Ringo Flinthammer reloaded, then sighted along the barrel of his gun, forged in the fires of Ulduar. The presence of the Titans, no matter how minor, was a comfort in this place.

He raised his gun and prepared to dispatch another Legion commander …

The shot went wide.

“Ah’m not shirkin’ nothin’, ye bastard! Just shut yer pie hole and let me do what Ah do, before Ah remember Ah ken put a bullet through yer head instead!”

Ringo was uncomfortable here in Tarren Mill. Before the Cataclysm, Ringo and Beli had been only known it as the source of Forsaken assaults on Southshore. The time they’d spent in Tarren Mill had not been peaceful. The burning stench of fel only partially concealed the sweet smell of rot that followed the Forsaken everywhere.

Frostmaw pulled a flying demon to the ground, and Ringo fired two rounds into its head.

“Seriously, does no one remember who Helcular was? The butcher of Southshore? He was a monster even when the bastard was human! We should be killin’ him, and his bloody abominations, along with the Legion!”

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker! Someone make that idjit shut him up, or Ah’ll do it fer him!”

“Beli! Back me up here! What are ye doin’, woman? And what are ye wearin‘?”

“I’m in disguise! And shooting selfies! Woo, look at me, in Tarren Mill with the Forsaken not laying a finger on me!”