“Almighty and most merciful Hodir, we humbly beseech thee, of thy great goodness, to restrain these immoderate snows with which we have had to contend,” Muradin Bronzebeard prayed on bended knee, his invocation barely audible over the sound of the winds and the Skybreaker’s propellers. “Grant us fair weather for battle. Graciously hearken to us as soldiers who call upon thee that, armed with thy power, we may advance from victory to victory, and crush the oppression and wickedness of our enemies and establish thy justice among men and nations.”

“I wanna be an dwarven ranger!” roared Ringo Flinthammer.

“Live a life of sex and danger!” responded Baelan Grimaxe, equally loudly.

“Dwarven ranger!”

“Sex and danger!”

“Flinthammer! Grimaxe! For the last time, we are not giving ye two idiots rocket packs! Ringo, we need ye on one of the cannons. Baelan, be ready to repel boarders.”

“See what ye’ve gone and done now, idjit?” Ringo snapped, as he climbed into the turret of one of the Skybreaker’s cannons as the Horde gunship Orgrim’s Hammer approached. “Ye’ve pissed off Prince Muradin, ya git.”

“Shut yer piehole, afore I strap ye to a bomb and drop ye on Arthas.”

“I can’t believe these two idiots are champions of the Argent Tournament,” the goblin engineer handing out rocket packs muttered to the dwarven sergeant beside him.

“Ye should have seen the ones too daft to get out of the fire.”