If anything, Menethil Harbor was worse off than Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer had ever expected. When the loch’s water had burst through the shattered Stonewrought Dam, it had poured down into the now-wetter-than-ever Wetlands. Other than the deep channel it carved beneath the dam itself — which was quickly refilled by the soft peat and soil resettling after a time — the water didn’t do much lasting damage.

Until, that is, it reached the mouth of the delta and emptied into Baradin Bay and the Great Sea beyond. There, the wave of lake water rushed beneath the town of Menethil Harbor, lifting buildings from their foundations, depositing them several feet deeper in the loosened soil of the swamp, and there they stuck fast, as the water joined the ocean beyond.

It was a town now sunk up to its collective knees in brackish swamp water, with much of the dwarf-made island the town had rested on now washed out to sea.

The path squelched beneath Beer Run‘s hooves as he entered town. Ringo drew disinterested glances from those in town — Dark Iron zealots had apparently attacked the town in the wake of Deathwing’s reemergence, judging by the bodies being removed from Menethil Keep. Sandbags were piled everywhere, in a vain attempt to keep the surviving portions of town dry.

Ringo was suddenly very tired. Although he hoped to see his cousin alive and well, what he found himself most hoping for was a hot bath in the Deepwater Tavern and a relatively dry bed to sleep in.

“About time you got here, Ringo,” a familiar voice called out over the sound of the tavern’s musicians. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Bethaine!” Ringo grinned, pulling back his woolen hood, and crossing the room to greet his cousin. “Who’s ‘we?'”

“DADDY!” a voice cried and a small figure leapt from the stairs leading to the inn’s rooms above and onto Ringo’s chest, burying his face in the mountaineer’s beard. “DADDYDADDYDADDYDADDYDADDYDADDY!”

“Bael!” Ringo gasped, blinking at the discovery of something in his eye — both eyes at once, in fact. “Ye’re all right!”

“Aye, ye daft old codger,” Beli Flinthammer grinned as she picked her way down the steps. “Ye had ta go off and find yerself an adventure in Gnomeregan, when ye’d have had all the adventure ye could stand if ye’d just stuck around Thelsamar a few more weeks.”

“How … what are ye doin’ here?” Ringo stammered, then reached out and grabbed his wife by the shoulder and yanked her to him, clutching her and their son together in one tight group hug. “Ne’er mind. It’ll wait, Ah reckon.”

“Merry Feast of Winter Veil,” Beli murmured into his neck.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Th’ merriest.”