“At long last, our plan comes to fruition,” the gnome warlock said, watching the battle from a nearby hill, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction.

“Your masters wanted him dead before the Armies of Legionfall ever got inside the tomb, didn’t they?” the human mage replied.

The gnome turned and glared at him.

“No matter! Ringo Flinthammer will perish, his brothers’ resolve will break and they may even die themselves in their attempt to save him.”

Ringo Flinthammer stared upwards, unable to focus on the black clouds spinning above the Tomb of Sargeras.

“Medic,” he coughed through bloody lips. “Beli? Beli? Oh, aye, that’s right … damn.”

His whole body was going cold and he could no longer feel his legs. When he had been able to move a minute or so ago, he’d felt a stickiness attempting to pull him back to the ground.

“Reckon Ah’m bleedin’ out,” he whispered, raising one hand. “Frostmaw, get me out o’ here … oh.”

Finding himself unable to lift himself back up, Ringo felt for his Boarshot Cannon. After Frostmaw had been taken off to be cared for by the Cenarion Circle, the bear spirit bound to his Titanforged weapon no longer manifested, but he could at least take another demon with him.

His hand flailed in the ash, but found nothing.

“Khaz’goroth on a cracker …”

Despite himself, Ringo felt his eyelids growing heavy. It would feel so good to sleep. He deserved a rest after all this time, didn’t he?

Ringo sighed and closed his eyes.