Flinthammer Hall

Lesaris sniffed the air and snorted in disgust.

It had only been days since Malfurion Stormrage had awakened Lesaris and his fellow Druids of the Claw within the Barrow Deeps. Even now, Lesaris could hear the Horn of Cenarius ringing in his ears.

He and his fellow druids had not slept their entire time in the depths — at some point during their hibernation, Lesaris and some of the others had awoken, but remained in the bear form they had taken on during hibernation, but their minds had gone feral. Even now, with the effect banished by the horn, Lesaris still felt more comfortable in this form.

But now, the bear form was almost a curse, as the stench of demons wafted on the wind that continually circled Mount Hyjal. After thousands of years in the Barrow Deeps, nothing had changed: The Legion was attempting to break this world, just as they had during the War of the Ancients.

“Ursoc give me strength,” he growled. He had spotted demons’ footprints here in the patchy slush on the lower slopes of the mountain.

A desperate alliance bound three enemies together: The kaldorei; the humans of Lordaeron; and the brutish slayers of Cenarius, the orcs; all now sought to stop the Burning Legion’s advance up Mount Hyjal. At the mountain’s summit was Nordrassil, the World Tree. If the Burning Legion were to destroy it, not only would the kaldorei lose their immortality, but the world would be irrevocably weakened, setting the Legion up to drain Azeroth of its magical energies once and for all.

Lesaris had been patrolling the slopes of Winterspring, picking off demonic stragglers and keeping the undead Scourge forces from reinforcing the forces higher up the mountain.

He broke into a loping run, snow and mud spraying behind him as he ran.

But the demon he sought was dead, its green blood steaming in the snow. A number of dead demons and Scourge lay around it. In the middle, were two strange creatures, both seemingly slain as well.

The snow near Lesaris exploded and, a moment later, a roar like thunder rolled through the valley.

“Donnae get any closer, ye demon!” a woman’s voice called out.

…

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The druid, Lesaris, drew a handful of herbs from his pocket and began sprinkling them on the ground. He then drew a branch of no tree native to Stranglethorn Vale and began sketching Darnassian runes in the dirt and muttering a prayer.

“So,” Widge Gearloose said after a moment, breaking the silence, “No offense, Ringo, but why you?”

“Nae offense taken,” Ringo Flinthammer shrugged. “Ah’ve got four brothers, after all.”

“And Durkon‘s the great hero of the Alliance.”

“An’ a fathead.”

“And Bragh‘s got a greater gift with animals, which you’d think druids would be impressed with.”

“Ye’d think.”

“And Mordun‘s half-wild himself.”

“A wee bit more than half, Ah’d reckon.”

“And Ely‘s got a better head on his shoulders.”

“If ye need accountin’ an’ other gnomework, anyway.”

…

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“Well, Ah’m glad THAT’S over,” Ringo Flinthammer gasped, scraping off the sweet-smelling slime and wiping gobs of it off on the broad leaves of the surrounding jungle plants of the Stranglethorn Vale. “Ah didnae think we’d make it out o’ there alive.’

“Promise me that we will NEVER speak of this again,” Widge Gearloose shuddered, wringing the orange fluid out of his robe, and considering whether it might be better to just to burn the garment. “If we’re lucky, no one would believe us anyway.”

“Nae worries,” Ringo muttered, peeling off a boot and pulling out the tiny fish flailing around inside it. “Neither me wife nae yers would …”

“That did NOT count as a real marriage!” Widge yelped. “We would have been dead if I hadn’t agreed to … to … ugh.”

“Ah didnae e’en know they HAD princesses. Not that ye’d know she was a princess ta look at her.”

“Count yourself lucky to have seen as little of her as you did. I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight. Or able to eat noodles ever again.”

The sounds of flopping fish, dripping robes and ooze being flung away continued unabated for several minutes.

“So, what now?” Widge asked finally. “Fair’s fair: I can help you with the Bastion of Twilight portal now.”

“Nay,” Ringo sighed, pulling on the last of what passed for a clean set of clothes. “Ah reckon th’ Bastion has fallen by now. And Cho’gall weren’t ne’er gonna give me what Ah wanted; Ah were just clingin’ ta that so Ah would nae feel like a failure. The king will be cured, Ah’m sure o’ it, but no’ today and no’ by me.”

“What, then?”

“Ah’m gonna go home. Ah miss me boy. Ah miss me wife. Ah miss home cookin’ and a warm bed an’ clean clothes an’ no’ fearin’ fer me life or me sanity e’ery moment o’ e’ery day.”

“That’s a good idea,” Widge said. “I can open a portal to Ironforge for us …”

…

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