“The Horde’s second mistake,” Ringo Flinthammer growled, not quite moving a palm frond aside, so as to not give away his position, “was bringin’ me ta th’ Isle o’ Giants.”

The island’s residents — dinosaurs bigger and more fearsome than Ringo had ever seen — had attacked the Horde, who were already jumpy from avoiding Zandalari patrols, and Ringo had been able to make his escape. The next obvious step would be to tame one of the dinosaurs, using it for protection and, hopefully, transportation.

That hadn’t worked. At least, not at first. The beasts were too wild, too violent, too primal to be tamed in the ways Ringo had learned to use with other beasts long ago.

But it was possible: Zandalari dinomancers were doing it. It only took Ringo ambushing a half-dozen of them — along with raiding a now-unattended crate of captured Alliance armor and weapons — before he’d discovered their secret: A manual, spelled out in ancient Zandali pictograms, how to tame one of the temperamental beasts.

Ringo slowly stepped out, a fistful of the most succulent plants he’d been able to find on the island stretched out before him.

The rustling of the plants underfoot got the attention of the nervous direhorn and it turned its lethal horns Ringo’s way, pawing the wet earth thoughtfully, considering charging.

“Look here, ya overgrown milk cow,” Ringo sang, waving the leafy greens. “Spinach or somethin’. Bloody trolls cannae draw worth a tinker’s damn. Ah reckon it’s delicious …”

The direhorn froze. Ringo flinched, glancing back and forth, trying to figure out which way to run.

A big pink tongue wrapped around his hand, pulling the leaves into the beast’s mouth. Ringo slowly reached up and stroked its snout as it chewed, inspecting him with one mighty green eye.

“Ah’ll call ye … Kazmo.”