Ringo Flinthammer slipped the goggles up off his head. He no longer needed them to see the approaching ships.
“Stormwind, Ironforge, Darnassus,” he said, pointing to the flags of the ships cutting through the Frozen Sea below.
“I see Theramore!” squealed Widge Gearloose.
“Nnggh.”
“Wake up, Ringo,” the voice said again.
“Mmmph!”
“Wake up!” a finger poked him this time.
“Grrrph!”
“Damn it, stop coddlin’ him!” Ely Flinthammer barked, jerking the blankets off of his brother, shocking Ringo into awakening with the blast of pre-dawn arctic air.
“What are ye eating?” Ringo Flinthammer said, peering at Widge Gearloose, whose lips were filmed with a green slime and whose cheeks bulged as he chewed.
“Gumdrops,” Widge mumbled, wiping his lip. “It wouldn’t be Hallow’s End without them!”
“Are ye sure ye dinnae want to stay?” Mordun Flinthammer asked, tugging sadly on his beard. “McSorf is paying good money for dig site guards.”
“Nay,” Ringo said, digging his heel into Frostmaw’s side, pointing the bear he was riding toward the stream that marked one border of Valgarde. “We were in that damned ship it seemed like forever. We need to get out, into the fresh air, and go kick Durkon and Bragh in the arse.”
“B’sides,” Belsun rumbled, “Them ruins is empty. Zedd, Glorenfeld and all them don’t need us breathin’ down their necks while they look at rusty old axes and dragon carvings.”
“Ringo! Beli!” Widge Gearloose yelled, jumping up and down, pointing up into the evening sky. “Look at THAT!”
Widge was not more specific about what he was staring at because, frankly, it was hard to know what it was.
“Khaz’goroth on a cracker,” Ringo breathed, flinching as Beli raised a hand to smack him for blasphemy. “What is that?”
Widge touched a knob on his Destruction Holo-gogs. Gears whirred and the lenses of his goggles extended and the purple sphere soaring through the clouds seemed much closer.
“It looks like Dalaran,” Widge said after a moment, “But a flying city? That’s ridiculous, right?”
The Northspear’s gangplank dropped heavily on the Valgarde dock. The dwarves and men crowding the dock waiting for the ship stepped back in surprise when the roar issued from on deck. The series of gunshots fired off a moment later sent some of them running for cover.
“Stop yer grinnin’ and drop yer linen! Let me at th’ Lich King!”
Ringo Flinthammer rode down onto the gangplank on the back of his great white bear, Frostmaw, the stowaway murloc child seated on the bear’s neck, Ringo shooting off his rifle as he came. Behind him followed his wife Beli, rolling her eyes.