Saron to turn th’ Alliance and th’ Horde against each other, instead of on their true opponent, th’ Lich King.”

“Yes, but …”

“And now that ole Yogg’s so much goo,” Ringo continued, “We kin get back tae plannin’ our assault on Icecrown Citadel.”

“I know, but …”

“Widge, we hate the Horde as much as ye do,” Beli said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe more.”

“Def’nitely more,” Ringo nodded.

“E’en so,” Beli sighed, “The Scourge has tae be our top priority now.”

“But the tournament!”

“Widge!” Ringo snapped, visions of celebratory beers vanishing before his eyes. “What’s so damned important at th’ damned tournament?”

“JAINA’S GOING TO BE THERE!”

Ringo and Beli Flinthammer looked at each other and shrugged.

“Fine,” Beli said, throwing up her hands in surrender. “Jus’ leave them x-ray goggles at home. Ah don’t fancy bein’ polymorphed into nothin’.”

“Madam, I am insulted that you would insinuate that I would be capable of such a thing,” Widge said, tucking the goggles away in a belt pouch.