There’s an old saying in what are now called the Eastern Kingdoms: Dwarven is for swearing, Gnomish is for explaining why the wind-up teapot exploded, Thalassian is for making love, but Common is for talking.

At the moment, Dwarven was all that Beli Flinthammer needed.

“Ringo Flinthammer!” she panted, resting an elbow on the pile of crates in the Silver Enclave. “Ye do not need all these old guns, and Ah’m not going to haul them all the way to the new house for ye!”

“What? Nay, Ah do, Ah do! These have sentimental value! Remember this one we got when we helped Voca in Dire Maul? Just look at this barrel! All wood, and with exquisite carving!”

“And this one? Ye’ll never use this one, not in a million years!”

“Well, that was going ta be Bael’s first gun one day …” He paused, wondering where their boy was. He had ordered Frostmaw to keep the child out of trouble, but the toddler was more than a match for the great white bear most days. The shopkeepers in Dalaran were all mages, so they should be able to handle a small child and a bear … probably.

“Fine! Fine! Let’s take all of them, then! Never mind that when Ah dropped this here crate, the ground shook! Ye know how much it takes to shake a flying city?”

“Actually, I fear that shaking was something more significant,” said a night elf standing nearby.

“What idjit taught ye to speak Dwarven?” Ringo snapped.

“Long ago, the Earthen and the elves fought side-by- …”

“No one cares!” Beli interjected. “Mind yer own business, longears, or Ah’ll rip off yer plums and toss them over the edge of the city.”

She turned back toward her husband, murder in her eyes.

“Ye’ll never miss any of these old guns, ye daft old bastard. Ye haven’t even unpacked some of them from when we moved here from Quel’Danas.”

“Ah have too!”

“Fine,” Beli said, a crafty look in her eye. “If ye can identify which gun is in THIS box,” she said, jabbing a finger at one sealed crate, “Ye can keep the lot. Otherwise, they all go to the auction house while we’re in Ironforge.”

Ringo looked at the box and then his wife. He glanced up at the night elf, who shrugged.

“Are ye sure there’s even a gun in there?”

Beli sighed heavily, snatched Ringo’s staff away from him, used it to pry open the lid and peeked inside, wrinkling her nose.

“That’s the gun Ah got in Zul’Gurub, years ago!” Ringo said triumphantly.

“What? How did … Ah made a face! Nay! Unfair!”

“Ye always did loathe that ‘bug gun.’ A deal’s a deal!”

“Ah hate ye …”