For whatever reason, most Forsaken never spoke the Common tongue, as they had in life. Maybe it was a spell cast by their Dark Lady. Maybe it was an edict from the warchief. In any case, they tended to only speak a strange gibberish that sounded like Common, but wasn’t.

But this undead soldier, Ringo understood, which was just the way he wanted it.

The Horde was assaulting Lion’s Landing Tower — and, at the moment, they looked like they were going to take it. Ringo had arrived with other Shieldwall Riflemen, laying down cover fire and taking out scouts and observers. But now, they were nowhere to be found. Ringo had somehow ended up in a forward position alone, cut off, and surrounded. Even Frostmaw was nowhere to be found.

“Heh heh heh,” the undead soldier cackled as he approached, his black tongue waggling, his lower jaw rotting somewhere in a grave in Lordaeron. “Rumembuh Southshowah? Rumembuh Dun Gawok?”

“Did ye say ‘Dun Garok?'” Ringo snarled, raising his rifle and squeezing the trigger, only to be greeted with the click of an empty chamber.

The undead soldier waggled what remained of his eyebrows.

“Menethuh Hawbaw is necks. An then Thelshamuh!”

“LIKE HELL YE WILL!”

Ringo sprang forward, wielding his rifle like a club; if he couldn’t shoot his way out, he’d at least smash this Forsaken bastard’s skull in before they got him.

There was a loud thunk behind Ringo. In the fraction of a second before he sank into unconsciousness, he realized it was the sound of a Horde rogue — likely another damned undead — thwacking him with a blackjack. Then he fell forward into darkness, the sound of jawless laughter echoing all around him.