“This is what th’ Horde does, ye see,” Ringo Flinthammer said, as the fish man patiently nodded, winding a damp bandage that appeared to be made of seagrass around the dwarf’s torn bicep. “They gae into a peaceable area — like th’ Hillsbrad Foothills — an’ lay total waste tae it. Th’ orcs pick up other races along th’ way, ‘specially weak or foolish ones, like th’ Darkspear Trolls after they were almost wiped out by some grand murloc witch or other, an’ th’ Tauren when th’ Quillboar had them on th’ run, th’ Bilgewater goblins after Deathwing sank Kezan …”

Ringo trailed off, unsure of the details of any of this, having only heard it second-hand from some of the sailors who had been stationed in Theramore before the attack and, in theory, knew more of the Horde’s history than a mountaineer from Loch Modan would.

“Anyway,” Ringo said, remembering what his point was, “That’s what they’ve done with yer monkeys!”

“‘Hozen,'” the jinyu medic said quietly. “They’re called ‘hozen.'”

“Oh, aye! Them too! The orcs hae recruited them up an’ has them marchin’ to th’ beat o’ their bloody kettle drums.”

“Sit still, please — you’re going to re-open your stitches.”

Frostmaw had carried an unconscious stabbed, bitten and clubbed Ringo away from the sniper’s perch during the entire Alliance retreat south through the Jade Forest, before relinquishing him here, in a village of fish-people who likewise had been the victims of hozen attacks.

“Ye’ll see. Th’ Horde: They’ve gae nae respect fer life. Back on Draenor, they’d kill draenei children in front of their mothers fer sport. And in Durotar, they’ll let their own wee ones starve if’n they’re nae fierce enough in the Valley o’ Trials!”

“That’s … unbelievable.”

“Oh, aye. And ye ne’er saw what they did tae Dun Garok or Theramore. Stick with us, fishy boy, and we’ll take care o’ ye. And we’ll run th’ Horde off this here island o’ yers and soak the beach red with orcish blood.”