Ringo Flinthammer stomped his feet, trying to return some feeling to his toes. He was born and raised in Dun Morogh, but the winds high in the Storm Peaks were something else entirely.

“Ah’m not sayin’ it weren’t amazin’ ta see him, Keeper Mimiron, but would it have killed him ta have said ‘Ah remember ye — in the mountains?'”

“Herald of the Titans,” Mimiron said, turning his head slightly, “Even here, atop the Temple of Storms, Keeper Thorim has met many, many people over the course of his immortal life. You should not take it as a slight …”

“Nay, nay, jus’ makin’ a joke,” Ringo said. He looked down at the rifle in his hands, which seemed to vibrate with internal energy. The gun’s twitches seemed to coincide with the bolts of electricity crackling around the blue-furred wolf whom Frostmaw was sniffing at dubiously.

“Anyway, ye reckon Ah’m the right one to carry this unique weapon o’ the Titans?”

“Well, you’re the bearer of this weapon of the Titans,” Mimiron said.

“There’s more than one?”

“There are 24.”

“Twenty-four guns?”

“Models of guns,” Mimiron said, turning his head toward Ringo.

Behind him, what Ringo took to be more vrykul participating in the Drakkensryd turned out to be elves, humans, tauren, orcs and others dismounting from proto-drake mounts and approaching the keeper.

“I’m not stupid, herald. I’m not going to entrust the fate of the entire world to just one Earthen.”