Ringo Flinthammer paused in his walk around the garrison, flexing and unflexing his fingers in an attempt to work the kinks out, staring absently at the garrison’s herb garden.

“Mining getting you down?” came a voice from the garden.

“Widge,” Ringo greeted the gnome with a nod. “Aye, Lantresor complained so much, th’ Commander took pity on him and rotated him out. Reckon Ah know why he whined so much.”

“I don’t even understand why the Commander wants a mine or an herb garden,” Widge continued. “I mean, we could gather all of the ore and herbs without the Commander’s help. Leaving a little bit for someone to come by and pick up as a hobby, when they’re supposed to be leading Alliance efforts against the Iron Horde — it’s weird.”

There was a grunt as Baelan Grimaxe dropped one of the crates he was bringing to the scrapyard. He sat on it and groaned, rubbing his feet through his boots.

“That’s not even the weirdest thing the Commander is doing: Look at this guy,” Baelan said, nodding at a still figure watching the herb garden and muttering quietly to himself. “The Alliance’s greatest hunter, reduced to … this.”

Ringo nodded.

“Ah heard the Commander found him drunk in Nagrand and brought him back here to dry out. Now all he does is stare at the herbs all day, muttering to himself, instead of being out there, on the front lines. Sad.”

The three stared at the figure.

“The front lines are about to extend to Tanaan Jungle, I hear,” Widge said at last. “They say we’ll have Kilrogg’s and Grommash’s forces on the run in no time and we’ll be home in time for the Feast of Winters Veil.”

Ringo snorted.

“Aye, just like the siege of Orgrimmar was supposed to be done in a matter o’ weeks, or the sacking o’ Icecrown Citadel. We’ll be fightin’ Grommash’s forces fer another damned year, Ah guarantee ye.”

Baelen grunted, getting back to his feet.

“Probably right,” he said, lifting up his crate of scrap. “The powers that be always think things will get done a lot faster than we know they will. Well, back to work.”

The two dwarves nodded to Widge, leaving the gnome to go back to composting in the garden.

It was quiet then in the garden. Hemet Nesingwary could think again.

“You wee bastards think that Hemet doesn’t know you’re still lurking in the garden, do you?” he murmured. “The Commander reckons you’re all run off, but I know better. No raccoon will make a fool of me, you little stripe-tailed bastards …”