“You have my undying gratitude, and that of my people, Mountaineer Flinthammer,” rumbled Stonefather Oremantle, leader of the Earthen of Deepholm, “But while I sympathize with the plight of your king, I cannot help you.”

“What?” Beli Flinthammer snarled, taking a step forward. Only her husband and the shaman Gyorgi Stonekeg prevented her from doing something stupid. “Ye owe us!”

“Daughter of Ironforge, I would help if I could, but we are the descendants of the Second Dynasty of the Earthen of Uldum. The Curse of Flesh never affected us, thanks to the Makers forging us without the flaws that let the Old Gods corrupt our predecessors — your ancestors. We know nothing of the curse, save what we have learned over the years; you likely know more about it than we do.”

“Thank ye, yer majesty,” Ringo nodded, “That makes sense. Do ye have any advice o’ who might be able ta help us? Any advice ye could give us would be appreciated it.”

Oremantle nodded, his stony beard clanking against his chest.

“We have been gone from Uldum for many years, but we were not the only servants of the Titans there. The Tol’vir were also afflicted by the curse, and we have no tales of the Titans reforging them anew. Perhaps in Uldum, you might find the answers you seek.”

“Sure, more travel time,” Beli grumbled. “Of course …”