The Alliance’s “very best gnomes” were working at the base of the final wing of Icecrown Citadel. A blue wall of howling damned souls writhed silently before them, shielding Arthas’ remaining lieutenants behind it.

A small camp had been set up before the wall, with small groups huddled around campfires that illuminated less than they ought to and put out a miserly amount of heat.

“So,” Dazhbog began. The draenei knight clapped his hands together in an effort to keep the blood flowing to his fingers. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do after the war?”

“The first thing?” Ringo Flinthammer said, shaking his mug ruefully, frost already forming on the surface of his not-at-all-scalding morningbrew. “Ah am going to go home and have sex with me wife.”

Beside him, Baelan Grimaxe threw his frozen hunk of meat back into the fire and nodded.

“Aye. First thing Ah do is have sex with his wife, too.”

Dazhbog smacked Baelan in the back of the head, while the dwarves roared with laughter. Nearby, a group of Knights of the Ebon Blade also laughed, although the elven Argent Crusade captain on duty shot Baelan a sharp look.

“SCIENCE!” roared one of the gnomes over by the portal and the howling souls wavered and disappeared. A smell like an old crypt wafted out of the tunnel and the Alliance, Argent Crusade and Knights of the Ebon Hand got to their feet.

“On your feet, knights,” barked the champion of the Ebon Hand. “Our vengeance is at hand!”

“Vrykul,” growled a knight, pointing with his runeaxe at the huge winged apparition hovering behind a group of waiting vrykul.

“Ah don’t know but Ah been told,” Ringo muttered, loading his gun.

“Ah don’t know but Ah been told,” Baelan echoed, hefting his sinister axe.

“Not again,” sighed Dazhbog.

“Val’kyr pussy is mighty cold.”

“Val’kyr pussy is mighty cold.”

“Now, really!” the draenei snapped. Ever since his gender-bending misadventure, he’d been especially sensitive about perceived rudeness to women. “There are ladies present!”

“Mmm, good,” Ringo continued, aiming the barrel of his gun to val’kyr-blasting height.

“Mmm, good,” Baelan continued.

“Tastes good.”

“Tastes good.”

“Feels good.”

“Feels good.”

“I don’t understand how this vulgarity helps,” Dazhbog snapped, advancing on the Scourge defenders with the rest of the group.

“The Lich King is a son of a bitch,” Ringo sang softly to himself.

“Don’t ye worry yer pretty little head, Dazhabelle; we know what we’re doin’,” Baelan said, “This sort of soldierin’ kept the orcs from conquering Khaz Modan. Yer people are on their third world now, aye?”

“Got the blue balls, crabs and the seven-year-itch!”