“Ah’m gonna make this th’ best Feast o’ Winters Veil ever,” Mountaineer Ringo Flinthammer thundered, slamming his mug down on the counter at the Stoutlager Inn.

Deathwing’s second pass over Thelsamar had been much less destructive than his first, and the residents had managed to prevent the worst of the damage with a quickly organized bucket brigade and Hodir‘s blessing, in the form of an early snowfall. And if everything still had a bit of a smoky air to it, the dwarves just chalked that up to being festive.

“Oh, aye?” Vidra Hearthstove asked, polishing a glass. “What do ye have planned, then?”

“Me brothers want to have us all dress up in holiday sweaters — which Ah’m sure will be horrible, given that Ely’s pickin’ them out — and pose fer a portrait. The wee one wants Greatfather Winter to bring him his first ram, so we’ll be takin’ him to Amberstill and seein’ if there’s a kid gentle enough fer him to ride. Me, Ah’m just hopin’ fer a few quiet nights around the fire before … Well, a few quiet nights around th’ fire.”

“Sounds like ye’ll be makin’ a lot of great memories.”

“That’s the idea.” Ringo stared into his mug a moment. “Years ago, me friend Widge and Ah discovered the Caverns of Time and went back to visit me father on the eve of the Battle of Mount Hyjal. There was another dwarf there, another traveler …

“Well, we’ll see, Ah reckon,” Ringo said, raising his mug in a toast. “Here’s ta makin’ holiday memories.”