“Hunter!” called the young mage on the steps of the bank in Dalaran. “Come close quickly; I must have a word!”

“‘Hunter?'” Ringo Flinthammer said, looking around. “Ye mean me? Is it the bear? He gets gassy when he eats them jellyfish. Just light a candle and it’ll clear right up.”

The mage sighed and continued, ignoring Ringo’s explanation.

“My patron, the Lady Jaina Proudmoore, has uncovered a hole in the defenses of Icecrown Citadel into a place she referred to as ‘The Forge of Souls.'”

“Well, ‘uncovered,'” Ringo said, making air quotes with his fingers. “She sent me wee pal Widge at the citadel with a flying carpet full of seaforium. Not so much ‘uncovered’ as ‘blew a bloody great hole in a solid stone door,’ really.”

“She sent word before she left for me to find any help that I could,” the apprentice soldiered on, looking dubiously down at the dwarf. “And, well, I was hoping that might be you.”

“Out of lovesick gnomes, is she?”

“Please, find her there as soon as she can.”

“Fine, fine. Keep yer tabard on.”